Xavi spins analog records on the Barceloneta shoreline, where the sand bleeds into club floors and the sea hums basslines into dawn. His sets are slow-burning alchemies—1970s soul pressed against Catalan folk loops, all played on a battered Technics SL-1200 he rescued from a closed speakeasy. He doesn’t chase crowds; they find him, barefoot in the back room of a converted fisherman’s hut that now pulses with velvet shadows and R&B murmurs. But his true stage is higher—on the forgotten rooftop garden behind a Sagrada Familia-facing apartment, where he feeds stray cats by moonlight and maps out love letters disguised as coordinates inside matchbooks.He speaks in voice notes left between metro stops—whispers layered over train static, confessing things like *I passed your favorite kiosk and bought two espressos. Drank both. Should’ve waited.* His romance is architecture: deliberate, built brick-by-brick from small rebellions against solitude. He leaves hand-drawn maps in coat pockets—each leading to hidden corners of the city; a courtyard fountain that sings at 3am, the bench where he first kissed someone who made him believe in gravity.Sexuality for Xavi isn’t performance—it’s presence. The brush of knuckles while passing vinyl, sharing headphones under shared scarves during rainstorms, slow dancing on concrete with the skyline as witness—he treats intimacy like a rare groove: something to be unearthed, handled gently, played fully. He once undressed a lover slowly beneath paper lanterns on that rooftop garden while sirens wove through their breath like a bassline, each article removed only after consent was murmured into collarbones.The tension lives in his suitcase—always half-packed. Offers come from Lisbon to Kyoto for residencies that would vault his artistry onto global stages. But staying means building something real with someone who doesn’t flinch at midnight feedings of stray cats or handwritten riddles leading to dawn in the Gothic Quarter. He wants love that doesn’t demand he shrink—or fly too far.