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In one of the rooms behind the bar, Simon stood naked before Habib. Simon watched as the other man fiddled with the buttons of his linen shirt. The shirt fell to the ground. Habib's skin was mottled and strange. His nipples were darker than Simon had expected. It was hard for Simon to believe what he was about to do. Because he wasn't this kind of person. He wasn't the kind of person who, under ordinary circumstances, would even consider being paid for sex. It was well after midnight by then.

The evening had begun a few hours before, as Simon wandered alone through the streets of Seville, a city he didn't know. He had started off in the Plaza de las Armas, by the bus station. The Plaza had been deserted but for a huddle of women and their kids eating caramel sundaes at McDonald's, and a young man with a rattail. The young man was crouched on all fours, drawing his fingers through the cracks in the pavement. As Simon passed, the boy glanced up and asked for change, then when Simon ignored him, chirped, "Coca, hash?"

Through the glass Simon watched the young Spanish mothers spoon ice cream into their children's mouths. The hair on their arms rose because of the air-conditioning, and the women rubbed their bare shoulders to keep warm. He could see them talking quickly, heads thrown back in laughter, teasing, but he couldn't hear anything. Not that he would have been able to understand if he could. He didn't speak the language. It was one of the great embarrassments of his trip.

A hot wind blew through the city, tossing up handfuls of dust here and there, swirling through the narrow streets, picking up rags of plastic and snippets of leaves, until it passed down to the river in search of respite from the heat. His forehead was slashed with damp hair, his shirt soaked through. For the past two months Simon had been traveling through the south of Spain and Portugal, everything he needed carried on his back: a change of underwear, a picture of the lover he'd left behind, a two-man tent, a corkscrew, a book of poems about the sea.

He continued on. Just as he was leaving the Plaza, he noticed something strange: a garbage container, piled with trash, and perched on the top, a doll with its head ripped off. A bit of stuffing oozed out, and he wondered whether it might have belonged to one of the children he'd seen in McDonald's. From then on Simon's listless feet set their own course, and he meandered through a labyrinth of streets without streetlights. He was struck by how empty the city felt, as though everybody had left quite suddenly and without notice.

The music of flamenco guitars rippled in the distance, so faint he couldn't be sure how long he'd been hearing it. He followed the sound, which led him down a street narrower than the one before, then an alleyway, and finally, to an unmarked door. The music was coming from inside, the only sign of human life he had seen since leaving the Plaza. There was a nameplate, but the letters had been scratched off. It might have been the entrance to someone's house. He hoped it was a bar, in which case there would be people inside. People for him to talk to, if they spoke English. He pressed the buzzer. No response.

He teetered on the edge of the step for a moment—buzzed again—and then slouched away. He'd only gone a few steps when the door cracked open. A man poked his head out and glanced up and down the street, a gold crucifix spilling out of his unbuttoned collar, swinging from a delicate chain. He caught sight of Simon, and waved him forward. The man grabbed Simon's arm and dragged him in. The door slammed shut behind them. Locks were fastened, a series of chains made fast, and bolts slid into place, one after the other.

What kind of bar was this? The white hairs along Simon's arms bristled. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt; his eyes flickered about. The man who had opened the door for him was still at his elbow, and guided him to a stool at the bar. He nipped around to the other side and, without saying a word, poured Simon a small glass of beer. Simon's first impression of the place was of gloom. And then the murmur of voices, punctuated by ice crunched between teeth. Luminous bottles, lit from behind by fluorescent blue lights, lined up along a shelf. The shadows of men leaning against the walls, lounging on cushions and stools. Simon became conscious of a television flashing in the corner, and realized he'd stumbled into a gay bar. The screen showing one man squatting on another gave the game away.

A chubby man with dark skin stared at Simon from the far end of the room. He didn't look Spanish; he wasn't good looking. Simon held his glass to his lips and glanced sideways, catching the man's gaze, not entirely by accident. He blinked rapidly. Simon wasn't any good at telling other people to leave him alone, even if he wasn't interested: he was too uncertain of himself for that. The man swaggered towards Simon, hairy fingers jammed into the pockets of his jeans. He stopped in front of Simon, pressed one hand against the bar, and leaned towards him.

