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Memoir
After moving to Spain the summer of 2003 — during one of the deadliest heat waves in Europe’s history — I noticed the advertisements in the magazines for “American Boys.”
“Maybe I should audition,” I said to Patricio one day, showing him the black-and-white advert in the gay rag. I’d failed at being an English tutor to the children of rich Catalans, and this could be a way to make some cash. “I mean, I’m American and I’m a boy,” I said, “so I seem to have the basic qualifications. Think I’d get the part?”
