It’s been years since someone has ejaculated while sucking me, not since I had a proper boyfriend in Chicago — that one also liked to be slapped lightly in the face while doing it, his nips tortured as well, mouth blubbering out spit and gasping as he sucked. Such a crazy, pervy boy.

Nice enough to find a rent boy who stays hard while sucking, a boy like Kuba or like gypsy Petr, so that a 69 position was possible. But no, this boy, new Slovak boy Petr, stayed on his knees in front of me, in the cabins in Valentino last weekend, kissing and rubbing his face into my crotch, mumbling fuck-knows-what in an alluring and urgent voice, and had jacked himself into a frenzy while going down on me. I’d suspected he might be gay earlier in the night, because he took to deep-kissing me so willingly, after first confirming that we were in fact, in a gay bar, and because every time I stuck my hand down his pants and stroked, he got hard. But it wasn’t until I bent down with a tissue and wiped a few drops of cum off the steel toes of my big black boots, that I knew for sure.

Even more remarkable considering that I never got more than half-hard, suffering as I still am, missing Prague’s Best Cock and Best Pubes. Maybe Petr’s mumblings had been encouragement for me, I don’t know. After I’d pulled him upright and sat him on the vinyl bench to clean his dick off with my tongue, I’d apologized for my pitiful erection. He’d said, “Ne vad’í,” but had asked me if he was perhaps, no good, and maybe I wasn’t attracted to him.

It wasn’t that. I’d had a good time kissing him and sucking him off. He had a fat, short cock with a tight, sensitive, splotchy foreskin and while I was slobbering all over it, I’d lost myself. Nothing wrong with his own technique either. I wouldn’t have gotten up at all if he hadn’t worked so hard at it. Also, earlier in the night I’d realized whom he looked like: British actor Jamie Bell. Petr had grabbed a white hat off the head of an ultra-friendly, pretty American expat woman and had been mugging and dancing around with it. At the point where he grabbed the hat by its crown, his small ears sticking out to the sides, and saluted our table from the dancefloor, it had struck me. Bell’s cuter, and more innocent-looking, but as long as Petr kept the hat on, he was a 20-year old, Slovak Billy Elliot. I actually pointed and shouted, “Billy Elliot!” to Petr’s confusion. The Americans saw it right away.

Petr assured me that we’d try again later to get me off, that it would be no problem. He took the money I gave him — the 300 Kč blow job had become the 400 Kč blow job, partly in apology and partly because I really had had a good time with him all night — but then Petr pulled a Pavel. He spent all the money he’d just earned buying shots and beers for the both of us, and even for a couple expats at our table. So, by the time I felt horny again and suggested we go back to the cabins for a reprise, he’d decided that he didn’t owe me anything.

“How much?” he asked, in English, and with a cruel grin.

That took me off him immediately. I sat down next to him in the booth, deflated, and wouldn’t touch him. He realized he’d made a mistake and tried to make up, but I gently and firmly took his hand from my knee. I’d told him to be careful and not spend his money — I would continue to keep us drunk — but he wouldn’t listen, instead showing off in the way that young guys do on a Friday night when they’ve just cashed a fat paycheck. Except, it hadn’t been a fat paycheck. It had been enough to get him a bed in a hostel, and not much else.

Equally cruelly, I said, “I go,” got my jacket and backpack and left him slumped down in the booth, broke, and by this time, alone. If I’d sobered up a bit, I would have probably forgiven him, if not given more money for biznis. Still, these days I find it better policy to let a boy know my limits and what I’m made of, rather than giving him a wedge to take advantage of me in the future. Partying all night and letting me pay the bill is one thing, and part of the deal; reneging on a promise is another.

I saw Petr at Rudolfa the night Pavel and I reunited properly, and although I wouldn’t call his behavior jealous – he might be gay but he’s still a rent boy and I’m a punter — but he barely kept his eyes off us the whole night, occasionally wagging a warning finger at me from across the room, and parrying Pavel’s displays of affection with ones of his own, performed on an older Rudolfa regular. No one could keep up with Pavel and me, however, and I noticed that Petr turned his head away whenever the man tried to kiss him on the mouth. Possibly because he liked me better but more likely because he thought I had more money than the Czech man.

Pavel and I made to leave and Petr called me over and begged me not to.

“No go sleep, Riki, no go sleep,” he whined. “Go toilet a suck.”

It wasn’t even tempting. I went home alone. Maybe I’ve learned a thing or two? Or maybe my dick’s just waiting on Marek.

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