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. 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 glass of prosecco as they chat.
“He is very close,” Tony says, holding the phone away from his face while he waits for my answer. “Just down the street.”
Is the sweet, fizzy wine making me light-headed and obliterating my inhibitions and better judgment?
“Would he like to have a drink?”
Tony smiles and quickly closes the deal. I’ve got an immediate attack of buyer’s remorse. What’s going on with me? I’m about to make an even bigger ass of myself in full view of the former secretary of state.
“Now I am refreshed,” he announces, emptying his glass. “Shall we have a bottle of red wine to warm us?”
Why not? At least Madame Albright won’t be a witness. She and her companion are saying their good nights: thank you God for small kindnesses. This Yuri is likely to be a suspicious character, massive and austere, with a shaved head and scars, on holiday from his job as an enforcer for the Moscow mob—nothing at all like the cheery, cuddly teddy bear, no older than twenty-five, who wanders into the bar wearing a crinkly, crackling warm-up suit.
“Ah, Yuri, here we are,” Tony calls out.
They kiss cheeks, right, then left, and Yuri flops beside me. He pulls off his wooly cap and plunges his stubby fingers into a mop of thick blond curls. He’s a cherub to Tony’s seraphim, with a toothy grin, plump cheeks and a stubborn case of hat-hair.
“You are a mess,” Tony laughs. “Have a drink,” he says, pouring glasses of burgundy and passing a lit cigarette to his friend. They speak as if they are alone, assuming, correctly, I’m not fluent in the language. The mumbled Russian words begin to sound ominous. The bartender stands sentinel, polishing the stemware with a clean white towel. Is the heavy red wine making me paranoid, or does he arch an eyebrow when I catch his eye? Is it a warning? A signal he’s waiting for a sign to help me make my escape?
“Yuri thinks you are very sexy,” Tony informs me, summoning the waiter and ordering another bottle of wine. Yuri confirms by reaching under the table and laying his hand on my crotch.
“Does Yuri speak English?”
“A little,” Yuri answers. “I study in school.”
He takes my hand and places it between his thighs, leaving no question about the healthy size of the swollen bulge in his shell suit.
“I think it would be very nice to kiss you,” he whispers in halting English, nudging my foot with his bright red Adidas. I chuckle, then laugh out loud; Yuri seems puzzled by my unexpected reaction.
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” I say, certain he’s never heard the old Elvis Costello song about angels and red shoes.
The three of us talk quietly, about pop stars and American movies. “Well, shall we?” Tony asks after we finish a third bottle of burgundy. He says Yuri must be up early in the morning. I don’t remember extending an invitation for an overnight visit. As a matter of fact, I’ve never agreed that we will be going upstairs. So why am I following them to the lobby, acquiescent in whatever fate awaits me? The bartender’s voice spins me on my heels.
“Sir, your room number please?”
I’m ready to plead guilty to as yet uncommitted crimes. Is he going to announce house rules—no unregistered guests in the room? Is he about to place a discreet call to hotel security and send them knocking on my door when my pants are around my ankles and my hands are otherwise engaged? But he simply hands me the bill for the food and wine, seeking my signature.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Sorry.”
“No, sir, that is too generous,” he says when he sees the gratuity I’ve added to the bill, a bribe for his discretion. I’m drunker than I ought to be. I insist he keep it.
“Please, sir, be careful,” he says, touching my hand lightly. The chain mail band tattooed around his wrist is ominous.
“I’m fine,” I say, ungratefully shrugging off his concern. This attack of paranoia is ridiculous, I decide. They’re kids after all, boys from a provincial city, and I’m acting like a foolish American tourist, intimidated by their Iron Curtain accents and imp
erfect teeth.
Yuri is handing Tony a small, folded foil packet that he slips in his pocket as I approach.
“Ah, here you are at last!” he chirps, sweet and innocent as the bad seed. “It is time for fun!”
Yuri rubs against me in the tiny elevator, trying to mount me standing up. He reeks of tobacco and alcohol; fending off his passion, I wonder when his mouth last saw a toothbrush. I fumble with the key card, and Tony takes it from my hand and slips it into the slot. We stumble into the room, where Yuri strips so quickly I never see him undressing. He’s on his knees, his face buried in my crotch. Tony is preoccupied with the image in the mirror, admiring himself, cocking his chin, assessing his profile, flinging his scarf from shoulder to shoulder.
