Holidays are good. They offer us the chance of the 'great escape': to leave behind our struggles for life and work, and head out into another place and relax and absorb something different; something that will hopefully replenish in us all that which the working year takes out. And so it was that I found myself. My mind was switched into holiday mode. Gone were study halls and libraries; gone too were lectures and assignments. Who needs them, anyway?
Yep, I was going to exchange the lovely Aussie summer for the grey, snowy winter of Eastern Europe. I don't know what the hell persuaded me in its favour! After all, it wasn't a very inspirational place. Many people would say, Why not Germany, Italy or France? Indeed, why not? I for one can't find an answer. Well, that's not entirely true. I mean, here, in Oz, I'm sick of being a person 'on the financial fringe'... in other words, having barely enough money to clothe and feed myself. So when I heard that money is a much rarer commodity there, I thought I would be rich, or relatively speaking anyway. And there was much to learn there. I picked up the usual glossy crap about how "excellently valued" and "historically rich" the region was, how "friendly, welcoming people" filled everywhere, as if spewing from every orifice of the country. But, never having gone, I knew not whether to believe or disbelieve... in the end, my chronic pessimism won.
Adelaide International Airport. Not such a big place, but my town's airport nonetheless. Mum and dad were there, saying "Goodbye," "take care" and all that stuff. The passport check and finally the boarding. It had been a while since I last sat in a plane. Man, those seats had shrunk. I was going to spend roughly twenty-four hours oscillating between the seat and anywhere else I would have to be.
It would be a hugely futile effort on my part to tell of the excitement on the plane flight, largely because such an affair is void of any such property. There are movies, there is food, and there is that botched thing we try and call sleep. It is not really a state of reconstitution... it is more the passing of time with eyes closed. I think I now have a greater sympathy for battery hens, whose whole lives are encompassed by one word: cage.
But things were not like that all the way. Oh no! You know how it is, sometimes you're giving in to the situation around you, and you say, "This is the end. The bottom of the abyss. Just try and keep with it..." That was my frame of mind in Bangkok Airport. There was a non-stop twelve-hour flight, which would drop me off in Budapest, Hungary. Indeed, I felt the need of uttering to myself: The horror! The horror!
And emerging from the immaculately clean airport cubicle, I eyed myself in the spotless mirror. Look at me. These blue eyes, this hair. It's all crap! I once took pride in all that. I would spend the morning's minutes begging the mirror to pronounce me fairest in the land. Futile! Give up! Why bother? But whom was I kidding. Sure enough, there I was, even in Thailand, which was miles away from Australia, fixing myself up. My face had that expression of stress... eight hours on a plane would do that to anyone I dare say.
The door opened, and I sharply ceased my narcissistic indulgence. It was embarrassing. He entered, like a piece of silk carried through a springtime's breeze. He looked at me for a moment, and went into the cubicle. It was for people like he that wars were fought; for those like he that life was lived; and for his ilk that breath made its way through our lungs. So maybe dreams are another of my indulgences, but can I be blamed? The real world can be so cold and harsh. I prefer the aesthetic world of my creation: books, art and imagination are a better place than reality.
I didn't get a chance to look at him properly. But the sheer force of his presence ensured I had felt him. With my heart in a flutter, I took myself to the gate. It was time to re-embark. Such details are tedious in the telling of a story, and I'm not sure for whom the greatest tedium exists: for the teller of the story, who has to decide to include or exclude, or its receiver, who has to decide whether to read through it or skip it. All in all, I'd prefer to glide through it blindly, and end up in my seat.
It was a new crew. A much more 'cosmopolitan chic' crew. Younger, better groomed and mannered, and carrying a general atmosphere of greater pleasantness. One of the stewards (or is it flight attendants?--who knows these days?) was particularly strapping. I could have sworn he'd only just got out of Flight Attendant School. His black hair and blacker eyes, and that wispy curve on his lips, all glazed with youthfully white skin made me melt into a heat of fantasy.
To get through this impasse of my thoughts, I read through the airline's magazine. Not very interesting, not very stimulating... though I suppose that was its purpose... to distract me from a more 'pressing' matter: that thing between my legs. Swept up in the excitement of the duty free female's perfume (I was not looking at the ads for 'parfum pour homme', as that would not have helped calm my 'third leg') I did not notice that a person was preparing to sit down. I could hear them get their hand luggage into the compartment. It was probably some fat old man or woman, ready to tell me about five year old nieces painting pictures in kindergarten. O yeah, excitement plus.
