Sick of myself

Originally published on June 6, 2007.

For the first time ever, I think I’m annoyed with myself for having paid for sex.

I know why I did it. First, I’m flush with cash for the first time in many months thanks to my buddy Craig whom I escorted around Prague and who rented my room for a week.

Secondly, my attempt failed to snag Laďa, the short, dark, and buff 36-year-old stud who frequents U Rudolfa even though he admitted without prompting that I was his “tip” (type), even after we exchanged a few playful, erotically charged punches and even after he sat leaning into my crotch with my arms around him, the fingers of our hands laced like boyfriends.

Thirdly, the last two times I’ve tried to have normal gratis sex with cute gay boys, I’ve been unable to get a full erection despite, during one session, two guys working on me at the same time.  I know it has something to do with the amount of alcohol I’d consumed on both occasions and because on both occasions the guys were white, although half of the duo I dallied with was at least a little Roma.

Still, I’m beginning to suspect — oh fuck it I won’t be coy — I know it has a lot to do with the nature of the transaction itself: Money makes the emotional potentiality of sex much easier for me to handle. Although I do become fond of and attached to certain rent boys, I simply do not experience the crippling, obsessive devotion that destroyed too many of my friendships back in the States.

Plus, there’s no uncertainty in my relationships with biznis boys: I know exactly what they want from me. There’s no ambiguity whatsoever. Any affection and friendship that develops is a pure bonus and doesn’t carry with it any sense of obligation. (I’m setting my unique friendship with George temporarily and conveniently aside for the moment.) That lack of obligation has liberated my psyche, and my dick, too. 

And yet I was disappointed in this boy I took home from Pinocchio. I had no trouble getting it up and got a nice hand job out of it that ended with a blubbering, almost embarrassing orgasm on my part. He had an okay time, I guess, although he remained a bit cold afterward and during the next morning when we went for breakfast. Also, he’d looked a lot cuter in the dark of Pinocchio. (He’d looked Roma but claimed he was not, even while admitting being frequently harassed by skinheads in his hometown of Ostrava, an industrial city in the Northeast of the Czech Republic, called “the black city” in Milan Kundera’s The Joke. (##CommissionsEarned) Plus he had the quite-hairy crotch and testosterone-induced thinning hair of many Roma men I’ve known and seen), And yes, he was adorable when his pug nose and long lashes were all that was showing above the blanket while I watched him sleep. Still, I’m guessing my dissatisfaction had more to do with the fact that he was gay.

Invariably, I have better sex with bisexual and heterosexual biznis boys. Part of it has to do with the non-exotic nature, for me, of gay biznis boys. I mean, why pay for something I can get for free, if with more trouble and time? Gay biznis boys also tend to be more arrogant and judgmental, in my experience. It’s not hard to detect their disgust with my hairy beer belly and smallish cock. Whereas, to a straight boy your appearance is pretty much irrelevant. If they find they can perform sexually with you and if you can produce a big red angry erection out of their pussy-fucking penises, then there’s a feeling of pride on their part and a complimentary yet almost contradictory feeling of conquest on mine. Their sexual responses have been reduced (I might say, expanded, in this context, however) to something pure and animal, unmitigated by the erotic norms enforced by either gay or straight sexual culture.

So you get the straight boy who can’t get hard with me while kissing or when I’m sucking him but suddenly stands straight up when we 69; or the bi boy who comes twice on the sheets underneath him while I fuck him senseless, eyes rolled up into his head; or the straight boy who loves to kiss and while he’s sucking my dick is jackin’ his own precum all over his hand and yet I see him at the disco the next week with two girls on his arm. 

The list could go on.

Every uninhibited act or encounter with a het or bi biznis boy has the possibility of surprise and mystery. In general, I find perpetually attractive the narratives of these boys trying to come to terms with what is, I feel, a unique sexual identity.

On the other hand, I already know the stories and identities of gay boys (unfortunately, the bulk of Czech gay men seem to be following the Western pattern of body fascism and snobbery) and I just don’t want to hear them anymore.  And so even though I’d went over budget and paid this gay Ostrava boy 1500 Kc (around 62 dollars) I had such left-over horniness the next afternoon that when straight (I dunno, maybe bi) Gypsy biznis boy Martín from the train station came over, invited by George for dinner, I gladly succumbed to his big, flirty smiles, made out with him on the couch in front of George and his girlfriend and then took him upstairs to fuck his tight hairy brown hole in George’s bedroom. (No doubt this had been George’s plan.) (Denisa’s beautiful two-year-old baby was asleep, pacifier in her mouth, in my own bed. Downstairs! I add.

Two orgasms, butt-fucking, hot frottage, and a good round of kissing later, I really felt like I got more than my money’s worth (500 Kc or around 23 bucks).  The “pro” biznis boy, Daniel, got the better deal with our encounter: In addition to paying for sex, I also paid his tab at Pinocchio, he got a free place to crash for a night and breakfast the next day.

For some men paying for everything makes them feel powerful. I just feel ripped off.

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

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