Rent-boy charity

Sometimes I take a boy because he’s there. Because I’m drunk and horny in Rudolfa and he’s sitting next to me, clinking glasses and bitching about bad Czech music. In the case of Michael, a tall, lean dark-haired boy from the station, it was because he told me that, at 15, he cried at the end of Easy Rider; and also because he flattered me shamelessly:

“Better sex with you than with deez grandfadurs,” he said, when I suggested that he and I do 500 kc biznis rather than waiting around for non-existent punters in a deserted Monty Bar.

We left for Rudolfa, where the atmosphere was considerably more lively and the beer was oh, about a billion times better, not to mention 4 crowns cheaper for .1 liter more. Michael and I dominated the jukebox, with his choosing Aerosmith, and half-dozen other classic rockers, and my choosing The Clash, R.E.M. and AC/DC.

Michael’s not even my type. I think he’s cute enough, but he’s too tall (-20 points), too skinny (subtract another 20), too white (-50). But he’s articulate and speaks good, American-accented English (+20), has a nice happy trail (+50), and a hairy butt (+20). But boys who like guitars advance 75 points on my very idiosyncratic scale of attraction.

I’d already kissed Michael a little bit a couple weeks ago, and got a quick grope and a hand job from him. We’d hid behind one of the big cement vents outside the station (becoming a regular rendezvous point for me) and I tested him out for 200 kc. He kissed all right, if a little reticently, and he sure knew how to rub one out of me.

In Rudolfa’s toilets we did more of the same, getting completely naked, with some sucking thrown in and another great hand-job to finish me off. I licked my own jizz off Michael’s long fingers. He never got hard enough to cum, unfortunately, but I was feeling rather me-focused anyway and didn’t care. I was a little disappointed because he had told me that one punter’s amazing blow job had caused him to question his sexual orientation. My skills weren’t all that earth-shattering, that night?

With the money I gave him, he bought some weed from smoking bar Mello Mello, and we got high on the steps outside the station at 4 in the morning, both of us babbling about some very funny stuff, none of which I can remember now. Earlier in the evening, before we’d settled on a price, I’d told him I was homeless. He didn’t believe it at first, and then asked me how he could ask money for biznis from someone who didn’t even have a roof over his head. I explained: I had money, and was horny; he didn’t have money, and wanted to party a little. I told him it seemed like a perfectly reasonable exchange.

I guess he still didn’t feel it was quite equitable because after smoking two joints he invited me to come home with him and sleep in his flat in Podebrad, a small town about 50 km from Prague by train. I accepted, not because it was so important for me to sleep in a bed, but because I like traveling by trains, had really been enjoying hanging out with Michael, and because he said, smiling impishly with his big, round, brown eyes, that “Maybe we do some more stuff…”

More stuff didn’t happen. Michael got very sick on the train – he blamed it on the combination of marijuana and beer, which we’d both indulged in prodigiously – then threw up all over his tee-shirt and spent most of the train ride in the toilet recovering. By the time we got to his flat – a small but pleasant one-room apartment in a new building – we just collapsed on the mattress on the floor and konked out immediately. No cuddling, no desperate mid-morning sex, no kissing, despite the safe-sex packet I’d showed him I had in my pocket.

In the morning, I got to shower, shave – with one of those battery-powered 5-blade Gillettes – and Michael gave me one of his t-shirts, one printed with stupid English nonsense, which he’d never worn anyway. He also bought me a baguette for the train ride back to Prague. He was coming in later, he said, and maybe we’d get high again. If he managed to do biznis that day. I thanked him, and thanked him again, shaking my head and chuckling.

“What?” he asked.

“Well, we do biznis. I pay you and then you spend over half of that money on me, and also let me sleep in your flat plus give me a t-shirt. Seems a little crazy to me,” I said.

He laughed, scratched his chin, and said, “Maybe, but I think it’s correct.”

Maybe, but i think it’s kindness pity.

Read Full Post »

David is the new Daniel

[An addendum to a previous post]

Some of you might remember that I used to promote Daniel pretty heavily back in the day. Daniel, like David has so far, had a perfect record for satisfying clients. He bottomed and topped and did pretty much everything a punter could ask, with gusto, with pleasure and often multiple times. Not to mention, reasonable prices.