“Do you think this is the room of Cher?” he asks. My tongue feels too thick to educate him about the pride of celebrities who would never sleep in anything smaller than a suite. “I think it is,” he declares. “I would like very much to be fucked in the bed of Cher.”
Yuri’s body language doesn’t indicate any interest in being fucked. He wrestles me to the bed. His soft baby fat is deceptively powerful, his strength the legacy of his peasant ancestors. He shoves his hand inside my shirt and pulls the hair on my chest. I’m distracted by the musk in his armpits and his dirty feet, but his prodigiously ample pink cock more than compensates for any deficiencies in hygiene.
“Come, Yuri,” Tony beckons and they disappear behind the locked door of the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the bed, hesitant to remove so much as a shoe, and I take the opportunity to shove my wallet deep between the mattress and box spring. Knowing my passport and credit cards are locked in the safe doesn’t relax me. I know I’ve made a huge mistake when I hear a glass shatter on the tile floor. The bathroom door opens and they trip into the bedroom laughing, their long cocks banging against their thighs. They’re coke-jacked, edgy and impatient. Tony frowns, disappointed.
“You are still dressed?”
They stand on either side of me. Four hands unbuckle, unzip, untie my shoes and roll off my socks, strip off my jeans one leg at a time. Yuri laughs when he sees my baggy boxer shirts.
“American!” he announces, amused, his green eyes glassy, the left one slightly crossed.
I want to hand them a thousand koruna and call it a night, but it’s too late to stop this runaway train without risking an angry confrontation. Tony drops to his knees and puts my cock in his mouth; the Russian runs his fingers through his friend’s black hair, whispering Slavic endearments in his sweetest voice. Then he pushes Tony away and takes his turn biting and nibbling my shaft as Tony takes my face in both hands and kisses me.
“You sexy, sexy man,” he purrs.
He crawls on the mattress and, steady on his hands and knees, tells me to spread his asscheeks. The tiny warts on his shaven pucker are oddly arousing; a faint whiff of the latex and lubricant lingers from the bathhouse.
“Now you will fuck me a long time,” he says, slurring his words.
Only after I’m deep inside him do I realize I’m not wearing a condom, worry abandoned as I yield to Yuri’s stubby fingers, first one, then two, probing my ass, loosening me enough to let him shove his enormous cock into my rectum without protest or resistance. It’s been ages, years actually, since anyone has penetrated me, and Yuri is rough and insistent. He pushes Tony aside and flips me on my back. He orders Tony to pin my wrists to the mattress and grabs my ankles, hoisting my feet onto his shoulders. He’s grunting like a wild beast, sweat pouring off his red face as he grinds his pelvis against the flesh of my buttocks, frustrated by his waning erection, the consequence of a nose full of coke. I know better than to agitate him any further and don’t struggle while he tries stuffing his thick but limp penis into my ass. Tony strokes my face and, just before he plunges his tongue into my throat, his sweet voice assures me that I am, indeed, a sexy, sexy man. My cock grows hard as it’s ever been and, not needing a hand or a mouth to bring me to the edge, I shoot farther than a man my age has any right to expect, splattering my semen over both of our faces.
I’m yanked from a dead stupor by a firm grip on my ankle, shaking my leg.
“Wake up, Mister Sleepyhead.”
A simple hangover can’t begin to describe the aftershocks rippling through my tannin-soaked brain. My muscles resist my feeble effort to haul myself off the mattress and confront the bright sunshine pouring through the window.
“You snore very much, all night,” Tony laughs. He’s standing over me fully dressed, his overcoat buttoned and his scarf knotted at his throat.
“Where is Yuri?” I ask as the dim memory of last night emerges from the thick fog of alcohol. I panic, imagining stolen cash and cards, then remember my wallet is safely tucked beneath the mattress.
“Oh, Yuri is gone to work many hours ago. He is a breakfast server at the Intercontinental. Not as nice as the Savoy,” he sneers.
I pull a sheet around my waist and sigh, unable to find the energy to continue the conversation.
“Yuri is very upset I stay all night. He is very jealous.”
Jealousy must have a very different meaning in Czech.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Not now,” he says. “But he thinks so. It is time for me to go. You will be there at six tonight, of course. I am very excited you will hear me play.”