He started speaking Spanish, and seemed unconcerned when Simon understood nothing, except, of course, that he was trying to pick him up and his name: Habib. Simon pictured himself throwing a few euros down on the bar, striding out with his dignity intact, and finding another bar somewhere else filled with beautiful men desperate to meet a nice American. But it all seemed like too much effort. When Simon finished his beer, Habib seemed to ask if he'd like another. Simon said yes, por favor, which was about the extent of his Spanish. He nodded to the bartender, who pushed a bottle towards them. As Simon reached for the bottle, Habib grabbed it away.

After taking a sip, Habib called the bartender over again to borrow a pen. On a napkin he scrawled "50 euros." Simon opened his hands outwards and furrowed his brow, making the sign of incomprehension. Habib stared at him for a moment, as though he couldn't believe that Simon didn't understand. He tried a few more words in Spanish, and then when Simon still didn't grasp his meaning, Habib stepped away from the bar, bunched both fists and thrust his pelvis back and forth. He relaxed his hands and traced the bent shape of a man's body, broad shoulders narrowing to a waist, the unexpected corners of hipbones and rounded contours of thickened thighs: Habib would pay fifty euros to fuck Simon.

"You've got to be kidding," Simon blurted out, though he was sort of flattered, despite himself.

"Tac-tac," the bartender said, and then something Simon didn't understand, except for the word "international." Simon was offended that they were under the impression that he was a prostitute, and that they put his worth at fifty euros. Could he really look that cheap?

Habib persevered in his seduction, continuing to chat with Simon, every few minutes rehearsing his mimed fuck-routine with as much gusto as the first performance. This went on for quite some time. They drank a few more beers, clinking the rims of the bottles together before each mouthful. Habib's dark hair was clumped with gel, his plump cheeks and lips suggesting sensuality. He placed a hand at the back of Simon's neck and pulled him closer, releasing his grip when he felt the young man tense up.

Why not? Simon thought to himself. Simon had never had sex for money before, though he'd once or twice had offers from old men on the internet. But why not? Maybe Habib wasn't as repulsive as Simon had first thought. Maybe Habib would be a skillful lover: it was so hard to tell in advance. And of course fifty euros would pay for three nights in a hostel.

Simon found himself being led into a warren of rooms behind the bar. Habib ushered him into a well-lit cubicle with a door that locked. There was a bed against the wall, with a cheap plastic mattress. Habib opened a small package, unfolding the disposable sheet contained within, which he used to cover the mattress. He motioned for Simon to undress.

As Simon removed the money belt from around his waist, he wondered if he was about to be robbed. Habib cast off his shirt as well, revealing a surprisingly well-built torso, if a little plump, and Simon forgot all his fears.

The two naked men faced one another, each the reflection of the other's desire. Habib extended his hand towards Simon, palm facing up. Habib smiled, as though saying: What are you waiting for?

The two men stared at each other.

"But I thought you were going to pay me," Simon said.

It was as though this revelation paralyzed them both, like the moment of disbelief that occurs when two men find themselves in bed together, are just about to have sex, and then discover that actually they're both insatiable bottoms. Simon averted his gaze, waiting for the prostitute to understand. Simon was afraid that he might get beaten up, even more afraid now that he might be robbed. And then the prostitute realized what had happened. He sneered at Simon, dismissing his pallid body with one flapping hand. For the first time Habib's meaning was perfectly clear: You think that I would pay for something like this?

Suddenly ashamed, Simon turned away, and struggled back into his clothes. Habib blocked the way out, and when Simon tried to leave, he jabbed his finger in the direction of the torn plastic that had contained the disposable sheet. A price was tag attached: ten euros. Simon pressed as much into Habib's palm. When Simon settled his tab at the bar, he discovered that it included Habib's beers as well as his own. He had just enough money with him to cover everything. He didn't care anymore. As he stumbled out of the bar into the darkness, he felt as though his skin was loosening its grip on his body. He was so embarrassed. He blushed in the dark, the blood rushed through him. Dawn was still a long way off.

He started walking again, winding his way through the streets, as though tugged along by invisible threads. He found himself in the Plaza de las Armas once more. He sat down on a crumbling bench and watched the young women through the glass, still eating their caramel sundaes and playing with their children. No one worried about bedtime in Spain. He watched them for a while, his breath still ragged. It occurred to Simon that even if he tried telling one of his friends back home about what had just happened, they would never believe him. He got up and brushed himself off.