Introducing Radovan

Originally published on March 03, 2004.

Finally got an apartment! I sign the lease tomorrow so I’m not celebrating until then. Nevertheless, I had my first boy over, whom the rest of my friends here have dubbed Ambulance Boy. He’s the same shaved headed thang I procured for Paul and Marty on a previous night and since they made him cum three times, and I enjoyed hanging out with him too, I knew I was gonna have him as well.

I had told him the night before at Pinocchio’s that as soon as I got my own place, I would call him. He typed his number into my mobile (If you say “cell phone” over here they won’t know what you’re talking about.) and I told him I would call around two, after I had moved in.

But, first, a little background on Ambulance Boy, aka Radovan (a Serbian, not Czech name), who is, by no means, your typical rent boy.

There’s a new guest staying at Bob’s: Malcom from Vancouver. His eyes have been opened in Prague, as well, and he was sad today that he’s leaving. He told me a story about some beautiful kid who had been dancing around Pinocchio’s the night before, with his pants hangin’ off his bare ass, doing a strip tease.

When Malcom mentioned the strip tease, I knew it was Radovan, whom I’d met last week.

The boy had been drinking a trough-load of Absinthe (which is legal here; perhaps the only place left in the world where it is) and ended up on the floor of the bar, dead to the world. One of the waiters picked him up and deposited him on the sidewalk outside, to be picked up by the garbage men, I guess.

Bars don’t tolerate that shit here. His friends couldn’t wake him, and someone called an ambulance. The paramedics tried to revive him on the spot but had to respirate him because he had stopped breathing. They took him to the hospital, ran some tests, and eventually he woke up not knowing where he was.

Note, June 1, 2005: Radovan only recently told me the complete story of that night and I have a feeling there’s probably more he’s not telling me; but, the most relevant piece of new information was that it was Rene, Pinocchio’s manager, who cheerfully treated him to all that absinthe and it was Rene who had him deposited on the pavement outside of Pino’s and basically left for dead. Radovan survived only because one of his old friends, a kindly British expat whom Radovan calls Mr Scott, saw him lying on the sidewalk and persuaded another boy to call an ambulance. Personally, I think Rene is scum. I’ve seen him slap his employees in front of customers as well as pull a Bobby Knight and toss a chair at a waiter. Besides all that, he has an annoying non- verbal tic which sounds like he has bronchitis and is constantly trying to expunge the phlegm. (Too much cocaine, no doubt.) If Czechs weren’t so fucking passive someone would have killed him by now.

When I talked to Radovan at Pinocchio’s, he showed me the lab work the hospital gave him. It said he had had a blood-alcohol content of 3.28!!!! He had stopped breathing, had to be respirated, and was in a coma for 12 hours. And here he was bouncing around in front of me like a maniac less than 48 hours later. Before I knew what had happened to him, I had bought him a beer, but he only drank one, sensibly drinking juice for the rest of the night.

After all that, the sex the next day was less than inspiring; but then, I really wasn’t in the mood for it and never got fully hard except when he was sucking me. He’s got a long dick but not a thick one; but honestly, I didn’t care.

It was more fun just hanging out with him: listening to his stories and opinions and hearing about his life. He’s rakishly intelligent and always knows somewhere, someone, something better than anything you might praise or mention. His English is good, and he picks up colloquialisms fast. I taught him “Check this out” accidentally when showing him my “Jacuzzi” which, naturally, he poo-pooed as badly constructed. He repeated his opinion several times so it would sink in. God, he sounded sexy saying: “Czechdisoowt.” (He drove my buddy Camp Chris crazy but that’s probably because they’re both lovable know-it-alls.)

Today while I was shopping at IKEA (yes, they have one here and it’s easier to get to than
the one in Chicago) he called me; I could hear sanders or something in the background and he asked me if I wanted him to come over next week and get an estimate on fixing the plasterwork in my new apartment. Besides being a rent boy and a former child fashion model (he turned down a Benetton poster campaign because they wouldn’t let him eat KFC or drink beer) he’s also a renovator of old buildings and will be moving to Holland in December to work.

He spent the day with me and played the whole boyfriend-for-a-day thing up: insisting on holding hands with me down the street (a very uncommon sight here), giving me a hickey and grabbing my crotch at dinner in a pizzeria, walking me home afterwards. I’ve certainly spent more money for less attention on non-rent boys; but despite being a great kisser (with a pierced tongue) I’d really rather be his buddy than him be my lover. Beautiful body, though.

When I asked him how much (he didn’t mention money the whole day — which could be either a good sign or a bad one), he stated the price. I consented and then he said: “Crazy.” Exactly.

I didn’t get any sex pix of Radovan because we did so much playing around and wrestling and rough-housing. He needs to stop smoking so much though ‘cause he pooped out much too soon.

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