For the first time in a long time, I was semi-involved in picking up a new young man at the station. I won’t say “boy,” because at 26 he’s no twink. There’s some controversy over whether he’s butch or not. I say he is, but Big E and Camp Chris both say otherwise. Not that he’s queenie. None of us at the station go for queens and you won’t find them there anyway. Usually. Chris described him best when he said he looked like an “uppity redneck,” the kind of young guy he’d die for at the gay bars in Florida: a big, boy-next-door type from the South, who had just bought his new acid-washed jeans and Polo shirt to look good for his first time in a gay bar. Nervous, and sexy, as hell, and smoking with limp yet manly hands the way that only Southern boys can do.

David is a mechanic, which explains why his forearms are so thick and veiny, and his fingernails so dirty. Spells hot, for me. He speaks no English whatsoever, other than to understand the word “fuck,” which he overheard when Miro and I were talking about whether or not he’d said he was active or passive.

Oh, before I go on, he said he’s active, that he’ll fuck me really hard. My claim to have a perfect cock for virgin asses did not persuade him.

He reminds me of my old Slovak buddy, Joseph. Similar in age and body type – almost 6 feet, solid, weight appropriate for height – both shy, a bit coy even, and bright smiles that disarm immediately, I’m hoping he turns out to be as good a companion as Joseph was. Yup, I’ve already asked him whether he wants to go drinking with me next week when I get a little money. He said, why not? Other punters ask first how big a boy’s dick is; I ask whether or not he likes to drink. David, being Moravian, prefers wine to beer, but yes, he likes to drink, thanks much.

While we were sitting on the benches outside the station and getting to know each other, I tried out my bad Czech on him. He understood me, surprisingly, and after that, even when I was talking to Camp Chris or Miro, he would lean forward and keep his eyes on me. I have pretty good luck with straight-acting gay boys, or gay-acting straight boys, whichever David turns out to be. Right now, he’s claiming to be gay – Miro says he’s seen him at Valentino – and admits to having had only one sex-for-money experience in his life. I’m betting neither assertion turns out to be precisely the truth.

In the Metro going home, after I’d sat and waited for him to get through with biznis with Big E and collected my commission, he stood next to me, very close, and continued to look at me. Whatever that means. He raised his arms and gripped the stirrups overhead, his biceps flexing each time the car swayed. I couldn’t help but look, and he noticed. Smiled at me and winked; shook my hand and thanked me when I got off at Vyšehrad.

Summer’s coming, for sure, I thought, and I need a new guy to go with me to the nude beach. His pubes are blonde, said Big E, but I could see that his pit-hair was dark brown. Looking forward to finding out what color they are on his ass.