Spanish to English Translations:
Alejandro me dijo -- Alejandro told me
Amiga Mía -- Female friend of mine
Y solo se me ocurre amarte -- And it only occurs to me to love you
Yo quiero darte mi alegría, mi guitarra y mis poesías -- I want to give you my happinness, mi guitar, and my lyrics
Tan pura la vida y tu -- So pure life and you
Gracias Alejandro, por esa noche -- Thank you Alejandro, for that night
Amarte -- love you
Maricon -- faggot
Pero no puedo tocar -- But I can't touch (the word for playing an instrument in spanish is touch)
mi hijo -- my son
Todavía puedes cantar -- You can still sing
Padre - Father (Priest)
Que vas hacer -- What are you going to do
"Voy a cantar... a llorar... tocar mi guitarra y mi mujer. Lo demás se lo dejo a Dios." -- I'm going to sing... cry... touch (play) my guitar and (touch) my woman. The rest I'll leave to God.
Dedicated to Michelle
Nobody expected it, least of all me.
I was a freshman scholarship student at a private high school with an excellent music program. One of my teachers, Ms. Smith, sweat blood to get me the money over an athlete or academic whiz-kid.
I agreed to perform at the Winter Recital for her sake. I also wanted to see what it felt like to be alone in the spotlight. It was the future I wanted and getting used to the glare was a necessary step.
The Recital was a big thing at the school. The schedule of performances was printed a month before and I was the only soloist with freshman in front of their name. Nobody asked why I had the spot; they formed the opinion that best fit their high school social religion. I guess I was a heretic of the established order to most.
Walking in the arrogance of a destined future, I made it worse.
I touched my first guitar strings before "Ma-Ma" came out of my mouth. My mother could lay a guitar on the floor and forget me for a morning or afternoon. I looked at the other Recital performers with the arrogance that if our individual practice hours were summed up and compared they would be years in deficit. They cried for toys when they were children; my punishments always involved taking away the guitar.
Puking twice in the half-hour before I performed was not a favorable omen. Ms. Smith tried to make light of my clammy, pale skin. She laughed when I looked annoyed and put the guitar in my arms.
I felt grounded again.
I performed near the beginning of the Recital. Ms. Smith wanted me to close the show but was shouted down. I was singing in Spanish to a Caucasian audience went the argument. I laughed when she cursed in front of me about the prejudice of that stupidity since the final soloist was singing from an Italian opera.
They announced my name and even the guitar could not hold off the return of stage fright. I walked out and nodded to the audience as soon as I was out of the curtain's protective cover. I moved to where the stagehands had placed the bar stool in front of the microphone.
The lights were a painful white and I could barely make anyone out. I crooked my neck to the side trying to release the tension. The microphone was too high so I adjusted it with trembling hands. There was a snicker as the silence extended past what a good performer would have allowed. I looked behind me at the people who would be accompanying me. They looked bored which did not bode well. I turned back and squinted my eyes to see if I could make out anyone. One of the lighting technicians took mercy and pulled his light away so it did not shine on me directly.
The silence was broken by feedback when I tried to say hello. There were a couple of laughs, increasing my nervousness. The sound of those laughs nearly cramped my stomach. A line of sweat broke out on my brow and I cleared my throat nervously.
She saved me that day.
The technician moving the light let me see the audience. Directly in front of me, a few rows back was Samantha Jones, or 'Miss Samantha Jones' as the freshman guys called the Undisputed Senior School Princess. Every high school has one of them, the Unattainable Dream.
She centered me.
I knew who would be sitting next to her.
I turned my eyes to her left and saw MY unattainable; Michelle Debreau, a senior like Samantha.
She was popular with the guys because she liked sports and laughed about guy things. Unlike Samantha, Michelle saw me when I passed her in the school halls, even if I was a lowly freshman.
I looked at Samantha again, and then at Michelle.
I had to smile. I always had to smile when I saw 'Miss Michelle Debreau'. I could not see her brown-green eyes but I knew they would be shining with sympathy. I turned around, looked at the musicians behind me and waved them off.
