One day outside the station we discussed our different approaches to having sex with heterosexual boys. Steve wants these butch straight boys to remain tops: dominant, maybe a little bit aggressive but always in charge. [You can correct me if I'm wrong, Steve?] Me, I want them to submit, to bottom, whether literally (okay, mostly literally), or emotionally. I live for those moments when I’m having sex with them in which they realize — or rather their bodies realize; their minds might not be able to face it — that their pleasure — in that moment, with me, another man — actually means something to them. More than just my orgasm is at stake: Little gasps that surprise them, or a harder dick than they expected, or a desperate, deep-searching tongue or a butthole thrust back in my face, not because he thinks that’s what I want but because it feels good for him. Amazing moments.

That’s what I’m paying for. And what good would it do me if those moments came with gay boys? I’ve had those moments with gay boys and now no longer see anything special about it. But hearing Jarda gasp when I busted open his jeans and pulled his boxers down, exposing his bobbing hard-on: That was special.

And worth paying for? You betcha.

One night last month when we both felt we’d exhausted the possibilities of the station — there were no clients and no boys — Arssi suggested we to the sex shop together.

“Rick, long time you, me no sex,” he said.

I smiled and looked skeptical.

“No biznis, no money, only…” here he made the jack-off gesture, and said, “Maybe…” here he made the “suck me” gesture.

“You are horny,” I stated.

He paused, shrugged, laughed and said, “Možna!” Then, a big laugh.

I agreed and it was fun and stress-free. A gay guy and a hetero guy jacking off together watching porn. He watched the straight porn and I watched, well, the straight porn too, since, as usual the gay selections were so lame.

He showed off his dick for me but I didn’t touch him and he didn’t touch me. I knew that as soon as we did he would expect money. Instead, it was relaxed tension-release and quite a bit of fun. The double-cabin we were in didn’t have a door latch but every time some troll tried to come in, Arssi would glare faux-dangerously at him and the man would retreat.

We both came twice and I left him to get biznis on his own, probably the real reason he suggested it in the first place.

Tonight he’s promised some mutual masturbation, some real kissing and maybe some sucking. I can suck him but he’s not sure he’ll suck me without a condom.

Fair enough for 300 Kc.

Although he has at least one girlfriend and, at last count, two babies, one of whom I’ve met, he still spends most of his time with men. Gay men, to be specific. Many of his friends are gay men and of course, a gay man is taking care of him. Ovi told me that when he visited Arssi’s girlfriend the other day the girl asked Ovi if Arssi were gay. I don’t know what Ovi said to her but I don’t think he is gay. He’s straight but one of the least homophobic guys I’ve ever met in the Czech Republic. He just has no problem having sex with men. He’s only just discovered the pleasures of kissing and making out with a man, which doesn’t make him gay, or even bi. It makes him sensual. And practical. Still, there must be some reasons why he’s sleeping with me and not with the girl.

I also believe he’s one of those straight men who will always find it easier to relate to men rather than with women. Their affinities and affections are almost always aimed exclusively at men. Gay men just accept it easier than another straight friend might. For someone who’s without much ambition or whose past makes it difficult to make a future for themselves, an arrangement with an older man whom he’s fond of is ideal for him. They neither feel guilty about the sex nor about the arrangement. That’s really the key to liberation: No guilt.

Camp Chris often runs into these types who really, really hate having to deal with women — live with them, support them, talk to them — after they’ve used their pussies. Chris’ advice is always the same: Find a man you like and who wants to take care of you. Take your pussy where you find it but come home to the man at night. Get a job and make a life for yourself. Just get out of the biznis of a different man every day.

Some rent boys take this advice. Most don’t and some regret it later. My old friend Joseph was one of the latter. I don’t even know where he is anymore. If I’d had a flat when he and I were getting to know each other and playing around I would definitely have made that proposal to him. At the time he was just too wary of me, a homeless American whom he liked, but never really understood or why I was where I was. I couldn’t blame him. Now that opportunity is gone for both of us.

So now I have Arssi and he has me. I just wish I trusted him.

[As I was writing this an appropriate song began playing on Pandora. I still love Billy Bragg, the lovable commie.

Sexuality - strong and warm and wild and free
Sexuality - your laws do not apply to me
Sexuality - come eat and drink and sleep with me
Sexuality - we can be what we want to be

Goofy and sentimental but still inspiring. Really, that's what was playing. I wouldn't make it up.]

