homo superior used to blog

I don’t have the money to buy boys anymore and I don’t have the patience nor, apparently, the emotional fortitude, to deal with guys like Mirek who want to test their loyalty to their boyfriends by teasing me. So I headed off to Letna Park one night last week to see what could be seen and to find out if I had the guts to do anything about it once I saw it.

Turns out the only thing that actually scared me was not being able to see very well in the darkness that fills the maze of trees and shrubbery where most of the public sex happens: I have shitty night vision.

I didn’t know exactly where the main cruising area was (should have used GayGuide.Net,, I guess); I started off in the park behind the Belvedere Palace next to the Castle even though I knew that park was usually full of hustlers and johns, not ordinary guys looking to get off. I followed the bike-path signs past the groovy but expensive Hanovsky Pavillion Restaurant (the area around the restaurant is usually cruisy during the day) until I found the main cruising area which is at the very tip top of Letna plain overlooking the Vltava River, former site of the biggest Stalin Statue in the world and now home to the big, creaking, but non-ticking, Metronom, which is turned off at night, to my surprise. During the day the concrete and marble area is a playground for dozens and dozens of skateboarders, some of whom, thankfully, take their shirts off to skate when it’s warm. There were no skaters on the night I visited but about 5 minutes into my stroll around the square — there were a handful of gay men walking around at that point — a big, loud group of German tourists, of all ages and sexes, came running up the stairs on the hill to gaze out over the city, the flash of their digital cameras lighting up the square like small bursts of lightning. Their silhouettes against the skyline along with the non-moving metronom made a strange backdrop for cruising. In addition, a straight couple had decided to practice ballroom dancing right in the middle of the cruising thruway. I think they figured things out pretty quickly as the square began to fill up with men, on their own, slowly walking around in the dark and casting evaluative, squinty, glances at the other men in their paths.

My eyes eventually adjusted to the gloom and I was able to cautiously meander among the trees and bushes that border the square on three sides, looking for someone to suck without being worried about tripping over an exposed root. I hadn’t seen anyone that really interested me and because there was such an evident age difference — a handful of twinks, including one in tight hustler white, and a bunch of balding, older men exhibiting varying degrees of obesity — I was getting worried that this so-called cruising spot was just another locale for poor Czech boys to make some extra cash. I was hoping for 40-something beefy, construction guys and gypsies of all types and ages. But then again, no one was looking at me either and since I didn’t hear any muffled moans in the underbrush I decided that it was too early and everyone was just getting warmed up.

I’d taken probably my sixth trip through one of the copses and was coming out the other side when a young, dark-haired guy came suddenly up the concrete path from the direction of the Castle. He was wearing a bright, light-blue track-suit jacket, so he really stood out in the darkness. Most everyone else was wearing black like cat burglars. He and I locked eyes almost immediately and I looked him over good: short, athletic-looking mid-to-late twenties Roma boy in typical, youth-market trendy clothes. For me, the jackpot! Instinct somehow took over — remember I’d never done this before — and I turned on my heels immediately going back down the path I’d emerged from, excited and yet also apprehensive that he’d follow me: Fuck! What if it’s a rent boy? I looked over my shoulder and he was right behind me, trying to keep eye contact. I turned off the path a little and into a darker area, turned around as he walked up to me; before I could finish whispering “Ahoj” he put one hand on my crotch, one hand on my shoulder, cocked his head and kissed me. He had a bit of a rough beard, which I liked, so first I rubbed my equally scraggly cheek up against his and frenched him as deeply and roughly as I thought was appropriate for a first date. He came right back at me, grabbing my shaved head and rubbing it, moaning softly and panting when our lips parted. As I stepped closer into him I reached for his dick. In about 10 seconds I’d worked him up and he had nice boner filling up his kinda baggy khakis.

Now all this time while the animal part of my brain was enjoying the hot make-out session and our mutual hard-ons bouncing against each other, the rational part of my mind — admittedly, not usually the part that’s in control — was second-guessing the whole situation. Is this a rent boy? Is he going to ask me for money when this is all over? [And not because he was gypsy but because he was so cute.] Should I be worried about my wallet? and Fuck! Why’d I bring my mobile? It’s very, very common here to be pick-pocketed in backrooms [or dark rooms as they call them here] and a mobile is a primary target for filching. Somehow I managed to keep the balance between caution and abandon and continued to enjoy myself.

