Originally published on March 03, 2004.
After 15 months of whoring around Eastern Europe and not suffering from anything more severe than a cold, I think I finally caught some kind of STD. About five days ago several small, weird-looking blotches appeared on my neck and one oozed forth on the right side of my chin, expanding within a couple of days from the size of a mosquito bite into a scabby, slightly pussy mess about as big as a silver dollar. They all looked like abrasions or carpet burns and not at all what I would have expected from any STD with which I was familiar. Not having that much personal experience with sexually transmitted diseases (I’ve had crabs twice and chlamydia once, all three about the same time period that I was dancing to Culture Club). I did some web searches to determine what the fuck I’d contracted.
Before the diagnosis I should say first that I was worried mostly because the sores appeared shortly after a night of relative debauchery in a local bar/sex club. After being stood up by the young Slovakian guy I’ve been fucking around with (I’ve actually done more spanking than fucking but that’s another posting) I drank myself silly at my current favorite pub U Rudolfa, a low-rent Czech dive in Prague’s Centrum frequented by older guys with beer bellies and shaved heads, a smattering of rent boys – often the spillover from the train station, hlavní nádraží – as well as young studs looking for experienced dick but not selling themselves necessarily: With Czechs there’s not a clear line between the two, especially if they know you’re a foreigner.
At any rate, I feel comfortable there even though few people speak English. Nevertheless, communicating in my best Czechlish, I’ve managed to slowly cultivate some fun pub friendships and certainly all the bar staff know me well. This particular night I managed to close the bar, something I hadn’t done before, and as the rest of the bar staff was cleaning up one of the servers – a tall, thin, young and pixieish Czech boy who had been eyeing me not-so surreptitiously the past couple weeks – bent over to whisper an invitation in my ear: “Go for one more drink with us? Is sex club… Ok?” His normal smile is quite tiny: seeming only to affect the far corners of his lips and no other area of his face. Ok, I must have said, because a few minutes later I was stumbling up the stairs following the three bartenders out the door and into a cab bound for Zižkov, a very urban, traditionally working-class neighborhood in Prague known for its clubs and its gypsies.
The club (its name was either Fist or Fisk, I can’t actually recall: that’s how bad off I was) was small with only one bar and one bartender. On that night it was empty. You could enter other, back rooms from either side of the front bar and circle around, passing benches, televisions with looping porn, private cabins for sex, a wobbly, makeshift bondage cross in a cubby hole lit by ultraviolet light, a toilet with no doors and an open cubicle, etc., until you came around to the front again.
Shortly after arriving and taking my first sip of Krušovice, which I hadn’t really wanted but which appeared immediately upon our buzzed entry into the club, I took the little circuit, came back the other side and then backtracked. I was followed by a cute, chubby dude in glasses and a buzzcut who was stumbling even more than I was. He was sufficiently coordinated to use both hands to pull me into the backlit cubbyhole and indicate with droll hand gestures that he wanted a blow job. What the hell? I thought,
I’d had plenty of my Slovakian fuck buddy’s short ‘n’ slim so I got down on my knees hoping for a long, fat one for a change. This guy ended up having a somewhat short, fat dick with a pinched bit of foreskin that looked like the tied end of a balloon. He was already hard and began aggressively fucking my mouth before I was ready, making me choke (and, I was to discover later, creating an abrasion on the inside of my mouth). He tried to get even more aggressive by inexpertly slapping my head around a couple times, so I cut our little session short and just rolled my eyes and turned my head away when he tried to kiss me.
I went back to the bar and started chatting up a semi-sweet-chocolate-skinned, moderately buff, twenty-something in a muscle tee. [I found out years later that he had been on the Czech version of American Idol.] His English was good, and I seem to remember covering all the bases of job, education, origination, orientation. He kissed me on the lips and told me he had to take over for the current barman because the barman’s boyfriend had just come in and the couple needed to retire to the back for a quickie.
