“Greek men are like this!!” He made a fist, and held his other hand at the inside of his elbow, an implication that his dick was as big as his forearm. I looked at his bare arm, thick with muscles and veins, covered in dark skin and hair.
My friends tittered with nervous laughter and clutched their drinks a little tighter. I looked at his crotch. His baggy shirt made it impossible to tell for sure. Damn! One of my friends said the secret word we had all agreed on that meant she wanted to leave. I said the secret word that meant that I wanted to stay. In the end, after a strange conversation full of half-uttered and unsaid warnings they left.
We could have spoken plainly because it turned out that he only knew two phrases of English, “Greek men are like this!” And another one that I would hear soon enough.
He sensed that I had given them the blow off, so he bought me a drink, ‘Ouzo,” with a flavor I couldn’t place, something like candy. I let him slip his arm around me.
I never got his name, or maybe he told me and I just didn’t listen. I’m sure it was something like Nikos or Strovos or Poro. All of the men on Zankynthos Island seemed to have one of those names. All of the men on Zankynthos seemed to be gods, tall, broad with black wavy hair. They wore white shirts with lots of gold jewelry, orthodox crosses, gold coin rings, that sort of thing.
He said something, I said something, I don’t know. Around the time that the bars close in Northern Europe, all of the tourists seemed to be gone and it was just a bar full of Greek men and little old me.
Don’t get so excited, this is not a gang-bang story.
My Greek god led me out of there onto the street, where more men lined the sidewalks. I felt their eyes on me like hands. I had just finished a semester of classics,