He was very eager to get out of his pants and pushed his khakis down around his knees so I did the same. We bumped crotches for a bit. He was really into it at this point. His mouth was hot and full of spit, groaning as we tongued each other. Nothing seemed to be too deep or rough for him and believe me I pushed it. His stubble was abrading me and that made me go deeper. Coupla mintues of that and I dropped to my knees to suck him. This was the dick I’d been waiting for for weeks, not even Mirek’s veiny, thick-skinned beauty matched this Roma boy’s: Dark, of course and curving slightly to the side, about 19 cm, short, tight foreskin and fat, fat, fat, vole! A big, wild untrimmed bush, soft and fresh-smelling, surrounded his dick. I gathered up his balls, running my fingers through his pubes and then put my face in them. Then I drew back and shook his cock, guiding it into my mouth, still shaking it at the base and deep-throated him slowly. He made a big loud groan and started fucking my face. My other hand was on his butt: hairy, very muscular, flexing as he thrusted.

Then something unexpected happened: (and this just testifies to how into the sex I was at that point) A hand that wasn’t one of my Roma friend’s touched my dick. I started, took my mouth off my partner’s cock and looked around his legs to see one of the previously-mentioned bald, obese guys — probably the most obese of the bunch — kneeling on the ground behind my friend with his lips on that hard brown butt and his hand, as stated, on my dick. I can be sexually democratic — this was a public space after all and my partner seemed either not to notice or didn’t care — so rather than just tell him to go the fuck away (I was so flustered I couldn’t remember the Czech phrase for “Go away I’m not interested!”) and perhaps ruin the good vibes, I just took his hand away from my dick and went back to what I was doing.

My friend and I alternated from intense, stand-up frottage (the muscles in my calves had started to tremble involuntarily) and frenzied making-out to my going back on my knees and blowing him. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry and whenever I’d come back up he’d put his hands on my head and pull our lips back together. I’d pulled up his shirt a couple times to suck on his nips and his torso turned out to be as hairy as his pelvis and as hard-shaped as his butt. Eventually, the older guy wandered away, bored I guess that he hadn’t got to see an orgasm. However, another younger and much cuter guy took his place. He startled me, too, coming up behind us. I noticed him as he was walking around us, and, standing with one hand on my friend’s hard dick and the other around his shoulder, I cocked my head up, rather sharply, at the new boy, hoping he’d come over and suck while I watched. Either he didn’t like the look of me or he misinterpreted my gesture because he moved off down the path, turning around a couple times and watching. Oh well, next time.

Now that we were alone again I decided it was time for some sperma. I stopped making out with him, said “Wait,” in Czech, pulled my sex gel out of the mobile phone pocket in my Dickies shorts (Yes, for me, that’s a better use for it.) and squirted some into both our hands. I noticed his hands were really calloused and rough [guess I did get my construction guy after all: just not a daddy-type] so I squirted more on his than on mine and we went to work on each other’s erections. He came first, bucking and throwing his head back as his cock gushed all over my fist. I fell into him completely when I came and he chuckled and held me up as I came into the dirt at our feet. We stood there kissing a bit and then stepped back and simultaneously flicked the sperm off our fingers, just like Miranda Richardson did — flinging it off into a canal, and at the camera, in her case — in Cronenburg’s pretty awful Spider. She did it with disgust; I’d like to think we did it in a very dignified way.

In any case, I pulled up my shorts and he hiked his trousers over his butt, stuffing his half-hard dick into his black bikinis. We were through, obviously, but neither moved; and then he asked me for something. At first, I thought, with my usual bad ear for Czech and my rent-boy paranoia, that he was asking for ‘penice’ [money] but no, it was for ‘papirove’ or a tissue. I said “Ne mam” and patted my pockets and then remembered I’d stuffed some napkins in my back pocket after getting my burrito-fix at Picante earlier in the day. I pulled one out, folded and tore it in two. We stood there a little awkwardly wiping off our hands and then I, stupidly, just like a public sex newbie, swaying inside to a soft, cool post-orgasmus buzz, leaned over to say something to him. He said the second of the only two words he spoke the whole time: “Prosim?” I don’t know what he was expecting and I don’t think I knew what I was going to say until I said it: “Diky moc,” I said quietly and kissed him on the cheek. His eyes got wide and white and then he waggled his fingers in a “See ya around” gesture and took off. I ambled off, too, happy but a little embarrassed, with my hands in my pockets, marveling at how easy it had been. It seemed like I went out looking for just this boy and found him and his dick waiting for me. And I hadn’t spent a crown nor drank even one beer. Looking forward this autumn to Indian summer in Letna Park.