I’ve told the boys if my light is out, don’t knock on the window to be let in. Wait until 9 or 10 in the morning to come back home. Wake me up at the risk of one of my overreactions. I’m generally up until at least 2 so I don’t think that’s unreasonable. For the past week, Valentýn has been coming home… well, actually I don’t know what time he’s been coming home because he’s been knocking on Vasile’s window instead of mine; and sleeping in Vasile’s room.

But all that’s beside the point. What’s really up is that he has a girlfriend. I’ve seen the pictures on Vasile’s phone. She’s homeless and she’s a meth-user; but she’s a lot prettier than Marek’s last squeeze. Guess who wins, the girl or the man, in these sorts of situations? There is something wackily admirable about choosing to be homeless with the “love of your life” rather than kiss and snuggle with a chubby male homo in exchange for a roof over your head and food in your belly.

The stupid thing is he doesn’t have to choose. I don’t mind. As long as he spends time with me, he can have a girl. Just don’t bring her home. Unfortunately, what usually happens is that the boy can’t juggle. Valentýn can’t juggle. One night he was actually very kind about telling me that he couldn’t stay home with me one night when we had plans, going so far as to kiss and stroke me and apologize over and over, and blame the girl for insisting on going clubbing. That’s the way you do it.

I commiserated: “It must be very hard to have a man and a girl.”

“I don’t like this,” he agreed. But he went anyway and I did my best not to act hurt or angry. He promised me that that he would spend Monday with me. Komplet day, he said. I was still feeling guilty about my behavior and took him at his word.

He didn’t come home for two days and when he did come home it was Monday morning around 10. He knocked on my window and l could not help glaring at him as I handed him the keys. Granted, my glare is probably most people’s hateful, murderous stare. He noticed immediately and did not speak to me when he came in and went to sleep.

I still hoped he would get up and we could hang out. Of course, most of our day together, for his part, was spent sleeping. 3 in the afternoon rolled around and he still wasn’t up. I got an SMS offer from BB for a drink in hlavní nádraží’s Fantova Kavarna and left the flat.

That was the last I saw of him. Vasile told me he shook hands and left the flat with a backpack, telling Vasile and Marek he was headed to Moravia, where he’s from, because of “some small problem” with the Czech police. That was Tuesday and that was a lie. I heard reports all this past week that he was in the station, hanging out in one of the druggie sections with a bunch of gypsy girls. Not too flattering knowing that a boy would rather be homeless than live with me. But at least it was a choice and a realization that he could not do what I asked of him. It would have been nice if he had been more up-front about it. But really, I can’t expect that attitude from a youngster, or a Czech.

He’s apparently got money and a new phone. He has claimed to others that he’s getting biznis. Good for him. Unfortunately, I’ve also heard he’s stopped going to work. He did call Vasile the other day and give him his new number. No communication with me other than through Marek:

“Please speak Rick I finished you home.”

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 wanted to go and kept asking me why I wanted him along.

“Proto ty a já spolu, chapeš? Because you and I are together, understand? And because the beers are on her.

He bitched enough about it on the way, in a good-natured manner, that I told him, okay, he didn’t have to go, we could meet later. He shook his head, exclaimed “Bracho!” and came along anyway.

It’s always hard to sit and listen to a conversation between two people when you don’t understand the language; so at first I thought Kuba’s obvious consternation and discomfort was caused by feeling stupid and left-out. I translated as best I could but this didn’t seem to help. He ended up leaving — not in a huff, really, but obviously upset.

I followed him out into the street and tried to get out of him what the problem was, first getting his assurance that he wasn’t mad at me.

“You, me, no problem, bracha,” he said, standing there in front of me with his head down, shuffling his feet, hands in pockets. Looking all butch and shit but also deflated.

I won’t try to transcribe the conversation verbatim because his English is scanty and because my grasp of his very rapid Czech is even worse. But also, I was confused over what he was trying to tell me. The best I could figure out was that he was embarrassed at sitting at a table with a heterosexual girl and her knowing that he and I were together. I tried to assuage his self-consciousness, if not his masculinity, by telling him that the girlfriend had many gay friends, frequently partied with them, and reminded him that her boyfriend was a rent boy, too. I’m afraid, however, that I missed the point he was trying to make.

