Chapter 1: The Collector of Flavors

After that night, in "The Basement", with my mouth still tasting like Ivan and the thrill of the public bath pulsing through my veins, I couldn't stop. I woke up the next day with a hangover of desire, not from alcohol. Carlos, my ex, had always accused me of being passive, but now I saw that I was more: I was an explorer, a hunter of sensations that made me feel something more than the routine of Barcelona. I installed an international app - one of those that connects guys from all over the world, with flags on their profiles and filters by origin. The idea came to me suddenly: I wanted to try cocks from different nationalities, as if I were collecting stamps, but instead of paper, it was semen and flavors. It wasn't just about sex; it was about feeling connected to something bigger, about breaking the bubble of my daily life. Each encounter would be a risk - meeting strangers, exposing myself - but that was what turned me on: the taboo of the unknown, the fear that it would go wrong mixed with the pleasure of it going well.

I started with a Latin American: a 30-year-old Colombian named Andrés, who lived in El Raval. His profile screamed passion: photos of his naked torso, tanned, with a smile that promised fire. We met at his place, a small apartment with Shakira posters and the smell of strong coffee. "Come, papi, I'm going to give you what you need," he said as soon as he opened the door. He pushed me against the wall, kissed me with a voracious tongue, his hands going straight to my fly. I knelt down without being asked - my submissive instinct already awake - and took out his cock: brown, curved upwards, with thick veins that pulsed like a salsa rhythm. I licked it slowly, savoring the salty initial taste, but he didn't want slowness. He grabbed my head and started fucking my mouth with rhythmic, deep thrusts, as if he were dancing inside me. "Like that, suck it all, faggot." He moaned in Spanish with a Bogotan accent, affectionate insults that turned me on even more. His semen came quickly, hot and thick jets, with a bittersweet taste, like melted panela. I swallowed everything, panting, while he ruffled my hair and laughed: "Good boy, do you want more?" I left there with weak knees, the risk of having gone to a stranger's house pounding in my chest. I felt alive, connected to that Latin passion that I had never had before.

The next one was an Asian: Kenji, a 26-year-old Japanese man in Barcelona for studies. His profile was discreet, with serious face photos and a defined but slender body. We met in a park in Eixample at sunset - public risk, but controlled. He took me to a secluded bench, behind some bushes. "Be precise," he said with a calm, almost cold voice. He lowered his sports pants and took out a straight, smooth cock, not very long but hard as steel. I sucked it with care, following his instructions: "Slow, turn your tongue here... now suck hard." It was like a martial arts lesson, controlled, measured. He didn...