Proof of dancing and other travesties

These photos were shot by our new buddy Mel, in Rudolfa and elsewhere.

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Proof that I Smile

New boots on Flickr – Photo Sharing!

Me, grinning like an idiot on Flickr – Photo Sharing!

Me and my door prize, Vasek on Flickr – Photo Sharing!

Me and Roman at Rudolfa on Flickr – Photo Sharing!

homo superior hoody on Flickr – Photo Sharing!

Oh ye doubters and nay-sayers! I smile, I smile!

But I sometimes have a hard time remembering to shave.

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Tags: homosuperior, Prague

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Why I don’t see Marek anymore

For new readers: If you need to catch up on what Marek means to me, check out the 81 posts labeled Marek in my old blog.

Amazing, my body’s reaction to seeing him. Autonomic and merciless, and because of that, damn scary. My stomach hollows out and the back of my throat feels full, like a fist shoved back there, or… But fuck him; it makes me angry and that, combined with embarrassment, makes as thick a shield as I can manage right now. I didn’t run after him when I saw him come up the stairs into the Kavarna last week with his dyke friend and thieving partner, Daša, but my heart still did flip-flops. Last night when he came, unexpectedly, into Rudolfa, I didn’t go to him. He didn’t see me, apparently, or Manchester Lee, although we were sitting at the front table. He stopped and did a double-take on those who were sitting across from us. He was looking for somebody, yet was typically unobservant, which probably meant he was high. He likes to smoke. I’ve walked past him before at the station, within a couple inches of him, his hand holding a joint, and he couldn’t see me until I had grabbed him by the shoulder.

I’d never seen him in Rudolfa before, on his own, without me, and no one’s ever reported back to me that they’ve seen him either. Last night he was with two gypsy friends whom I didn’t recognize, one of them quite cute. They sat in the back and took a table facing the hallway that separates the two rooms. What were they doing there? Looking for biznis? Rudolfa is a gay bar, and there are plenty of straight hospody to go to in the center of Prague. Rudolfa’s not known as a place to either sell or buy drugs. So…

Manchester Lee and I exchanged a glance and a few words.

“He blanked you?” he asked. “He looked right at me and…nothing.”

“I don’t think he noticed me either,” I said.

I had no urge or desire to talk to him, but I had that awful feeling in my gut. I went back to kissing Pavel.

Ten minutes later, I had to pee. From my table, I could see one of his friends but I couldn’t see Marek. As soon as I got up, however, I saw him. Right now, writing this, I have a clear memory of the spotlight in the back room lighting up his face. I didn’t look directly at him, so the image in my mind is blurry, but persisting. When you get to know someone well, you don’t have to see them clearly to read their body language. His face was tipped up and he was looking directly at me. He recognized me, I’m sure. Without any sort of acknowledgment that I knew he was there, I turned left into the corridor that leads to the women’s toilet, the same one where I’d sucked him off the last time we were in Rudolfa together.

Back in the front room, Pavel had been playing a bunch of sappy Czech music on the jukebox. When I returned, Pavel wanted to dance, as he usually does around the fifth or sixth beer. Showing off in front of Marek had not been on my mind and I didn’t want to be seen as a silly queen, trying to make the ex jealous. Pavel would not be dissuaded and pulled me up and out onto the empty floor. Then he and I did what we always do, which is kiss and hug and act retarded. He made me happy. I knew Marek could see us but that’s not why I did it. Whatever rise I might get out of him would just be a bonus.

Pavel and I danced to two songs and it was very easy not to look into the back room until we’d sat down again. That’s when I saw one of his friends get up, take his beer and move to another table out of the line of sight. So it had worked, and I didn’t have to scheme to make it happen. It felt good.

Not long after, I looked up to notice Marek’s two friends going out the door. Without Marek. I turned to look in the back room and didn’t see him. Had he left ahead of them? More stupid physical responses that I couldn’t control. Then I saw Manchester Lee pointing. I turned again and there was Marek, putting on his coat and primping in front of the mirror in the hallway. It’s always the last thing he does before he leaves anywhere, if there’s a refection of himself to regard. I began talking to Manchester Lee and then felt a slap on my back. Walking by on his way out the door, Marek said – right now I can’t remember what he said exactly – and then left, shooting a glance backwards, not at me, but towards the bar.

“Well, I guess that’s better than a ‘fuck you,'” Lee said.

I resisted the urge to follow him out and talk to him. I had been missing him, no question. But really what is the point? There’s a reason why I haven’t invited any boys into my little kitchenette-with-a-bed in Bryan‘s flat, and it’s not just because it’s too small. I have had it with stupid boys – stupid piko boys, especially. I’ve watched the messes they’ve made on Bryan’s side of the flat and I don’t miss dealing with them. Not at all. I’m relieved and pleased to be alone right now. If I invited Marek home with me, even for a night, it wouldn’t end there. He’d drag all the baggage that comes from being an addict and a thief in here with him. Not for me. Not anymore.