But Daniel’s been on my shit-list for months, after borrowing 400 kc from me and not paying it back. After lying to me about what he was going to use the money for – drugs, not a new pair of jeans. After telling me that I could get to Villa Mansland by pointing me deliberately in the opposite direction so that I would not see him make his connection with his drug dealer.

So, I will not help him ever again or even speak to him until he pays me back. Which, of course, he never will.

Yesterday someone at Montys saw Daniel being chased by another boy, with murderous intent. I hear that sort of story more and more lately. Daniel was always a free spirit and always restless but lately I think he’s turned a new corner of lost.

So you heard it here first, I hope: David is the new Daniel. Get ‘im while he still knows what the fuck he is doing.

Read Full Post »

Pluggin’ David

I don’t often post about boys I haven’t taken but lil’ David deserves to be the exception. He’s a somewhat petite twink, thin and smooth up-top, except for a light happy trail, and he usually sports a couple days growth of facial hair. A somewhat trashy twink, I guess, which is why I’m hot for him as well. It’s said he’s a furball from the waist down, which intrigues me also. He’s got a shaggy head of dirty blonde, wavy hair, getting blonder as the summer progresses, and therefore making him look like a young Cali surfer boy. His lazy grin and laidback manner completes that picture.

But it’s the raves about his sexual performance, more than even his appearance, that make it imperative that if you’re interested in rent boys you should get to Prague before he disappears. Yeah, he’s laidback, but also restless, as likely to wander away from your table at Temple or Montys to smoke weed with his spastic girlfriend as he is to let you take him home.

Here’s a sample of the feedback on David:

The best sex from any boy I’ve had in Prague in four years.

Sex-machine!

There is no dildo too big for David.

He’ll cum while he’s sucking you, take yours in his mouth, and then be ready to go again in a few minutes.

Pervert.

And finally, from an SMS I received today:

Holy shit. David is a bigger pig than me. He is a blast – just finished with round 3. You were so right!

David may like sex, but he also likes money just as much. He started out at the station for 500 but expect to pay top dollar, er, crowns, now.

Read Full Post »

today’s story fragments: sliced, sloshed and taught

The other morning while cutting branches to camouflage my sleeping pad and bag, I slipped and sliced open an inch long gash running under my little finger on my left hand and almost onto my palm. At first it didn’t bleed and I thought it wasn’t so deep.  Then the red welled up and coated almost my whole hand. It was clear that, in an ideal world, the one I don’t live in, it would require stitches.

I thought to myself, Well, I am fucked. I have deodorant, tooth paste and other toiletries in the backpack I carry around all day, but no bandages and certainly no disinfectant. So, I cleaned the wound as best I could with sparkling mineral water, sat on a low branch and applied direct pressure for about 20 minutes, managing to smoke a couple cigarettes in the process without causing it to bleed too much.

Over the course of the day I could see the gash start to close up and there were no signs of infection – I’d cleaned it out three times with soap and water, scrubbing it gently. Camp Chris also brought me some adhesive strips, which promptly fell off the next time I washed my hands. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt at all, just a throb now and then, not even when I did it initially. I guess that’s because I sliced myself with a very sharp Swiss Army Knife given to me by Craig two years ago this past May. It’s come in handy but I’ve never been so careless before.

Unfortunately, last night, morning actually, coming home drunk to the campsite, I must have bumped it on something because as I started bleeding profusely all over my hand, dripping on my sleeping bag, jeans, and everything else. But what could I do? I wrapped a dirty t-shirt tight around my whole hand – no more tissues in my pocket – applied direct pressure for as many minutes as my drunken state would allow, scooted down into the sleeping bag and fell asleep.

****

Joe the manager of Temple has employed me to teach English to the rent boys who work there. I volunteered one morning when I ran into him at Bohemia Bagel. He was there with a cute but butch Slovak boy named Ivan, and had asked me if I knew any English teachers. I said, How ’bout me? I actually did not expect him to say yes, but he did.

Ivan and Joe were an item when I first met him; now they’re not. Last night in Temple, I gave Ivan a back massage and he wriggled and stretched appreciatively underneath my hands, then turned his head and gave me a short, but wet, kiss. More to come, I hope. homo hearts Slovak boys. But am I violating some professional barrier between student and teacher. Who gives a fuck? A good rapport can only help, right?

