Free Beautiful Boys: Gay Erotic Stories by Richard Labonte (Editor) Page A

inside him easily and he thrashes against the mattress, challenging me to pump him harder, faster. He’s not the shy, quiet type; pleasure is an experience to be shared at full volume, with grunts and moans and harsh, blunt syllables that need no translation. I shoot quickly and my penis shrivels in a condom full of wet semen. He bites his lower lip and frowns, obviously expecting better from a broad-shouldered, hairy-chested American. But disappointment is fleeting and he flashes a toothy smile. The boy is clearly an optimist.
     
    “Let’s have a cigarette. Then you fuck me again.”
     
    I haven’t smoked in years and almost decline then decide to test whether tobacco is as seductive as it is in my fond memories. The first puff makes me light-headed, inexplicably happy. I cough and flop beside his lean, smooth body.
     
    “We will rest,” he says, squeezing my limp, sticky penis.
     
    It’s pleasant lingering here, basking in the heat pouring off his body for a few brief moments before it’s time to brave the bitter cold. I fold my arm under his neck and he cuddles against my chest, drawing circles around my nipples with his long, tapered forefinger.
     
    “Where are you from?”
     
    “I’m an American.”
     
    “New York?”
     
    I’ve lived abroad long enough to know that most Europeans believe that the entire population of the United States resides in California or the isle of Manhattan—except for Mickey Mouse, who lives in Orlando.
     
    “Washington,” I say.
     
    “Ah,” he says, intrigued by fantasies of proximity to prominent names in the international press. “Do you know the Clintons?”
     
    I laugh at the presumption then admit I have, on occasion, been introduced to the former Leader of the Free World and his charmless former First Lady.
     
    “Bill Clinton is very sexy,” he insists.
     
    “You think so?” I smile, being blind to the appeal of our nation’s Seducer-in-Chief.
     
    “Yes. Like you.”
     
    Meaning, I suppose, we’re both husky old boys gone slightly to seed.
     
    “Talk to me some more with your Bill Clinton voice.”
     
    Obviously, he doesn’t hear the difference in intonation between an Arkansas and a North Carolina accent. To a Czech boy, a drawl is a drawl.
     
    “Where are you from?” I ask.
     
    “Brno. In the South. My family come to Prague after Havel for me to study music.”
     
    “What’s your name?”
     
    “Antonin. Please call me Tony.”
     
    “Antonin. Like Dvorak.”
     
    He sits up and stares as if he’s astonished an American provincial is familiar with a national icon.
     
    “Yes, of course,” he says. “You like his music?”
     
    “I don’t know it that well,” I admit.
     
    “What is your work?” he asks.
     
    How do I explain the mundane responsibilities of a Department of State civil servant with a Juris Doctor and a current assignment to the delegation in Brussels? I simply say I’m a lawyer.
     
    “You like music?”
     
    “Sure.”
     
    “You would like to hear me play?” The cubicle door is unlocked and a bald man with an enormous, lumpy head enters and starts stroking Tony’s leg. The two Slavs have a brief exchange and the intruder leaves, closing the door.
     
    “I tell him we are resting. He will be back,” Tony giggles.
     
    “I should go,” I say. “It’s a long ride back to my hotel.”
     
    “Where are you staying?
     
    He whistles approvingly when I tell him the name of my hotel. Apparently, it’s a destination for celebrities visiting Prague. Tony says Cher has stayed there. I mention a minor American television star drinking in the hotel bar last night, but the name means nothing to him. I ask if he’d like to stop by for a drink before I leave town.
     
    “Oh, yes, of course. Tonight. Then we make love again. I will drive us.”
     
     
    His car isn’t much of an improvement over the night tram. The heater’s broken and the ashtray hasn’t been emptied since the fall of the Communist regime.