“How is your Spanish coming along?” my friend asked me the other day, in the middle of updating me on the progress of her own New Year’s resolutions — most of which, predictably, have already fallen by the wayside. The gym membership had become an expensive form of guilt, the meditation app was lying in digital dust on her phone, and the promise to cook more at home had been defeated by the siren call of takeaway menus.
“As you, dear reader, might recall,” I said, slipping into that slightly dramatic narrator voice I reserve just for myself, “I thought learning to speak Spanish would be a real boost to me — both as something new to learn and also as a help for my career.” It wasn’t entirely altruistic or intellectual. I do, after all, meet a lot of Spanish and South American men who often visit incall escorts whilst in London, and being able to murmur a few phrases in their own language has a certain undeniable charm.
“Pretty well,” I smirked, perhaps a little too pleased with myself. That was technically true, although how I got there was not quite what my friend — or my Spanish teacher, for that matter — would have expected.
The Conventional Start
I conventionally started my Spanish lessons, with all the enthusiasm of someone who has just bought a fresh notebook and a new highlighter set. I signed up for evening lessons at a local adult education centre, the kind with humming fluorescent lights and posters about conversational Italian peeling off the walls. I bought some books — Easy Spanish, Spanish in Three Months, and a phrasebook filled with painfully stilted exchanges about train stations and libraries.
In those early weeks, I managed to pick up a few useful phrases. I could say my name without faltering: “Me llamo Hannah.” I could ask how much something costs and pretend to care about the answer. I could order food and drink well enough to survive a tapas bar and sound vaguely polite: “Quisiera una copa de vino tinto, por favour.” It all felt very proper, very textbook, and very detached from the sort of situations I actually found myself in on a nightly basis.
But beyond the basics, I hadn’t really progressed terribly well. The verbs swam in front of my eyes, a blur of endings that refused to stick in my brain no matter how many times I underlined them. I’d turn up to class after a long day, sit under the harsh classroom lighting, and feel my eyelids grow heavier as the teacher droned on about irregular verbs. I could memorise lists for a test, but by the following week, they had dissolved into nothing more than vague impressions.
An Unexpected Booking
Then, one evening, things took an unexpectedly practical turn.
I received a booking — this time from a man looking for outcall escorts. That alone piqued my interest; outcalls often mean nice hotels, good wine, and clients who like to indulge themselves a little. He was staying in one of London’s top hotels, the sort of place where the carpets swallow the sound of your footsteps and the staff speak in soft, polished tones.
When I arrived, I found him in a suite with a view over the city, lights glittering like spilt jewels across the skyline. He was a very attractive Spaniard indeed — tall, with dark eyes that held a hint of mischief, and that effortless European polish that made his open-necked shirt and perfectly tailored trousers look like they belonged on the cover of a magazine. His accent, when he greeted me, rolled over my name like warm honey.
Not long into our conversation, he asked, quite casually, if I spoke Spanish.
“Un poco,” I replied, with what I hoped was a modest smile and not the panicked grimace of someone whose vocabulary had momentarily vanished. His eyes lit up with amusement, and his mouth curled into a wickedly playful smile.
“To help you along,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “I could teach you some vocabulary.”
I laughed, thinking he was joking — but he was already moving closer. He sat beside me on the edge of the bed, his presence warm and confident, and gestured to my feet.
Vocabulary by Touch
He touched them lightly, his fingers trailing over my skin, and named the Spanish word for feet. The sound of it lingered on his tongue, slow and deliberate. I repeated it back to him, stumbling a little over the pronunciation. He corrected me gently, his lips forming the word with exaggerated care so I could mirror the shape. When I tried again and got closer, he rewarded me by leaning down and placing a soft kiss on my toes.
Then, with a sly little smile, he let his hand travel up, stroking along my calves and over my thighs. His fingers paused at the curve of my leg, and once again, he gave me the Spanish word — this time for legs. I could feel his breath against my skin as he spoke, the syllables brushing over me like a caress in their own right.
“Repeat it,” he murmured.
So I did. Each time I said the word, he corrected my accent, guiding me patiently — or as patiently as one can while deliberately turning a vocabulary lesson into something entirely more intimate. When I finally pronounced it to his satisfaction, he sealed my success with a kiss on the corresponding body part, his lips warm and deliberate as if he were quite literally imprinting the word into my memory.
From there, the lesson continued in the same… educational fashion. He moved gradually upward, pointing out each part of my body, naming it in Spanish, and waiting for me to repeat it back. Hands, shoulders, hips, waist — each word came with a demonstration, a touch, a correction, and then that lingering kiss of approval. It was impossible not to remember. My brain, it turned out, is very cooperative when thoroughly motivated.
By the time we had reached my throat, my understanding of the Spanish language had come on in leaps and bounds. He said the word slowly, his fingers resting lightly against the base of my neck, feeling the faint flutter of my pulse. I repeated it, a little breathless now, and he smiled as if I were his star pupil before pressing his lips to my skin in a way that made grammar charts and verb drills feel like the relics of a very dull past life.
Phrases You Don’t Learn in Class
Needless to say, the vocabulary did not stop at body parts. He went on to teach me a few other phrases too — the kind that had very little to do with asking directions to the nearest train station and everything to do with what we were doing in that hotel room. Short, urgent sentences. Soft commands, murmured praise, questions that required no translation at all. Each new phrase came paired with a sensation, an action, something concrete and pleasurable that welded the words firmly into my memory.
It was immersive learning in the truest sense.
By the time I left that night, my hair a little mussed and my lipstick slightly faded, my mental Spanish dictionary had expanded dramatically. More importantly, the words no longer felt like abstract entries on a page. They were attached to heat and touch and the way his accent slid over them, making them sound almost musical.
The Smug Answer
So when my friend asked, over coffee, how my Spanish was coming along, I wasn’t entirely lying when I said, with that smug little smile, “Pretty well.” It was just that my method of study had taken a rather unconventional turn.
If you want to learn a new language, I would definitely recommend this way of learning — provided you have the right teacher, of course. It’s astonishing how quickly vocabulary sinks in when each word is paired with a pleasurable little reward. It beats evening classes any day… though I’m not entirely sure my old Spanish tutor would approve of the curriculum.
Here are some related blog posts you might enjoy:
