Originally published on June 6, 2007.
Minutes after Ovi left for “work” at Pinocchio Prague was my favorite of the mainstream rent-boy clubs in Prague, which really isn't saying much since I could only rarely afford the prices... last night (his quotes, not mine), I got a phone call from him telling me that Marek was coming up the street, our street. Something or someone is bringing him to my neighborhood. It’s the second time I’ve seen him nearby in just a couple of days.
I admit I felt a microsecond of foolish hope that he was coming to see me. A microsecond.
(Damn hope! You just can’t kill it. It’s like in Pet Sematary; you bury it but it keeps coming back up the hill, decomposing, dripping in blood and lusting to kill you.)
But just when I turned in my chair to look out the window, he walked by. Only someone who knows his pace, his silhouette as well as I do would have noticed it was him.
I got up and went to the window. I didn’t rush. I leaned out and looked down the street. It was him all right, loping his typical lope, which makes him look bigger than he actually is. Must be why he does it.
I whistled and he turned. Stopped and looked back. Maybe he was 10 meters away.
Raising both arms and dropping them, eased back on one heel and beginning to pivot, he said, “Co?” in a tone that said “What do you want?” Not quite the inflection required for a “What the fuck do you want?” but close.
I didn’t respond just kept my bald head out the window turned towards him, cigarette in one hand, the other gripping the sill. I’d made a first move and couldn’t think of what to do next. My flat is full of boys that either don’t want to see him or want to kick his ass.
But that’s not the real reason I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.
He stood there looking at me for a couple seconds, waffling. I had the stupid notion that he didn’t recognize me, just a white head with glasses in the dusk. Then he spun slowly and resumed his walk. A couple seconds later he turned and looked at me again, ducking his head around in that thuggy way of his. A couple seconds later he did it again. I never moved my head or said anything or whistled again.
He didn’t slow his pace. He crossed the street and moved out of frame.
As Bryan was an American expatriate and English teacher who became a blogger (The Homersexual) after he read mine. After getting stabbed in Moscow by two... said later, it’s a start?