I taught the first lesson with only Ivan as a student, and basically winged it, trying to build on what English words and phrases Ivan already knew. Every time he sees me, he practices some of the things that I taught him. Like a lot of Central European boys I’ve met, he knows more than he thinks he does, remembering stuff from 5 years of English in school that he never got a chance to practice before with a native speaker.

The next class is scheduled for the first of the week, and I might have 5 students. It’s a bit scary since I really don’t know what I’m doing, but there are plenty of resources on the Internet, and perhaps Bryan can give me some tips.

I’ll also be conducting some advanced conversation classes with Camp Chris’ long-term, butch Slovak boyfriend. He wants to go drink some beers and talk about stuff in English. Getting paid to get drunk: Even better than blogging about sex.

****

Broadcast from a drunk, broke Slovak man who sat down next to me and the Quiet American on the benches outside the station:

I have incomplete information for you coming from another dimension! Are you ready?

Read Full Post »

Adopting Sasha

Sasha gave me a lost-puppy look yesterday as I left him outside the station in the rain. I had hoped that I would run into him and give him biznis. At the very least I wanted to buy him a baguette and take him to Rudolfa for a couple beers. Instead, as he stumbled up to the bench where I was sitting, mumbling and doing kung fu moves as he came, I realized I couldn’t take him anywhere in his condition. At least not anywhere I wanted to come back to. He was high on tolan, from sniffing paint thinner. Also, his clothes were filthy, as if he had been fixing cars all afternoon, and his right cheek and temple were abraded and scabby. I imagined him pitching forward on his face after a poorly executed roundhouse. He’d looked fine that morning. Now he was a mess, and certainly the most down and out boy with whom I’ve ever gotten involved.

I had still been glad to see him though, and it’s gotten so I look forward to the smile he gives whenever he sees me – it’s sly and boyish, welcoming and expectant, dumb and hopeful. Seems I’ve adopted him. If I see him in the mornings I usually buy him something to eat and drink. If I’m hungry, I choose the cheapest sandwich. He usually doesn’t. I know better than to give him money, because like any addict he’ll use it for what his body is telling him is the most important nutrient. And it’s not klebasa.

Nevertheless, every time I’ve given him money to go off and buy us food and drink, he’s come back with the change each time, and has only purchased what I asked him to, a skill Marek never seemed to learn. I gave him 100 and he came back. Gave him 200 and he came back. Each time, I did it as a test. I wanted to know what sort of boy he was. Of course, he could be playing me, waiting until I give him a bigger bill, something worth the risk. He’ll be waiting forever.

We have a good time together. His English is much better than I thought it would be. Yesterday, even though he was high as a kite, he still wanted to play a game with me. Speak an English sentence, he said, and I will translate it into Czech. He did fine the first couple of sentences – basic greetings and salutations, places of birth, etc. – but I stumped him with the question, “How big is your penis?”

“Co?” he asked, screwing up his face and cocking his head.

“Penis,” I said, “Je kokot.” And he fell out. Penis is kokot, which is Slovak slang for cock, but a word that most Czech street boys seem to know as well.  Like most things, the Slovak version is better than the Czech.

“Kolik centimetr ma tvoje kokot?” How many centimeters is your penis? [Please no one call me on my bad Czech.]

He wouldn’t answer, he just looked into the distance repeating, “Penis, kokot; penis, kokot,” and then giggling.

I told him mine was 22, and that made him laugh some more.

“I think yours is 17 or 18, yes?” I asked him. He opened the gap between his thumb and forefinger as wide as he could, eyeballed it, then put the makeshift measuring stick on the crotch of his jeans.

“Ano,” he decided. “Akorát.”

