Marek came back; or the Night of 100+ Kisses

Originally published on June 6, 2007.

Or rather, I brought him back.

[I’ve already used the above headline for another post. I wonder how many times I’ll use it before the drama wears me out.]

I found him wandering outside the station with a big bottle of water in his hand. He’d spotted me before I saw him because he was in full thug-boy mode: cap pulled down over his face, impassive and unsmiling, but fully aware I was there. Not the smiling, jocular boy I fell for.

I am a station boy and I have no problems with that.I said, ciao, and he stopped and replied in kind.

Kam deš?” he asked me. Where are you going?

RudolfamoznaNe vim.” I didn’t know where I was going at the time. Just wandering hoping to run into him.

Taky ne vim.

We stood there looking at one another until finally I asked him if he wanted to talk. He looked down, looked up, looked around.

Ty a ja konec?” I asked him. Are you and I finished?
Tak ne vim,” he answered. He didn’t know how what he felt about us. He added: “Včera ja mam nervy.”

I told him I knew that he had been upset yesterday.

“You go Fantovka?” he asked in mostly English.

“Yeah.”

Pět minuty ja taky Fantovka.

“Ok.” I hadn’t planned on going to the Kavarna, but for him, I would.

He wandered off then and I just stood there continuing to smoke my cigarette. He looked back twice to see what I was doing.

He eventually came to the Kavarna, about twenty minutes later, by which time I had been joined by Breederboy, Station-Daniel, George, and Denisa. Not a great situation for hashing relationships out.

Everyone except BB eventually wandered away and I still didn’t know what to do. He had made several trips to visit his friends on the other side of the Kavarna but came back each time. He never shed thug-boy mode. I went to the toilet once while he was chatting with friends and remained equally disinterested in where he was. (I caught shit from him later for doing that: He had thought I’d left. How can we have so little trust?)

I didn’t want to force him to return to my flat, but I did want him to know that I wanted him. I didn’t have to push the issue. After everyone except Steve had left he asked, “Go byt?” Go home?

“Yeah, yeah,” I answered, as smoothly as I thought his masculine ego would allow.

That’s the introduction.

The rest of the background is this: His jacket was missing. His mobile phone that I bought for him two days previous was also gone. He said that he had cat-napped in the station and had them stolen. I asked Station-Daniel if he had seen Marek that morning and he said he’d seen him early, around 6 am, in the Kavarna, sleeping.

So if he did go with that asshole from Rudolfa then the guy had kicked him out early. Several times during the night Marek claimed he’d just wandered around near the two stations all night, only trying to sleep in the station when it re-opened again at 3:30. I have no way of confirming the truth of any of this, but I realize that I probably jumped to conclusions about where he was and what his motivations were. But honestly I’ll never know.

One thing I will say is that it quickly became apparent he was tweaking seriously on amphetamines. I had seen him, before he came and sat with us, smoking in the corridor near the second-hand store. I have heard, although it makes no sense to me, that marijuana is sometimes laced with piko in the Czech Republic.

Marek became animated in the apartment and began talking non-stop. I asked him what he had taken and he just said he’d smoked a joint. Marijuana can certainly turn some people into chatty Kathys but it doesn’t keep you up all night or make you hyper-horny.

But that’s what happened with Marek.

A few weeks ago when we were first separated he had displayed the same behavior and also denied it. All because of spending a few hours at the station.

This night he seemed anxious to get to the bedroom, telling me, “Come, come, sleep, Riki.”

He had no intention, not to mention ability, of sleeping. Initially he just stripped, pulled me down in the bed and wrapped his limbs around me, squeezing me roughly. And he basically never let go and would not let me go to sleep from 10 in the evening until 10 the next morning.

He pulled me back whenever I tried to go to the toilet or get a drink from the beer at the side of the bed. “Where go? Come. I want fuck you.”

I couldn’t keep up with him. He kissed me hundreds of times — hundreds! — and he had a constant hard-on, although he never came — all typical of amphetamine-fueled sex sessions — but he also wanted to read me up and down for what he considered my inappropriate behavior the last few weeks. He thought that every time I went to the station I was there looking for boys. He didn’t believe me when I said I was only meeting friends or that Camp Chris was bringing me a book. Or if I was looking for boys it was finding them for someone else.

“You looking biznis boys. Ja vim.

I said no, but he wasn’t having it. He told me he was very angry with me for kissing Albi and going off with him alone.

Ja mam nervy včera” he said again. “Moc, moc.” I was very upset yesterday. Very, very.

He didn’t believe me when I said that Albi and I hadn’t had sex. He also remembered an incident early in our relationship, while we were still sleeping in the park. I had taken Arssi to the toilets in Rudolfa for a quickie. In front of Marek. (I am a slut. A terrible irredeemable slut.)

This night he remonstrated: “I thinking me go back toilets, no Arssi.”

(I should add here that he tried to speak as much English as he could, which surprised me because although he was always asking after the English words for things, he rarely tried to use them in sentences. That night he consistently attempted only English conversations, alternating sometimes with streams of Slovak that sounded like gibberish at the speed with which he was delivering them. I was tired out by the strained communication even more than from the physical demands of the evening.)

Also, I came three times and afterwards he would not leave my dick alone. Such an awful fate.

Other shit I remember: He wanted to know if I loved him. I told him I did.

About 3 hours into the night he told me he loved me, too. But that he wanted to fuck girls sometimes. (He was fucking me at the time. My asshole is sore, really sore, once again.) I had told him earlier on that if he wanted to fuck girls, I understood but that he just had to tell me. If we were together then I wanted to know where he was and when he was coming home. I did not want him to sleep with girls.

He said no problem but, please, Rick, I want fuck girls. Ok, Marek, ok.

I still don’t know if that was a real desire or a real desire he was testing me with. Because: He left at 10 am and asked me when I wanted him to come back. I said, how about 5. He said ok, but I look at you and I see you don’t believe me. “Ty maš moc nervy,” he asserted and laughed. “Proč?”

It was true I was nervous about it but figured what can I do? I stop him from fucking girls and he’s resentful. I don’t stop him and he thinks I’m not taking our relationship seriously. Was this another test I was sure to fail no matter what I did? He left, without asking me for money, and not before several dozen kisses.

But.

He didn’t come back at 5, not at 6 and not at 7. If he came back later than that I wasn’t in the apartment to know it and I only saw him today in the station after BB and I made a quick circuit before checking out the New Year’s Eve festivities taking place all around Prague.

I don’t know if he saw me. He was sitting with the druggie lesbians. Thugged out and looking beautiful, with every unconscious movement of his head, back, shoulders, and hands telling me how little he cared where I was.

I remember one other snippet of conversation very clearly from that night. Whenever I would drift off after a bout of rutting, I would open my eyes to find him watching me. I looked back and he kissed me. He asked me once why I didn’t look at him when we kissed or when he fucked me. He used what I guessed was the Slovak word for “open” which is a little easier to say than the Czech one. I didn’t understand at first. He tried Czechlish.
Proč cloz-ed?” he asked and pointed with a peace-sign at his eyes, but meaning mine.

I guess, I am. I am afraid as he is, sometimes.

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