Lost boys and bad behavior – Free version

Originally published on July 26, 2008

Last night was one of those nights at Rudolfa where the details of what had happened only became clear in the slow, turgid afternoon after a foggy morning.

I had a hard time believing what I saw and felt in my mind.

Did I really suck the big, beautiful brown dick of that average-looking gypsy guy with the awful mullet? In the toilet? Twice? And then go back out into the room and tongue Milan, the skinhead gypsy I’ve had a crush on for months? Did I really turn down the reciprocal blow job? What was wrong with me?

Did some desperate butch rent boy really suck my dick in the toilet and then beg me to get him biznis with my visiting American friend and blog reader? Did the boy really offer me free butt sex if I did? Did I really turn him down after it had all worked out just fine?

Had there really been two fights in the bar, initiated by the barman, and including slaps and kicks and threats of police visits, one of which I almost joined because the barman had earlier been yelling at my butch rent boy?

Did one barman really treat me like a tourist last night and did the other one make up for it by kissing me all night in apology and drunken obsequiousness? How fast did I drink the two free shots — of whiskey! — he gave me? Did I really drink whiskey, which I hate?

Did I, really and truly, flirt with the gorgeous girl with the pierced lip on the tram, to the point of asking where she worked, and to the point where she felt uncomfortable enough to move away? Did I really throw a rock at a passing police car, for no good reason other than I’d slept past my stop, and then run like hell when they screeched to a halt in the middle of the street to come back and get me?

Did I — no, fuck it, I know I did — but rather the question is: why did I pick up that homeless boy at the vaclavske namesti tram stop, take him home, and then not fuck him as I had planned, but rather fell asleep? I slept while he cleaned my entire apartment in a piko — I won’t say fueled or frenzy — but rather, a piko-inspired celebration, instead.

He was was the most plodding and yet ungrudging meth-head I’ve ever met in Prague.

So, yeah, after a couple cups of coffee and after shaking my head free of its haze, and after confirming that the boy was still cleaning, on his knees in the kitchen rubbing out stains on the linoleum, I admitted that the answer to all those questions above was yes.

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