---

So that’s why I don’t see Marek. But why the big effort made to avoid talking to him? Because, in short, the last time we hung out together he proved to me that we cannot simply be mates. He’s always on the make, always jonesin’. About a month ago, I took him out, with some new rent boy from Monty’s, to the reggae bar to buy some marijuana and get high. After we’d smoked up and he jokingly came on to the new boy, telling him he wanted to be boyfriends – in English, for my benefit – he tried to steal my weed, and pretended to be only joking when I asked him to produce it from his pocket. He said he’d give it to me outside, but I said, no, give it to me now. This had been the second time he’d pulled something like that. The first time had been a couple months back when Craig had been visiting. I hadn’t noticed the missing weed until later. This time I had been paying better attention.The stupid thing is, I would have given it to him if he had just asked. I don’t really like to get high. I do it because the boys like it. But it’s just in Marek’s nature to steal, rather than ask, even from someone who is supposed to be his friend, and who would give him almost whatever he wanted.

Much more happened that night, but really they are unnecessary nails, and I could tell the story if I had the heart for it. It might even be more interesting than the one I just wrote, certainly it would present even more decisive evidence that he’s no good for me. It would definitely be less, I dunno, feminine? I’ll leave it for later. For the next time I see him and my gut roils, and I need to remind myself again what he’s really like.

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Tags: gypsies, Prague, hlavní nádraží, Rudolfa, Marek

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Light or Dark?

I used to wonder why I luck out when I meet blog readers. When I first started getting e-mails introducing the idea of face-to-face meetings with readers who were coming to Prague, I was both surprised and apprehensive. Surprised because it had never occurred to me that anyone would want to meet me, especially since I don’t think I always put myself in the best light; and also because of the possible smell. A reader once told me that the way I had described myself while homeless scared him but that he had been pleased that I looked, and smelled, relatively normal. Heh heh. I was apprehensive because this scene is full of assholes, creeps and weirdos whom I would not piss on if they were on fire. I mean that in the kindest way, of course.

Yet my experience with blog readers has been amazing. I have yet to meet any assholes or creeps but instead have developed long-term associations with a number of readers who have also been tireless, generous supporters and boosters. Then there are the readers who become real friends. Like Craig, who’s responsible for my having this new site and domain. As someone who has spent a great deal of time with clients who drove me nuts or whom I wanted to slap or tell to shut up, it’s a great relief when I meet real people and can relax, be myself and have a good time. When not every fucking thing is about boys.

Where’s the boys, Rick? Don’t you have any new boys, Rick? How’s the station now, Rick? Sometimes I regret ever writing about being able to find boys. It’s depressing not because the sex biznis seems unsavory to me – it doesn’t – but rather it’s the pathetic single-mindedness of some of the men I meet – the ones who don’t read the blog, but have been told by those who do that I can help them find boys – that makes me wish I’d never gotten into this biznis, however much my survival depended on it in the past.

I look forward to Craig’s visits because I know that I can talk about anything, from politics to food to economics and yes, boys will be talked about, but it’s not the only reason he’s here. We’ll probably go the movies once or twice, eat good meals, watch futbal and/or football, and drink a hell of a lot of beer. I also appreciate his honesty. He tells me what he thinks no matter what. I have a better sense of how I come across in the real world because of him. He grounds me in a way I didn’t anticipate when I first met him. And like most of my readers, he’s incredibly generous and kind, and in a completely self-deprecating manner. There’s definitely a style of generosity that can make the recipient feel like shit. That’s not Craig.

I won’t say I’ve met another Craig, because that’s not possible, but I will say that I’ve met Mel. Another reader who doesn’t mind if I use his real first name. In fact, Mel went so far as to say, “You’d better write about me, bitch!” That’s when it dawned on me. The blog acts as a filter. That’s why I’ve lucked out. If someone reads the blog regularly and goes so far as to contact me, then they probably know already what they’re in for, or are at least prepared for it. The guys who become friends and buddies take it further: They’d like to invite some of that adventure, my adventure, into their lives. Some of them don’t even know that until something interesting happens. Regardless, brave lads.

With Mel, there wasn’t that much adventure – although Pavel did get slapped by a barman at Rudolfa because Pavel grabbed his ass; everyone got over it – just a lot of drinking, partying and hanging out with Pavel. After Mel’s first night with Pavel, he SMSed me: I’m throwing every other number away! That’s my boy. Mel took only Pavel while he was here, saying that he could play around, and thought maybe he should, but why not take a sure thing? Especially when the sure thing is Pavel.

One thing Mel told me has stuck with me. He asked, “Why do you portray yourself as so dark on the blog? You’re not dark.”

I thought about it and then said, “I do?”

“I would have never have known you were like this, if I hadn’t met you,” he said.

So there goes my theory, or at least the part of it that’s about me.

He went on: “Even your pictures…you’re not smiling. You smile a lot.”

I guess I don’t really like photos of my smiling, although there are a few, but I never really thought about how I might be presenting myself, at least in photographs, in a way that wasn’t entirely truthful. Defensive angst which remnant expresses itself only as self-conscious style? Still, I told him, when I go out, I go out to have a good time, and that’s all. What’s the point of going out if you’re not going to have a good time? In the past, in my twenties, I didn’t understand that. I would almost always go out looking to get laid, or find a boyfriend. It made me miserable and not much fun. In my thirties, I tamed that urge by forcing myself to stick to the rule: If you’re bored or depressed, go home, the instant you feel it. I did find boyfriends, but never going out to bars. Here in Prague, if I want a little somepin’ somepin’ I just find a rent boy, or now, I call Pavel. But usually I just want to have fun. Whatever else comes along is just a bonus.

So, I’m not dark, huh? But I’ll have to take issue with anyone who calls me “light.”

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Tags: Prague life, blog readers

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