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I met him on a train to Valencia about a year and a half ago. I was given the privilege (?) to be seated next to him on the way to AND from the city.

A madrileño, 32-years old, multicoloured piercing in chin, pop-rock singer/guitarist, filmmaker, novelist, and Osho follower, he was visiting his girlfriend in Valencia. He was decent company, and we had lots to talk about. We talked and talked. After about 8 hours of conversation, of course we exchanged numbers. Turns out he also lived down the road from me. What are the odds!

Back in Madrid, he begins calling me. He calls and calls. And calls and calls. And calls and calls until the only way to stop him calling is to answer (super-pesado as you would say in Spanish). The number of calls turned me off; I would answer one in 10 calls, and I never returned the others. Of course, because I was trying to avoid him, I would often bump into him at the post office, or tobacco shop, or local bar, where I would make a million excuses for not answering his million calls. I really didn’t care though.

A year of dodging his calls and bumping into him, a few months ago I ran into him with his girlfriend at the time, in the metro. We exchanged pleasantries and somehow ended up deciding to start playing tennis together.

Getting back into the game has been the best thing I’ve done in a while. He makes for a great tennis partner; often annoying, but overall tolerable. The tennis works. He often brings friends to watch us play. Weird, but I don’t care. They all seem nice and don’t interfere. He keeps trying to get me to hang out after tennis, but honestly I have no interest.

But his calls don’t stop. He still calls and calls. He calls until I pick up. He speaks at a supersonic speed on the phone and I never understand what he says. I get sick of asking him to repeat himself, and after realising that he doesn’t really say anything of consequence, I pretend I understand him and leave it at that. His conversations are normally about a movie he watched, tennis, his upcoming mini-vacation, and something about an “agency”.

Yesterday, slightly bored, when he called I decided to listen. He was on a job on behalf of this “agency” in Alicante, in a luxury villa, in a jacuzzi, with 3 girls. I was all ears.

Me: “Who are these girls?”
Him: “Ah, some girls from the agency.”
Me: “Urrr…ok.”
Him: Yeah, I have to look after them and entertain them. They are really nice girls, so it’s fun.
Me: “Right.”
Him: “Why don’t you come here for the weekend? It’s a great place, lots of room. I have lots of time to chill, so yeah, come hang out.”
Me: “Urrr…thanks for the invite. I will let you know if I fancy it. But didn’t you say you are working?”
Him: “Well, yeah, but it’s not really work you know. It’s easy. And it pays well. It’s helping me pay off my debts.”
Me: “Cool. Well I hope the girls are hot atleast.”
Him: “Yeah, they’re young and pretty. In fact, you should consider being part of this agency.”
Me: “Right.”
Me: “I gotta go. Call me for tennis when you get back.”
Him: “Cool. Have a great week.”

I hang up with him and try to understand what he’s just told me. And then it registers, but with doubts, of course.
Is he a male prostitute?
Is he a pimp?
Is he looking after female prostitutes, or “luxury escorts”, while they’re on a job?

He is a nice person. He isn’t good-looking, or well-built, and is often on sedatives. He is a bit weird and moody at times but not threatening, or unpleasant. I am no one to judge him. If it works for him, good for him. I’m just happy I have a tennis buddy.

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