First look at Marek

Originally published on June 6, 2007.

I’ve made my second proposal to a boy in 3 days. (You might remember I asked Arssi the other day.)

My friend Manchester Lee says I’ve always been looking for love, but that hasn’t felt true to me until recently. Before someone calls me a fool, I should say that I know that if you’re looking for love at the station, or among rent boys in general, you’re in for some serious disillusionment, pain, and probably some missing material possessions.

If you’re lucky, though, you can find companionship and affection and hopefully, eventually, loyalty. At least I still believe that. It’s rare but it happens. I’m not making any predictions. I’m not.

Drinking and charging my phone in the station kavarna with Arssi and a Brit reader of this blog, a new boy bounded up and started chatting with Arssi. He was young. Gypsy. A kitschy Czech Republic ball cap on his head, and white trainers on his feet, he almost looked like a tourist.

My eyes widened the more I looked at him and of course Arssi noticed my interest. He gestured with his head and raised his eyebrows, asking me if I wanted him. My friend and blog reader asked me why I hadn’t noticed him before, that he’d been in the station all week. Why hadn’t Arssi introduced me before now?

I was shocked. As the local Romany aficionado/booster/connoisseur I expect to be informed whenever a new gypsy boy shows up in the neighborhood, especially if he’s doing biznis. This boy was, and, according to Arssicomplete biznis.

“No problem suck, no problem fuck.”

The boy, whose name was Marek, was listening and watching all this, and at the words “suck” and “fuck” he smiled and gave a small nod, and then looked at me, stroking his chin, considering.

He was nice-looking before he smiled;  but when he smiled, he became irresistible. I felt myself teetering, my resolve weakening to end the week with money in my wallet. Looking back on any week I always notice that if I hadn’t taken a boy I would’ve budgeted what money I have just fine. But if I want to have sex, I go broke before 7 days are up.

But this is what I’m here for, isn’t it?

Marek was sitting next to Arssi and so Arssi asked him to sit next to me. He got up immediately and came over on the other side of the table. He had a jocular straight-boy manner about him, in the way he moved, in the way he was constantly adjusting his cap.

I talked with him for a bit, partially in Czech, but he couldn’t speak much English so Arssi had to help. He was 19, quite young for me to be attracted to him, and half Slovak and half Romanian, which I had already suspected. The English he spoke was clear and free of the sort of heavy Slavic accent that Czechs (and Slovaks, though somewhat less so) have and that often makes their English difficult to understand. Not as bad as Russians sound, though.

Marek was quite personable and not pushy for biznis; in fact, all the pressure came from Arssi. Arssi had to convince him that it was okay for him to accept a drink from me, again a humbleness characteristic of Romanians, not Czechs. Still, he claimed to be from Košice, one of Slovakia’s bigger cities, in the northeast of the country. Full of gypsies.

Although he became even more appealing the more I talked to him and especially later, watching him bopping and whisper-singing along to his radio, I decided that I just couldn’t afford it. Arssi said Marek would go for 500, but I feel guilty if I don’t at least pay 1000. Plus, there’s the question of where.

I liked the look of this boy enough that I would have preferred to go somewhere to relax, such as a sauna. Ultimately, far too expensive, no matter how cheap I tried to make it. My reader offered to let me use his flat to have sex with Marek and this almost made me cave.

Still, I told Arssi no, and he said they would then go to Villa Mansland to look for biznis. Marek said goodbye, shook my hand and left with Arssi.

Then I was sad.

My reader said I made the right decision. I wasn’t so sure. All I really did was postpone the decision: I’d asked Arssi when he would be coming back and told him that I might eventually take Marek. He said around 9 or 10. That seemed too long to wait, but I said OK.

Turns out I didn’t wait because as soon as Arssi and Marek left, I suggested to my reader that we trek out to Villa and check out who was there. There were bound to be plenty of boys since on Fridays Harry offers free dinner for them. The number of clients, on the other hand, is inconsistent.

Of course, the real reason I wanted to go was Marek. My reader eventually agreed and let me shave, shower and change clothes in his rented flat. With my new Levi’s on and a clean face and unsmelly crotch, I felt ready to fuck Marek, without causing him to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

Everyone complains about how far out Villa Mansland is but I can’t really see the big deal. It’s only 5 stops on Metro C from the main railway station and then a short, easy walk from there. It’s easier, maybe faster, and certainly cheaper, than taking a taxi.

After getting buzzed in we quickly realized that it was full — full of both older men and young men — and eventually every seat on every chair and every bench was taken. There were two tables of tourists, one group German, the other British and American. As many have said, the boy contingent could be kindly described as Pinocchio’s graduation class; not so kindly, as that club’s rejects and cast-offs. My old friend Skinhead-Daniel is always there, and so was Station-Daniel, with a client.

For anyone wanting a change from the loud boybars I recommend Villa Mansland. It’s a relaxed atmosphere, especially if you go with friends, and after dinner on Fridays, you can also play bingo — yes, bingo — for prizes. I had a good time despite the cool meal and poor service, and I think so did my friend.

I got an SMS from Breederboy at one point during the evening and he suggested that we meet him at Pinocchio. He was leery of going in to his former place of employment without a friendly escort so he agreed to wait for us outside. Earlier in the evening, I had already decided to take Marek.

Budget be damned; I could always pawn my camera. The problem was that at some point during the meal and the after-dinner drinks I lost my interest, not because I found him less attractive — in fact, once he agreed to take off the four layers of clothing he was wearing, I could see he had a very nice body — but because he wouldn’t kiss me.

As most readers know, this is a deal-breaker for me. I understand being shy in front of people but he told me that he wouldn’t kiss at all. Or if he did then I could not fuck him. Now where have I heard this one before? We’d been having a good time, play-fighting — he’s quite strong — and kidding around.

I had my arm around him but when I leaned in for a discrete kiss he turned away. I immediately withdrew my arm. The boy is free to set limits, but I am free to refuse biznis if I’m not going to get what I want. I don’t go with boys who don’t kiss. Usually I don’t go with boys that don’t drink either, but I was willing to make an exception for this boy.

I said goodbye to Marek, who looked confused. I shook hands with a couple other boys and I and my reader left for Pinocchio. The problem was we had waited too late to make for the Metro and missed the last train back to the city. We had to take the night tram.

Back at the tram stop from the Metro we found Marek waiting there. He smiled big and hugged me. There, in that brief second, I lost my resolve. I could do without the kissing; I badly wanted this boy.

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