I think if I had no boy at all in my life, I wouldn’t make it being homeless. I had so many friends in the station the first time ’round, and then I had Marek in the park with me for a couple months, that I rarely got lonely. In fact, I looked forward to camping out at night just for some alone time, and so rarely accompanied the station gang on their train-hopping or night-tram sleepovers. The party at the station has definitely broken up. Back in the day, we’d all be hanging out until the wee hours and there would almost always be someone around to drink with, to talk to, or suck, or whatever else we might feel like doing. Now, usually by ten, even most of the druggies have gone home. Despite the misery on display, the station always struck me as a happy place to be if you had friends. Now there’s just misery, and empty spaces, full of construction sounds, and shiny new vacuous shops. You can’t even buy a beer outside anymore. For me, Sasha is one of the few bright spots, and the only boy.

Obviously, what I’m feeling towards him isn’t altruism. Although I’m starting to care about him, and I wonder if he’s doing okay when I haven’t seen him, I have to admit the majority feeling is lust. Just this morning, I masturbated while fantasizing about breeding Sasha – spurting outside his ass, but then sticking it right back in as I came. That got me hard, but I came thinking about the scene in reverse – his pretty brown cock doing the same thing to me. Afterward, I thought if it were possible to invite him into my campsite so he could at least get a decent night’s sleep. I’d have to buy another sleeping pad and another sleeping bag but that wouldn’t cost so much. The bigger issue is the risk. My MacBook in my backpack is my pillow. Once he finds that out, I’d guess his smile would be become a whole lot slyer.

Still, a lot of my Sasha-fantasies consist of imagined cuddling: Folding his small body into my arms, playing with the hair on his perineum, kissing his forehead and rubbing his head. I want to know what he’s like to sleep with, to shower with, to cook for. As I told The Quiet American yesterday, if I had a home – and I can honestly say that I haven’t felt this way about any boy since I moved out of the Zizkov apartment – I’d bundle Sasha up and take him home immediately. I saw hope fall from his face yesterday as I left him standing in the rain, and I saw the bewilderment of not knowing why I haven’t taken him home already.

I’d do it, not because I think I can save him – it’s more than foolish to believe in absolute rescue in this poisonous, beautiful city – but because somehow I still believe that a boy can save me.

Read Full Post »

Not missing Miki

Within 15 minutes I had my tongue down the throat of the boy who stole a blanket from me when I was homeless, and who had also aided and abetted swindling me out of 1500 crowns. Within 30 minutes we were in the toilet together and he was going down on me. In retrospect, I should have fucked him. Miki was always a good fuck and certainly needed a good seein’ to. Other than George, who was also there this night in Rudolfa, Miki’s ass was the most compliant of any boy I’d met in Prague and he was not a passive bottom. I’ll never forget the first time I I fucked him. I slid into him like a knife in butter.  Nope, not a particularly tight hole, but tight enough, and wet. He pushed back, and ground his butt into me, all while looking over his shoulder and kissing me and smiling. A biznis fuck that simulated making love, and I treated Miki that way then and always did after. George, who was also there at Rudolfa that night when I re-met Miki, was the one I pounded aggressively, for some reason.

Before Miki and I got to the toilet in Rudolfa, I spent some time trying to get him to admit to me that he stole the blanket. I realized at the time that it happened that there was a background story the details of which I didn’t quite understand. Something about the younger brother of the guy who took my money being dumped into their laps and therefore having to throw me out into the cold. The flat was only one room, and I’m sure they had probably spent the money I’d given them in advance for a week of staying in the flat. But they didn’t have to steal my blanket, did they?

Of course, Miki, like most Czech rent boys, could not admit that he was wrong. It was his friend, he said, not him, that had taken my money and my blanket. Never mind that it was Miki who had slammed shut the door to the wardrobe when I tried to retrieve my bag from where I had left it. Never mind that instead, my backpack was already packed for me and waiting by the door to the apartment. Neither of these two things made me suspicious at the time. But I had trusted Miki and had been burned for it. It wouldn’t happen again.

After the blow job – I didn’t cum – he asked me for money and I refused. I told him I didn’t owe him a damn thing. He took this better that I had expected he would. He tends to get aggressive when his loyalty is questioned or when a punter stiffs him. But this time, he’d stiffed me and I needed a little payback. Maybe that’s why he just shrugged and said, okay, when I told him I’d bought his beers all night and I thought that that was enough.

