Video
4´13´´
Barcelona
2007
Still image of El Belga
Text:
I was twenty-something years old. I was living in Valencia, but that afternoon I took a train to go to work in Castellón. I had to work the night shift in a tile factory. As a guard. It was quick and easy money, but the job was horrible – twelve hours alone in a dusty factory, dying of boredom and disgust. There was no way I felt like spending another night in the factory.
In the train there was a young guy with his backpack; he was asking around in french if anyone knew of more trains he could take to continue his journey or if anyone knew of a cheap hostel where he could sleep for the night. Where I come from, people don’t talk to foreigners much – they’re not in the habit, so no one was paying him much attention. I recognized his accent; he was Belgian. I had lived in Belgium and I fancied the idea of speaking French with a Belge accent and amusing myself for a while, so I approached him oh-so-nicely and offered him a place to stay. Although, clearly, I had other intentions. I didn’t want to spend the night alone; I was in the mood for a quick fuck and the lonely little Belgian with his backpack seemed like easy prey. Normally it’s easy with boys. It always was for me anyway.
I have to admit that I lied to him. I shamelessly told him that there weren’t any more trains, but that he could come and sleep at my house. He seemed confused, but the train arrived at the station and maybe because he didn’t have any other option, he accepted my offer. My brother came to get me by car and take me to the factory. He picked both of us up, giving me a dirty look but not saying anything. We arrived late. The factory was one of the worst I had been in. There wasn’t light and it was full of rats. I asked my brother to bring me a few sandwiches and some condoms. The Belgian seemed disoriented.
I explained to him about the job, the factory, and the night shift. I told him that we could easily find some mattress to sleep on for a while. The poor guy didn’t have any other option; we were in an industrial area in the countryside. There wasn’t a car in sight on the nearby road. The night was closing in. We ate our sandwiches and I tucked the condoms into my pocket. I started to lay the groundwork; I wanted to fuck him but he didn’t seem very keen. I remember that he showed me photos of his children. He was barely 25-years-old, but he had two young kids. I went into attack mode, but he completely rejected my advances. I couldn’t believe it. Why had he come if he didn’t want to fuck? This always pissed me off when I was younger. When you go to some guy’s house to have sex, or at least that’s what YOU think, and the guy just wants to sleep. “I don’t want to do it on the first date,” he tells you romantically. It hadn’t happened to me that often, maybe only a few times, but it sticks with you.
The thing is that that night in the factory I wasn’t in a good mood and I didn’t give a shit what the boy said. I saw that he was afraid, that he was uncomfortable, that he didn’t know what to do. And finally I got my way. Against his will, of course. He got a half-erection and it was enough for me. I got what I wanted, and then I turned over to sleep for a while. I don’t know if he slept. The next morning I took him to the station in my brother’s car, without questions, without conversation. I got a coffee and then left in the car for a rave in Valencia. When I was a few kilometers from the rave, I entered a roundabout in fourth gear. I tried to brake and ended up with the gear shift in my hand. I had torn it completely out of its socket. I braked in whatever way I could, and leaving the broken-down car on the side of the road, I hitchiked to the rave, taking a couple of lines of speed along the way.
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