I didn't need them anymore.
I smiled at Michelle again. She reflected it with a wide one of her own. Those smiles reduced the world to her and I.
I didn't have my own words, but hours of Alejandro had put his inside me.
Alejandro Sanz, Spanish singer-songwriter.
He captivated me with 'Amiga Mía'. The subject matter was the most original I'd ever heard. I bought every one of his album, and learned every song by soul.
He gave voice to what I wanted.
He gave voice to what I wanted to say to the Dream's handmaiden.
"Y solo se me occurre amarte"
It began with the guitar.
I watched as she leaned forward in the way she did when something captured her attention. I touched the guitar strings lovingly, drawing the music I wanted to give Michelle.
"Yo quiero darte mi alegría, mi guitarra y mis poesias"
I sang the words to her, for her. She didn't understand a single one but that was okay. I did not understand all of his words either. I hadn't done enough to know what they meant. I felt each word when I was near Michelle though, and that night I found a way to make one part of the song true.
I showed her my soul.
It ended with the guitar.
Everyone's silence came into focus. I nodded at the audience and gave Michelle a last smile before I walked off stage.
Ms. Smith hugged me tightly and kissed both my cheeks hard.
"God, you're so fucking beautiful," she whispered into my ear.
It wasn't me.
I couldn't help smile when I was near Michelle.
The details don't matter, not to me.
Samantha Jones was envious of the five minutes I raised Michelle above her, so what?
Michelle's ex-boyfriend was a junior and a hulking brute of a football star with jealousy running through his veins like acid, so what?
The ex had two sycophants who would follow him into hell not realizing that was searing heat they felt, so what?
The important thing is the second night that Michelle and I came together, and fell apart.
We became friends. Not friends in public, but friends in the privacy outside the doors of the rest of our lives. She was waiting in her car when I came out of my guitar instructor's house a week after the Recital. She smiled and waved me in. I enjoyed the walk home but the invitation was not something I could turn down.
She drove to her house and led me into the basement.
Michelle liked to talk, and I liked to listen to her. She said even if I did not talk back, she felt like I heard what she wanted to say.
It ended the same every day for two months.
The guitar and Alejandro's words.
Our last night, it did not end like that. She was on the floor and I was sitting on her bed. She took the guitar out of my hands and placed her face close to me. She kissed me but I was too overwhelmed to kiss her back.
"Kiss me," she encouraged.
She put her lips on mine and I gave her my first kiss. She placed her hands on my hips and moved them underneath my t-shirt. She separated our lips and took my t-shirt off.
I was afraid.
Not stage-fright, but virgin terror.
Those weren't my words. There was no way I could live up to them skin to skin. I was a boy and Michelle deserved a man.
I almost fled.
She stopped me with another kiss. I drowned in the lavender smell of her perfume. I was going to fail but I had to stay, like I had to smile when I was near her.
I had to be inside her even if it was only once.
She popped the buttons of my jeans and tugged on their waistline. I pushed myself up with my arms. She pulled my pants and underwear past my hips. She took my shoes off and finished stripping me.
Michelle put her hands on the inside of my thighs and created a space between them for her. She winked at me and took my hard dick in a gentle grip. She kissed me and stroked me slowly.
I could not have held out against the first touch of a foreign hand; the hand I wanted touching me. I groaned and my eyes felt hot as I failed her.
"It's okay, baby," she whispered and I believed her. "This is exactly what I want."
She tightened her grip and milked the last of the seed from my body. She pulled away and looked at me. She stroked my face with her other hand and touched my lips with hers.
Michelle moved downwards and I thought I was going die.
I did die, more than once, as she licked, kissed, and then took me into her mouth. I wanted to live when she kissed my testicles.
She stood up and looked down at me. I was on my back with my legs off the bed.
"Stay right there," she said.
Oh yeah, I had somewhere else to be!
She turned around and walked into her bathroom. I wished she had not closed the door so that I could watch her.
.... There is more of this story ...