Sasha had left by the time I got back from the toilet. As soon as I started talking to and making out with Miki, I’d ignored my poor gypsy boy, other than turning to him and making sure he was all right or if he wanted another beer. The next day he told me he’d gone back to the station to sleep on the greensward. He’d been awakened by the cops and fined 2000 crowns for it. I felt bad about that, especially since, despite my erection and the good kissing, I felt rather blank towards Miki – neither glad to see him nor angry about past betrayals. I guess I’ve gotten over him, which, really, is kinda fucking sad.

Read Full Post »

Ready to rumble at U Rudolfa

When I told the Finnish Filmmaker that I had made myself homeless again, he opened his mouth, started to say something, then closed it with a soft pop. He bowed his head slightly and looked at the floor for a few seconds. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

“You are a very strange person,” he said.

Can’t argue with that.

“But you seem to be handling it well.” He finished the sentence by shaking his head a couple times.

“I am, I guess. I mean, I’ve done this before and I’m pretty good at it by now.” He and I both laughed

We were sitting in the station’s Kavarna getting ready to shoot the final interview with me for the documentary he’s doing about people in and around the porn industry, including consumers and rent boys. The interview was supposed to conclude my part of the film, as I understand it, showing how I’d managed to “lift myself up” from being homeless and was now living a semi-normal life. So my revelation forced him to change tack. Being a good documentarian, he nimbly shifted focus. He wanted me to talk about what had happened to make me lose my flat again. I refused, and found myself unusually shy. I could feel my face heating up and probably turning red.

Before, when he shot me waking up in the park in the winter two years ago, it was just him with a small video camera. This time we were in the Kavarna, a boom microphone hovering over my head, held by a cute young Czech soundguy, and an assistant director manning a quite large professional video camera on a mammoth tripod. I felt small and exposed and more than a little ridiculous.

So, instead we sat in front of my MacBook and ran slideshows of my photographs of Kuba, Marek, George, Valentin, Vasile, Ovi and whichever other boy’s image lives in my hard drive. I made comments and reminisced. That was fun. It was also nice to get compliments, if not many, from people who are actually working artists. I never get that here on the blog.

The Finnish Filmmaker also wanted to shoot a mood scene in Rudolfa. He’d already shot some handheld stuff there last year, with me and Marek and Vasile. He’d captured Marek’s razzin’ insouciance and bawdy humor well, I thought. Vasile spent most of the time trying to hustle the filmmaker. I just got drunk and watched Marek dance.

Before heading for Rudolfa I rounded up Sasha, the glue-sniffin’ gypsy boy who cums buckets. I’d been wanting to take him with me to my favorite bar to see if he’s the missing bar/fuck buddy I’ve been looking to find. (Now that Pavel’s MIA. I’ve have to write that up sometime.) Sasha was more than happy to accompany us and also agreed to be part of the shoot.  I sniffed around his face before we went off to make sure he didn’t stink too much of glue. Rudolfa is a tolerant place but I thought they might draw the line at the often noxious fumes streaming out of Sasha’s lungs for much of the day.

When we got to Rudolfa, we were treated rather salutarily by Ruda, the big butch barman. The filmmakers hadn’t pre-arranged the shoot, but Ruda acted like he knew just what to do. He led us all to the backroom, chose the table for us, replaced the tablecloth and ashtray and sat just enough chairs around the table. I thanked him and he offered me a seat. It was really cute.

Manchester Lee got in on the act and the scene unfolded as if we were meeting Sasha for the first time. Sasha was cooperative but he didn’t contribute anything much himself, other than to ask basic questions. The filmmakers were happy with the results, I guess, and the smoky backit scene did look lovely in the viewfinder. After we wrapped, bar owner Rudy came back and demanded 100 Kc to put in the jukebox since we’d asked him to turn it off for the duration of the shoot. He’s always a little bit surly and had earlier expressed misgivings about the possibility of revealing Rudolfa’s name in the film. He was assured it wouldn’t be, took the 100 crowns and went back to the VIP table in the front.

Later, he came back to thank us, and invite us to the front for a drink; then he rubbed Sasha’s head, looked at me and smiled, saying in Czech something like: “I never know what you will do!” Then he shocked the hell out of me by rubbing my head. So instead of moving down in his estimation, I guess I’ve moved up. An unexpected result of the shoot.