Damn pessimism, it is always in the way. I was wrong. Who should sit down next to me (you guessed it) but my beautiful toilet acquaintance. It was a fleeting encounter: a glance en passant, but my eyes had twitched with happiness. He eventually sat down, and did not say anything at first. I looked him over (though vainly pretending to be looking at the next person or out the window or something). Man, he was something. Sure, many classify (and rightly so) as "beautiful" but many less as "breathtaking"... and that he was.
The flight attendant went through the safety protocol, and finally we were in the air. All through that time, he said nothing. Nothing at all. I was burning with frustration. I don't know about you, but when someone ignores me for that long, it starts to have negative ramifications on my ego. What was wrong with me? It was my nose. My hair. Perhaps I smelt real bad, or I just looked overall plain and boring. Talk to me damn you! Talk to me!!
He wasn't like most people my age. (I don't think I am like most people my age.) You know, some of them are so cute in the way they listen to their walkmans, ride their skateboards, or wear their hip sunglasses. But I could sense he was not so. I only wished he would say something.
So finally the food came around. Airline food is not the Ritz... I'll grant you that. But because it's such a rare event (or at least for me it is), I like eating it. I mean, when will the next time I eat airline food be? I like the way it's all cleverly partitioned and selected.
Then I heard his voice, for the first time. I heard him say something. But, most significantly, it was directed to me. "Beef or chicken?" he said. His question was brief... as if he had already known me.
"Uh... chicken I guess. I uh... that is... for me I mean. I don't know if that's what--"
"Chicken it is!" and he smiled, somehow content with his decision. We got the food, and the miniature white wine. "Where are you headed?" he asked. I told him. "Me too! This is so weird!"
"I agree," I smiled. "I must ask though, why that part of the world?"
"I don't really know. My parents said it would be good for me..." and he sipped his glass of wine and swirled it in that delicious-looking mouth.
He struck me as similar to myself, yet much more open in his approach to other people. He was so self-assured and comfortable in his surrounding. He spoke to me with an air of confidence I fantasised of possessing one day.
As the plane flew in the sky, so too the hours, which could only mean we were having fun. It was that feeling where you know your conversation partner is not just being polite: there is genuine reciprocality, and it is great! The movie came and went.
And so the trip went by. I am rather embarrassed to tell how I found out his sexual inclinations. Let's just say that it was due to a little investigative behaviour on my behalf! After Bangkok Airport, I was rather tired. Those who have flown will know the feeling. One's head is heavy with a toxic mixture of tiredness and boredom. One's eyes linger between opened and closed, all the time letting the eyelids stay together more and more.
Luke, who was apparently asleep, looked so deliciously soft in his sleepy state. I really was uncomfortable in the hard, small economy seat. His shoulder was so much more appealing. I could perhaps stretch. So, after some hesitation, my neck folded down. My white cheek found its place on his wool-covered shoulder. The curve between his neck and arm fit my head just fine. I was tense for a while, afraid of whether or not he would object to my move. But that feeling soon subsided, and I relaxed. It was so nice.
When I awoke, it was surprise that was very pleasant! His smooth hand was resting on my leg, very very high up on my leg. It was firmly on my thighs! It was quite shocking at first. The plane was dark. An odd spotlight here and there, but all the windows were closed. Nigh on everyone was asleep. I looked upon his delicate countenance. Such smooth, lovely architecture in that face. Whilst I engaged in this visual indulgence, his eyes opened. He gradually gained consciousness, and I could not pull away from his clearing blue eyes.
A nascent smile grew in strength upon his face. He shifted slightly in his seat, and I lifted my arm from his body. I smile awkwardly at him. He did not seem to care. His hand remained in what seemed to me to be a sensitive place. Indeed, it was rather uncomfortable. There was something close to his hand that might easily betray my feelings about him.
I moved my legs slightly, hoping he would get my message! But no. He relented not. There rested the most tender of hands I had ever seen. Indeed, he moved a bit more 'up-stream'. He was only a centimetre of so away from my manhood. How most awkward. Yet all the while, I forgot my sweaty forehead, my red face, and my stress. We were locked in 'optical combat': we looked at each other, both unable to end the feud. His hand ended up on my shaft. My masculinity was being felt by a guy who went on looking at me as if nothing were happening! I found that very intriguing, and it was as pleasing as the movement of his hand over my penis.