So, I resigned myself to watching porn in one of the back rooms. I took my dick out but couldn’t get hard. Then another one of U Rudolfa’s waiters (by this time I had lost track of the pixieish boy) walked by briskly shooting me a come-hither look. He was an older guy, about my age (43) I imagine, with a short mohawk and a closely-clipped goatee. I followed.
Somehow, on the way back there, I lost track of him, even in that small space, and when I located him, he was watching porn on one of the corner-mounted televisions in a room full of benches. I came up behind him and put my hand on his leg near his crotch and that’s all it took. He turned around quickly and laid into me with his whole body and face, and he did it so fast and he kissed me with so much gasping and non-verbal encouragement that it seemed like he’d been waiting for me to do something all night.
After a little heated and rough mutual grinding up against the wall he pulled me into a nearby cabin and dropped his pants and pulled mine down before I could get the door completely latched. Our movements kept bouncing the door open.
Finally, he reached around me and slammed it shut and slid the lock closed. Then he turned around and put his ass in my face. Now I love rimming but really, I was still looking for that big dick to fill my mouth up; but I went with it.
His hole was shaved, and I discovered as I reached around to fondle his balls, so was his crotch. This is an instant turn-off for me. It’s getting harder and harder to find gay men and rent boys in this country who don’t shave their privates just like women in straight porn. I hear all sorts of reasons ranging from hygiene (when a rent boy says that I figure he just got over a case of crabs) to “it makes my dick look bigger.”
What a loada crap.
What it does is make your crotch look like a plucked chicken or worse, a pre-pubescent boy’s. People complain of pubic hairs in their teeth but what’s worse to me is razor burn from someone’s pale, puffy, follicle-inflamed pubis.
Anyway, the lack of bush on this guy was preventing any eager growth spurts on my part; and the twelve pivos weren’t helping. Despite his enthusiastic moans, he wasn’t getting fully hard either. So, I worked on his ass like I thought a big bottom boy would like: sticking my tongue in and swirling, spitting on the pucker and then rubbing my stubbly cheeks and chin all around and in that hole. (Now you see the connection to the sores on my chin and neck.)
He seemed to particularly like that bit, rising up suddenly and then collapsing underneath me onto the vinyl covered bench. I could tell he wanted me to fuck him and normally that would not have been a problem; but my cock was not cooperating. After a few minutes of almost frantically trying to get each other up we both started chuckling and he said: “Is no problem. We are both bottoms and so…”
What?! Now what the fuck made him think that? Silly that I was insulted but I remembered two days before I had fucked George was in his late 20s when introduced to me by Daniel, my live-in Roma "boyfriend" whom I had during my first six months in... for an hour, pulling and pushing and turning him around on the bed for better positions like he was a blow-up doll, eventually, roughly, tossing his legs over my shoulders and sinking it in until George was in his late 20s when introduced to me by Daniel, my live-in Roma "boyfriend" whom I had during my first six months in... was hoarsely whispering “Sperma! sperma!” to make me stop. Ha!
I told my current partner that I had no trouble topping, it’s just it was usually with younger (and darker) men. He shrugged and laughed. “I sorry. I sorry. Ale I tought…I really like…this, you,” he tapped the tattoos on my forearm and shoulder; “This,” he rubbed my shaved head; “And…komplet!” he gestured with his hand from my top to my bottom and then squeezed my balls. Wow, that made me feel good, but yet bad that neither one of us could perform for the other despite our attraction.
So, we got dressed, sheepishly, the discomfort descending slowly but inevitably, and went back to the front bar where there was no one else for me. Such a slow night and I’d tried to make it with everyone that was still in the bar.
So that’s how I thought I might have caught something from the nice bartender at Rudolfa. The sores have gone away now (I’m writing this weeks later). Although the big one on my chin left a faint pinkish circular scar, the little ones on my neck never got bigger nor pussy and they did not leave any marks. Their appearance and, uh, behavior didn’t match anything I read or saw on WebMD. I can’t afford a 2000 Kc doctor visit and lab fees so I’m just going to cross my fingers and hope it was some allergic reaction.