He tells me not to lose the scrap of paper on which he’s scribbled the location of this evening’s concert. I say I’ll try to make it, no promises. He laughs at my bravado, knowing the power of his smile over me.
“Do not be late. I will be looking for you when I walk onstage,” he insists, turning to ask one last question before closing the door behind him.
“What is your name?”
“Bill,” I admit.
“See you tonight, President Clinton.”
The crowd gathering in the vast lobby of the Rudolfinum is dowdy, but prosperous. The women’s shoulders are draped with bright Hermes scarves, adding a dash of color to their drab cloth coats. The husbands feign interest in their wives’ idle chatter while checking their Rolexes every few seconds, impatient for the concert to begin. The doors to the recital hall open, and a plump matron in squeaky boots leads me to my seat. The room is overheated and I regret not checking my jacket.
I hadn’t intended to be here. A repeat performance of last night’s reckless and stupid behavior was out of the question. I’d crawled back into bed, mocked by the strip of unused condoms on the nightstand, dozing fitfully until the late afternoon, trying to forget my regrettable lack of judgment. When I finally staggered into the bathroom, I didn’t recognize the stranger in the mirror. I splashed cold water on the raw skin where Tony had scratched my cheek. My boyish friends had pawed me like a pair of cats toying with a mouse before moving in for the kill, drawing blood, branding me with purple sucker bites on my throat and a grid of fiery welts covering my back. I scoured my body for bruises and nicks, aroused by the casual, impulsive damage they’d wreaked. My sudden, stubborn erection refused to fully recede even after I pumped a load of semen into the sink, banishing any possibility of a quiet evening of CNN and room service. I showered and dressed quickly, anxious to meet up again, already plotting tonight’s encore as I rummaged in my bag for the digital camera to record our performance for posterity. The images would make quite an impression when that bastard in DC opened the attachments to my greetings from Prague. At five forty-five, I was standing at the box office, ticket in hand.
He bursts on stage, leading a troupe of string players dressed in dark trousers and black silk shirts. He scans the front rows and, finding me, grins. He bows to the audience, a quick snap at the waist, then turns to face the ensemble, giving them a note to tune by. The program is little more than a classical jukebox selection of familiar movements from old warhorses: A bit of Vivaldi. Dvorak, of course: the Prague Waltz, a theme from Humoresque. I recognize the melody of Brahms’s Hungarian Dance.
But his joy is infectious. The ensemble i
s clearly happy to defer to the virtuosity of a musical dervish, their first violinist. The audience demands an encore before departing for their dinners. Tony leads his players back onstage for a robust nightcap of Mozart, Eine kleine Nachtmusik, the perfect selection to bid us farewell.
A light snow is falling as the audience disperses into the night. The women cling to the arms of their companions as they negotiate the icy sidewalk. I stand by the doors, warming my hands in the pockets of my jacket, feeling conspicuous and foolish. The invitation was to hear him play, with no promise of a rendezvous, no designated meeting place. Ten, fifteen minutes pass and I finally accept that I’m waiting for someone who’s probably halfway to his next destination—a café, a bar, the sauna. Yuri and he are off pursuing other prey tonight, fresh kill, leaving me standing on the steps to the concert hall, rejected and wallowing in self-pity, too self-absorbed to see Tony running toward me, his open overcoat flapping in the wind and white scarf dancing around his neck. He throws his arms around my neck and kisses my cheeks. The dark street seems less sinister now, the frigid wind less biting. The golems and nosferatus of this medieval city are in retreat, for the moment anyway. I point toward the castle on the hill, awash in brilliant electric light and tell Tony that his city is very beautiful.
“Prague is such a bore,” he says dismissively. “So small and dull. There is no opportunity for a musician here.”
He hails a cab and we squeeze into the tight backseat, balancing his violin case on our knees.
“We must hurry,” he says. “We are very late.”
He speaks to the driver, giving the address of our destination, I assume. I don’t ask where Yuri awaits us. My erection is straining against the fabric of my pants, aroused by the many possibilities. The sauna again? A deluxe cabin big enough for three and any curious stranger they invite to share me? A sex club with a corridor of glory holes and a leather sling? Maybe something more romantic? A dance club and a couple of bottles of cheap champagne, a prelude to another powder-fueled liaison at the Savoy?
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