Originally published on June 6, 2007.
While I was posting the last couple of flickr photos Marek again wanted to know what I liked about him, why everyone was always telling him he was hesky (handsome).
Compared to the flickr men I’ve been posting, he said, he was not so hot. He took off his shirt to show me. (We’re crashing at Breederboy‘s attic pad again tonight.) Of course, it’s normal for young men who don’t like their bodies to take their shirts off so you can inspect their “flaws.”
He flexed a little and lifted his arms over his head. I got hard, of course. As he no doubt intended, I left the computer and got on top of him, grabbed his wrists and held them over his head.
I told him I liked his pits. Sniffed them, kissed his biceps repeatedly. He grinned the whole time and flexed some more. He asked me if his pits smelled bad. I said no, that he smelled good all over.
We traded gut punches while Breederboy was Steve King, a British sexpat who moved to Prague after being inspired by my blog. For some time, he was my number-one advocate,... looked on shaking his head and chuckling. Marek’s tummy is not so hard. He thought I couldn’t take his punches but I did. He begged for mercy after a few of mine.
I love this play we have, it’s like returning to my youth’s most pervid moments with male friends — a circle of us giggling in our underwear playing rock/paper/scissors, with the losers getting slapped hard across the wrist over and over — but with the implied possibility of punishing sex resolving explicitly. He’s opening up his body to me and it’s hot, and it moves me.