I’d already sneaked a few kisses out of Sasha while we were filming. As I posted before, during our first biznis Sasha was reluctant to kiss me. But, if he’s going to replace Pavel, and reap all the benefits of that replacement, he’s going to have to learn to kiss, and not just passably. So, at first he just pecked, then I stopped him and indicated I wanted him to open his mouth. He did and I dove in. There were a few microseconds of resistance and then he gave back what I was giving. We did this a few times and each time he’d start giggling and duck his head shyly away. But he came back each time, too. Unlike Marek, who usually wiped his mouth immediately after he gave me one of his rare kisses.

Out in the front part of Rudolfa, I asked him if kissing me was okay: dobre nebo ne dobre. He said it was “Dobre,” and from then on out we had a good time. The filmmakers had already gotten us drunk, and then Manchester Lee got us more drunk, and a couple of my other bar buddies also bought us drinks. Sasha kept up with me. About an hour later, I had my hand down Sasha’s jeans. He sucked in his lightly hairy tummy to let me get inside and I started playing with his cock. And in, oh, about 15 seconds I’d gotten him hard. He just sprawled back on the bench, one hand pulling his shirt up and the other stroking his chin while I started tugging on his dick. I stopped; went back to drinking; then reached down his pants again. Still up, sweet boy.

We made out some more and then he abruptly stood. I thought maybe he was tired of being molested. He put his hand on my shoulder and I looked up at him.

“Je dem,” he said, jerking his head towards the toilet. “Let’s go.” You can tell how many points this boy scored with me that night. Hard in an instant. Instigates sex. Drinks beer. Kisses good, after some coaching. Butch but adorable.

We didn’t have much time in the toilet for more than a few minutes of sucking – but when I got his pants and underwear down he was still mostly hard – before there was pounding on the door. No fucking privacy. The bar was packed by this time. I know the queens in Rudolfa pretty well. If we spent too much time in the toilet – and everyone noticed our leaving – one of the barmen would come and politely ask us to speed up our orgasms, and I hate to hurry during sex. I cut our session short, kissed Sasha a little bit more and then went back with him to the front.

And found an old flame of mine, Miki, along with a short, butch straight friend of his, sitting at our table waiting for me.

Miki and I have a long history. (Curiously, I didn’t blog about it much.) At one time, he occupied a similar position of trust and adoration that Pavel occupied. His kissing skills were second only to Pavel’s, as well. Miki and I had lived together for several months in my Strasnice apartment, the one I eventually got thrown out of in the middle of the night. I could alway count on Miki to take care of me and my possessions when we went out drinking together, which was often, and he was always good at it, handling his pivo a lot better than I ever did. He also contributed to the household, cleaned and shopped, and behaved like a boyfriend. That is, as long as he was on the outs with his girlfriend, which, lucky for me, was often. Whenever they got back together, he cut down on time spent with me considerably, pestered me for money, something he rarely did when she wasn’t in the picture and most of all neglected to give me the fine, fine ass I loved so much. He would also take to lying and sneaking around to cover up the fact that he and the bitch were back together. But I always knew. And oh, she hated me, I’m sure. Our relationship had ended in drama, with his trying to take down pictures of himself off my wall, and my taking one of the frames and crashing it down on top of his head. Ah, Prague love.

All of that history went through my head when I saw him. A bit of a shock.

Yet I also hadn’t forgotten the worst of it, that back in my homeless days he had colluded with a friend to rid me of 1500 Kc that I had paid them for a week off the streets. But the slimiest thing was how he stole a wool blanket out of my backpack and then sent me out in the Prague winter without it. Can you forgive a person something like that?

I was about to find out.

Read Full Post »

Living again

A lot of interesting stuff has happened in the last three days and more is expected to happen in just a few minutes when I go off with Camp Chris, Milan the Pimp, and the butch shaved head’d security guard who works at the station’s service pont. Chris is buying us all a couple round of beers and we’re going to try to persuade this young man to let Chris talk dirty to him and maybe let me take some pix of him. Of course, he might not show up at all but this is the Czech Republic and anything (used to) be able to happen.

