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

He doesn’t seem to have mastered the art of braking, accelerating instead of slowing down as he navigates the hairpin turns on the narrow streets leading to the Castle District. I try to persuade myself that vehicular tragedy is impossible while the radio is broadcasting the serene String Quartets Dedicated to Haydn . But when he reaches for his ringing cell phone, I’m resigned to an obituary announcing I expired in a one-car collision while traveling in the Czech Republic. But Tony appears dexterous enough to drive and carry on a breakneck-speed conversation while lighting his cigarette. I recognize isolated words—he’s speaking Russian now—and I know I’m the topic of discussion when he glances in my direction and giggles.
     
    “My friend Yuri thinks you are very sexy.”
     
    “Does he like Bill Clinton, too?” I ask, bracing as we veer toward a delivery truck racing at us. Tony jerks the steering wheel with his palm and curses at the driver, who’s blaring his horn, either a warning or a threat.
     
    “Yuri would like to meet you.”
     
    The boys of Prague, butterflies they call them, have a reputation worldwide for seducing middle-aged tourists, lavishing them with attention until they’re too enchanted to foresee that the none-too-happy ending of their little fairy tale is going to involve a black eye, broken nose and stolen wallet. The angel in the cubicle with the alabaster skin and innocent eyes is sprouting horns and a tail as he speaks.
     
    “Well,” I mumble, staying calm and collected, trying to allay any suspicion I’m on to him until I’m safely out of the car. When I hesitate, he says he doesn’t want to share me with Yuri. He ends the call abruptly, then tosses the phone aside.
     
    “What did you say to him?” I ask.
     
    “I tell him to find his own American.”
     
    There’s an awkward moment as we arrive at the Savoy. The doorman, a towering, regal Nigerian, seems a bit confused. He’s not accustomed to the guests of this exclusive property arriving in rusty, dented deathtraps. Tony sits quietly, waiting for me to signal whether I’m going to invite or dismiss him. Knowing he’s willing to surrender his car key—and the means for a quick, unobserved escape—makes me comfortable with my decision.
     
    “Can you valet the car?” I ask the doorman.
     
    “Of course, sir.”
     
    Tony’s eyes widen as we step into the cozy lobby. He’s craning his neck, hoping to find Cher or Miss Tina Turner holding court in the bar. What the hell, I decide, he looks more presentable in his tapered black pants and overcoat, a white silk scarf draped around his throat, than I do in my Carolina sports gear. He certainly won’t be conspicuous among the guests having a quiet nightcap before retiring to their beds.
     
    “Shall we have that drink?” I ask.
     
    “Oh, yes,” he says, his eyes dropping to his polished shoes. “But I have no money.”
     
    I tell him not to worry. If he’s disappointed by the clientele, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t recognize Madeline Albright, ensconced in a comfortable easy chair and sipping a cup of tea as she nods intently at the bullet-headed commissar who is quietly, but emphatically, making his point.
     
    “Beer, wine or a cocktail?” I ask.
     
    “Oh, prosecco! Please!”
     
    The waiter, fey and obviously gay, smiles and says, “Of course.” I don’t know if he’s more amused by my young companion or by the idea I’m ordering a classic summer wine. Tony attacks the salty nibbles; I ask if he’s eaten. Yes, yes, of course, he says, but he orders a cheeseburger and fries anyway.
     
    “This is so nice, President Clinton,” he laughs, oblivious to my distress that Madame Albright might have overheard his endearment. He’s dragging the last fry through a dollop of ketchup when his phone rings.
     
    “It is Yuri,” he says, looking at the number flashing on the screen.
     
    “Go ahead. Answer,” I say.
     
    I pour myself another