He wouldn’t come back in the bar with me and said he didn’t know when he would be coming back home. Then he headed off in the opposite direction of the station, which was at least something.

The girlfriend and I spoke a bit about Kuba and she admitted that she could tell he was upset about something.

“You don’t think he’s jealous, do ya?” she asked.

That hadn’t occurred to me. On the way to the bar I had teased him about the possibility of a three-way with her — why I said it or where it came from, I don’t know — but I didn’t think he took me seriously. After the sex we’ve had I don’t see how he could have confused me for bi. But then, he’s confused himself.

The girlfriend and I walked back towards my flat and went into the station to buy some credit. Kuba was inside, pacing around the bottom floor, possibly looking for biznis. He avoided looking at the girlfriend and mumbled when she spoke to him. He did wait for us while we were inside the store and afterward while I showed her how to use a Czech phone box.

Kuba and I went off home and the girlfriend went to meet up with Vasile, with the hope of some reconciliation. I didn’t know what was going on with Kuba. He remained silent for the most of the way back — no kidding or jostling or fooling around. Not like him at all. I was thinking, great, another moody rent boy.

As we passed by Monty’s — pardon me now while I express my own boredom. This post is far more blow-by-blow than I usually want posts to be; and I haven’t even gotten to the event that precipitated the throwing-out — Kuba decided to go in and look for biznis, telling me he’d be back later.

I was pissed. I hated the sudden change of plans and my embarrassment at getting left at the door of Monty’s felt like payback. Rather than separate, I thought it was better that we have a private talk about whatever was bothering him. He didn’t want to face that evidently. I went home alone and he didn’t come back until after I’d already fallen asleep.

Despite how wonderful he is and how good and consistent the sex is, Kuba’s at a disadvantage with me because I’m coming off a relationship with an asshole. Getting a good one after a very bad one might make most people appreciative, grateful, relieved. What it’s done to me is make me more sensitive and distrustful. After Marek, I intend to take preemptive steps to head off disaster, or even, my being inconvenienced.

I will no longer tolerate being awakened by a boy who doesn’t accept that normal people go to sleep at approximately the same time every night and that no matter how good you are in bed, your lover will still be cranky when you pound on the window at 4 in the morning, after having promised to come home within the hour and especially after having asked him within minutes of crawling into bed if he would wake you at 10 so you could go off for biznis.

I didn’t answer the request nor did I respond to Kuba’s attempt to cuddle.

Today he woke up at 9:30 and was out the door in 15 minutes. He couldn’t tell me when he’d be back and I didn’t see him again until running into him at the station over 6 hours later. He was obviously cruising for biznis.

[INSERT A GAP OF 10 HOURS OR SO BETWEEN WHAT'S WRITTEN ABOVE AND WHAT'S WRITTEN BELOW]

I’m tempted to simply mark-up most of the HTML above with a STRIKEOUT tag and be done with it. However, I wrote it; it’s there and it was a lot of work.

Kuba came back about 20 minutes ago and apologized, twice, for calling me a cunt, or kundo, for being crazy and angry yesterday evening. That’s all it takes. I like him, he’s wonderful and now he’s done something which no rent boy in my experience has ever done: Admit he was wrong and why.

What precipitated his anger was my refusal to let him fuck a girl in my flat. He said, not the bed, we’ll fuck in the toilet. I told him no, this was a gay house (that’s Marek’s designation, by the way), no girls allowed. This brought on the stream of invectives, cunt being the worst of it that I could understand.

He asked me why, if this was a gay house, did I let Vasile’s girlfriend inside. I told him, one, that Vasile was not my boyfriend, and two, that she paid me for the privilege.

“You want make me gay?” Kuba asked. Transformation was the word he used, which gives you some idea of the conflict he’s experiencing at the moment. I had no answer for that. I just knew that once I give a little on this issue, I will never be able to get rid of the girl. He can fuck his girls, just not in my house, not on my dime and not during my time with him. There has to be a separation.

And don’t call me a cunt, give me the respect I deserve. If I’m not a hard-ass with Kuba on these issues now, before I’m seriously emotionally involved, I will lose control, as I did with Mark.

He had one night on the streets to think about this stuff; then he came back and did the right thing. That shows both smarts and character. It deepens my affection for him and I hope it does something similar in his mind.