Other upcoming subjects:

Drenched in gypsy cum at the sex shop

Meeting up with the Finnish documentary filmmaker and being told by him and his straight editor that I am a “fucking good storyteller”

Offered a gun for sale at the homeless bar by an ex-rent boy who was deported from the United States

Hanging out non-stop at the station and discovering it’s not so dead after all

Hearing about Miro’s errand to Slovakia to pick up the visa of an American expat. He may or may not come back.

Preparing for homelessness

Keep reading and buy some shit!

Read Full Post »

Material Boy

I took him because he was hairy. All over a thin, sinewy 18-year old body.

Because when I dug into his abdominals, I could pinch off a square of hard meat and my fingertips sunk deep into the center cleft.

Because he was sweet and affectionate with me in Monty Bar.

Because he turned bright red when I told him he was sexy.

Because he gave me a good price, but I guess mostly because someone else was paying and I hadn’t had sex in over a month. Not since Pavel a week before my birthday. I almost always take the sure thing when I can afford it.

For all those reasons – but not because he was a good kisser, which he wasn’t – I took him back to my flat, finger-fucked him, manhandled him mercilessly, sucked him off and ate his cum. He tried to reciprocate but for some reason I couldn’t stay hard. He wasn’t a bad cocksucker and it was nice watching him do it. I just knew I’d never get an orgasm from anything else he was doing.

Then, as I watched him saunter into the room naked, wet from the shower, the curve of his thighs and his ass impressing me – my room was dark and the light lit him up from behind – I asked him to be my boyfriend.

Lucky for me, he smiled and said he’d think about it. But he did want me to give him the Dickies hoody that Craig brought me two trips ago. Ain’t nobody gettin’ that hoody. Not even Marek.

I told this Honza that I’d buy him one. If he would be my boyfriend. He kissed me again, but then got down on his knees, on my extremely dirty floor and kissed the hoody twice.

Read Full Post »

It ain’t over until…

Wait! It’s already over.

The rent-boy scene in Prague, that is, not the Democratic nomination for President. Not quite yet, anyway.

I should clarify: The organized rent-boy bar scene in Prague is over. That seems to be the majority opinion of the people I meet – both punters and boys. Those who live here, or live here most of the time, have been singing that song for well over a year. Those who come here quite a bit are just now seeing it. The only hold-out seems to be Craig. 😉

I was out at the station, Monty bar, and Temple last night, and this topic was the dominant one. Moaning, bemoaning, criticizing, etc. It’s over, it’s over.

The evidence? You mean, besides no new boys in months? Well, Temple bar can’t seem to afford even ice these days. Joe sent over a bartender to fill up a bucket at Monty’s one night last week. Twice. The first time the request was fulfilled. The second time, not. Okay, so maybe their icemaker was on the fritz.

Another sign is that punters who come into Monty bar spend their time, not with boys, but talking to each other, and not trying to find a boy. Because there weren’t any there last night. Other than Radovan, who got thrown out because he couldn’t buy a drink – another brilliant Czech business strategy no doubt cooked up in a cocaine haze.

What boys there were in Temple, and there were quite a few last night, seemed intent on having a good time but not finding biznis. Last night featured several Strip Shows from Hell. Not because the boys involved were horrible – although I find two of them quite homely and they shave their crotches – but because the boys were roaring drunk and acting out. It was funny and kind of entertaining, in a Gong-Show burlesque kind of way, but not sexy. Thank fuck for lil’ gypsy Milan, or the place would have had no real energy at all. A casual observer might have concluded that the boys have essentially given up.

But the worst, the absolute worst Strip Show from Hell was when head honcho Joe pulled a bearish punter up on the table that serves as a stage and pulled off his shirt. He pulled off his own a few minutes later. Now, Joe’s got a nice body and I would’ve done the bear in a heartbeat. But I know I’m in a tiny, tiny minority of one on this, and besides, watching punters strip is really not why I go into boy bars. That spectacle is proof-positive that Joe is running Temple as a vanity project, and not as a serious attempt to rebuild the bar’s clientele, reputation and roster of boys.

I believe that’s when my companion said to me, “It’s over, isn’t it?”

My response was to leave and head off to meet Miro in the homeless/beggar/pickpocket bar. After a couple piv, and several ogles at the butch German suedehead at another table, I headed home to catch up on Twitter, FriendFeed. The Interwebs were full; my bed was empty.

Read Full Post »