Low-rent sex

Originally published on August 28, 2006.

My belly-hair is cum-crusted. My dick is red and chafed. But I had a place to sleep last night and an end to a long-time flirtation with a Rudolfa guy — not a boy, a man — who has been chasing me for several months.

He has often licked his lips and grinned at me from across the bar, and rubbed my shoulders or brushed my neck with his fingertips on his way to the toilet. He’s not femme-flirty either. Somehow his craggy, creased face, broad Cheshire grin, and short, chunky, hairy body rendered those cliched gay courting gestures as completely butch.

My body reacts to him without my head thinking about it at all.

A couple weeks ago, he and I were sitting next to each other across from Manchester Lee. When I began responding to this butch man’s arm and knee-rubs by turning my head to kiss him, Lee looked visibly disgusted.

Defensively, I said, “I’m really turned on by this guy.”

“Why?” Lee leaned forward with wide eyes to emphasize the rhetorical nature of his question.

But I don’t ask why. My dick speaks and I go with it.

This particular night I was in Rudolfa alone and bored. Didn’t feel like wasting money on my typical REM/Nirvana/Johnny Cash jukebox playlist. Didn’t really feel much like drinking either. I always feel uncomfortable in Rudolfa if I’m in there alone with my back to the door. I prefer sitting on a bench near the wall or anywhere I can see most of the room without turning to one side or the other.

The craggy-faced man was sitting across from me doing his lip-licking routine and so he was impossible to ignore. We chatted a bit in Czech, rolling our eyes and making fun of the loud belligerent Norwegian guy who was getting cussed out on the other side of the room. The grin never left his face and eventually he expanded his seduction schtick to include the combination hand gesture/mouth bulge indicating that if I came with him, he would blow me all night long.

I had been hoping Pavel and Patrick would show up but they were already an hour late and this guy seemed like my best bet for entertainment. I nodded my agreement but it wasn’t until we got outside that I realized he expected me to split the cab fare with him, which was only fair. I just didn’t realize half the fare would be 150 Kč! Turns out our destination was čokovice, about a half-hour cab ride away from the center.

I gave the guy — I never did ask his name — all the change I had in my pocket, except for 30 Kč to claim my backpack the next day, and he flagged down a cab.

All the way to our destination, Craggy Guy joked and jostled with the old cab driver, punching his shoulder lightly and teasing him about not knowing where we were going, keeping the driver chuckling and guffawing. Every few minutes he reached back and rubbed my head or my knee. It was a relaxing ride and when we finally reached Craggy Guy’s ubytovna, I was actually ready to continue drinking.

Next to the guy’s hostel was a typical Czech working men’s hospoda where CG bought me a couple of beers. One of his friends bought a round of vodka shots. I met a bunch of friendly guys, about half of whom were Romany or Gypsy. In fact, looking around the pub while CG was in the toilet, I noticed that about one-third of the other patrons were gypsy, probably Slovakian, as most guests in ubytovny on the outskirts of Prague are foreigners working construction or in low-paying factory jobs.

For about half of these dark, butch beauties I would have had a [temporary] sex change. This was, in fact, the first time in a Prague hospoda I’d ever seen such a racial mixture. Although most nationalities were keeping to their separate tables — except for the buxom blonde Czech girl sitting on a similarly stacked young gypsy man’s lap — neither was there any tension or rigid segregation. A young Ukrainian boy kept aggressively eyeing me from his corner of the room. I almost hoped CG wouldn’t come back. But he did and we headed off for his room.

No one was working reception and we slipped right through the unlocked front door and up a couple flights of dimly, fluorescently lit stairs. Most ubytovny can be generously described as spare. They are usually painted hospital-white, the walls liberally water-spotted, and smell like a combination of mildew, sweat, and cigarette smoke. They are appointed with the hardest possible pallets as beds and the shakiest tables and wardrobes — no hangers — and would never be mistaken for one of the upscale hostels in the city’s center designed for the sons and daughters of rich Western Europeans.

And I came here to have sex with a drunk, sexy-ugly Slovakian ex-boxer who speaks no English.

Sometimes I love my life.

Well, I was going to detail the sex itself with its 5 orgasms between the two of us (I’ll leave you to imagine who got the extra one), its rough, lube-less butt-fucking, its wrestling and frot, interspersed with gut punches and neck and pec biting and its frantic, fast blow-jobs, all ending in grateful cum-guzzling…

Huh, I just did detail it, albeit in a sentence fragment.

The only thing I left out was that it was a shared room which Craggy Guy locked after we got down to it. His roommates, at least two of them, pounded on the door to get in periodically as we were fucking. That worried me and I kept feeling bursts of guilt in between lunges of lust.

All told, a fun and interesting time. I don’t think he’s really boyfriend material — too needy — but I hope to fuck him again sometime soon.

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