Originally published on June 6, 2007.

Finally, the quantity and quality of attention and affection in the bedroom outweighs the phony violence and mock ridicule. In fact, Marek has become just as demanding (and giving) of my kisses, hugs, strokes, rubs, and caresses as he is of my blowing him or giving him my ass.

It’s also the only time he speaks to me like a normal person, expressing his doubts and asking me questions without being hampered by his public sense of self. Mr. Mafioso, as he calls himself.

Lately, he seems most worried by Ovidiu’s presence. Wants to know when he’s leaving or if Ovi and I have done biznis. I’ve assured him that Ovi’s going back to Romania in a few days and that he and I are just friends. We’ve never done biznis. I also reiterated that if Ovi were gypsy he, Marek, might have something to worry about; but my ethnic preference just hasn’t sunk into his mind yet.

Nevertheless, he would not be assuaged and I think his anxiety over Ovi caused the distance I’ve noticed the past couple days: a refusal to talk to me, prompted, I can only guess, by the amount of time I’ve spent with Ovi. We solved the problem in our by-now typical passive-aggressive manner. We both went to bed without speaking.

This is not normal. Marek is always talking. He hadn’t spoken directly to me for almost two days, except in derision. In bed, I asked him what was wrong. He would not specify, only saying, “Ty víš.

I told him no, I didn’t know why he was angry. He just repeated what he’d said and turned away, scooting as far away from me on the bed as he could.

Dobre!” I said. “Dobra noc!” Fine! Good night!

Dobra noc,” he responded sarcastically. I gathered my bedding dramatically and moved to a sofa in the living room, thinking that he wouldn’t let that last very long. He never had before.

But it took longer than normal for him to call me back into the room. I knew he wasn’t sleeping though.

Finally, after a twenty-minute doze.


Then: “Rick!”


“Hmmm,” I replied. Noncommittal.

“Come… COME!” he commanded gruffly.

Happy to be his bitch, I trotted back to the room and slipped in beside him. He had his eyes closed and his head was resting on one arm; but, he was turned toward my side of the bed and smiled when I kissed his forearm.

Co, skin? Huh?” he asked softly.

Nic…ale dík.” Nothing, but thank you.

“Proč?” Why?

Because you called me back. Because where I sleep appears to matter to you. Because I know now we’ll have sex, probably twice. And we did.

But he never told me why he was angry.

The person he has the most doubts about is still himself. Last night, after having a satisfying blow- and hand job he wanted to know if I thought it was normal for him, a heterosexual boy, and me, a gay man, to be “to-gethur.” (He’s been showing off his voiced English th quite a bit, something he mastered in one day.)

I asked him if he liked me. He said yes. I said well, I like you too, and if we both want to be together then it’s normal.

After a few seconds of thought he said, “Ale I no want.”

I didn’t respond, just continued to stroke his head. What could I say to that?

He has feelings, a lot them all jumbled together, and they are real. All of them. I can’t contradict them. He has to deal with them himself.

It may break us, it may not.

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