My new rent-boy flatmate either found a cheaper place or one better suited to his orientation, whatever that might turn out to be. I was going to ask him to leave anyway, since Vasile told me that he spent 4500 Kč on a night out for him and his new “friends” and yet postponed paying […]
At least that’s what I told him about ten minutes ago. In response to his taunting me with this: “Oh GB, don’t cry. Don’t cry.” Please don’t think I was going to, at least not in response to anything Marek could dish out. Not at this point. But, I was hurt and bewildered. He’d told
He didn’t like it. He liked the music at first, which featured Paul van Dyk and other music I only vaguely recognized, but once the DJ settled in and started playing crappy gay dance music, he concurred with my original assessment, what I’d told him before — that’s the ambiance is cheesy and mainly for
Kuba went down a list of punters at the station today and asked me what I thought of them. It seems he’s had a lot of offers. I didn’t have much bad to say about anyone. I did use the word crazy quite a bit, as in, “Good man, ale small crazy.” That applies to me as well, I’m
Vasile came into the flat about an hour ago while Kuba and I were having sex, the sort of sex we’ve been having where rough-housing — and I do mean rough — produces erections in both of us and then we take it from there. I’ve had a hard time lately getting him to slow down and
So I threw him out. Kuba had been behaving strangely yesterday, beginning with a small beer-drinking session we had with Vasile’s Irish girlfriend. She and Vasile had had a big fight the night before, and she wanted to talk to me about it. That whole mess is a post in itself. Maybe later. Kuba hadn’t
A primeira coisa que notei foi que a porta do meu quarto estava quebrada. Eu já havia chutado um terço dela durante um discurso violento contra Bryan, deixando-a em pedaços de madeira. Agora, o painel inteiro havia desaparecido, removido de forma limpa, como se fosse uma galinha. A abertura era grande o suficiente para uma pessoa pequena
I don’t expect him to come back. Kuba, that is. But if he does, I’ll be more or less happy about it. He told me he would, with earnest, wide-eyed apprehension on his face. “Sex, GB. No love…Biznis!” he’d said, trying to reassure me. He got recruited by the same German-Italian pimps who poached Vasile
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