The Sevillana Dancer

I thought I was the luckiest person in the world when my University offered me a scholarship to study abroad in London. I couldn't imagine how much luckier I could get until I realized I still had a good deal of money before I had to return home - enough to live my dream of traveling Europe.

I went wherever I could get there quickly and cheaply, and while I have special memories of each place, for some reason, Sevilla still stands out. Maybe it was its intricate Moorish architecture, its inviting scent of orange trees, or the hot sound of a Flamenco riff, but as a place, it has always turned me on.

I dream of returning to Sevilla, of finding that back-alley bar with the best damn Sangria, and even better music. I dream of her - the flamenco dancer. I dream of her radiant eyes as they narrow and tease with a Pellizco, of her resonant voice in her sexy Jaleos, and of her powerful body as she moves the ground with her Golpes.

As she walks off stage to treat herself to a drink, I can't help but stare, and she can't help but notice. She walks my way, sits down opposite of me, and calls me out - and what begins with my profuse apology of my own male gaze turns into a conversation on our passions as artists and activists, of the beauty of movement, of feminism and the sexual freedom it provides.

Eventually, it becomes a shared glance of lust.

I nod. She nods. She takes my hand and we return to her apartment, Guerilla Girls art lining the walls, hot, uptempo flamenco somehow already playing on her stereo, and our clothes littering the floor. We make our own flamenco routine as my tongue tastes her pussy, as our hands caress each others bodies, as my cock slides in and out of her. We go all night, and watch the sun rise over La Giralda from her open balcony, our hunger for each other still somehow incredibly alive after so many orgasms so many hours later.

My heart rate raises just thinking about it. Erika, I beg of you, take us to Sevilla.