I moaned slightly, and this caused two reactions from him: he smiled more slyly and he also tightened his grip on my dick. I looked around, and proceeded to do the same. Wow... I had never really felt another guy's dick before. It was a bit bigger than mine, and really hot! For some reason my own didn't feel as hot when it was in my hands! So we did this for a while, when all of a sudden, he got out of his seat, looked devilishly around, and whispered in my ear, "Follow me."
He went down the aisle with great speed, though always like a fox. He entered the toilet cubicle, soon after I did. Lucky it was dark and most people were asleep! The little lock closed, and we were with each other. He looked at me; I looked at him. He kissed me. I kissed him. His hands were quickly on my fly, and then on my cock. I pretty much aped him. It was all fun, yet I feel too red on both my face and other place to continue such a private thing. One can imagine though, it being a cramped airline cubicle, things were both quiet and somewhat limited.
"Welcome to Budapest Ferihegyi Airport. The current temperature is..." and so on the pilot continued, as we were taxiing on the tarmac in Hungary. I now knew Luke much better! We were joking about this and that, and enjoying those lovely stolen contacts of skin. Everyone was up, getting their hand baggage ready. It was very late Autumnal outside. The sky simply looked cold, and the ground simply looked cold. Perhaps it had already snowed!
We disembarked and went through all the boring procedure of visas etc. I don't think it is favoured amongst many people.
What struck me in the bus to the hotel was the aspect of the whole place. The buildings were a lovely mix of new and old; of imperialist and communist. Yet somehow, over the entire city, an aura, a curtain, cold like iron perhaps, persisted like a choking fog that refused to clear. It was hardly self-evident. It dared not speak its name. Yet it persisted. It smelt of Stalin, it was a horrid, pallid tinge of bloody red.
The bus pulled into the hotel, and all the mundane things, like luggage and keys were taken care of. Luke was also wide eyed, yet I could see his eyes scanned from a different angle and for a different purpose. Oh well, I could not complain. I was rather excited. A large, foreign, famous city, and it was not to only me to explore it. I had a friend; a pal; a guy whom I had jerked off. I was on the cloud that comes after the eighth.
A room with two single beds. It was the smartest choice. We could have chosen one with a double bed. But you know! Give it time... and decorum! "What do you think of the hotel?" I asked him.
He removed his jumper and plonked it on the lamp-table. "Yeah, it's okay. It's got you in it!" and he laughed.
"Yes Luke. I am glad we agreed to come to the same one!" (The airline offered an overnight stay, with the option of one of two hotels.) "We will have a load of fun tonight, won't we?"
"Yes Mark, we will," and he removed his pants as he said this. In a lovely white singlet, and ocean blue boxershorts, he said, "I'm going to have a shower. I stink!" and he blew me a kiss. I felt something rise to life between my legs. He walked to the bathroom, and I could not take my eyes off his arse. It moved slightly from left to right and back to left as he walked. He was quite a sight: that singlet, the boxers, and, the most exciting bit, the white, white sock! He entered. After a few moments, his head reappeared, and he said: "Catch!" and he threw in my direction a sweaty, smelly sock of his. He closed the door. That was it. I stripped faster than the soldiers have to, and smelt his sock.
I smelt it. It was thrilling. I looked in the mirror. I slid his snow-white sock down my chest, and to my stomach. I could see my penis in the mirror. Its foreskin had rolled back, and my left hand was giving it passive squeezes and feels. My right hand dragged his sock all over the front of my body. Then, I tied it around my cock and balls, and pulled the longer end through to the back of my, over and past my arsehole. I smelt of his feet. It was erotic. I walked to the door, my mast swaying with my footsteps. I knocked.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Guess!" I said, my voice soft and playful.
"Plumber?" he said.
"Uh uh! Guess again!"
He paused for a while. "Gas man? Electrician?"
"No!" I said, laughing! "It's cold out here. Let me in. I need something hot. The milk will freeze. I am the milkman, and I have some milk to give you!"
He ran across the wet tiles. The door opened slightly. A shot of steam burst out. His hair was deliciously arranged on his cute head, and he was even more gorgeous all wet. "Oh! It's not the milkman! It's Mark. It's my old..." (he kissed me) "...old friend Mark. And how are--" (He looked down.) "Wow! That's clever! A sock around your dick! I like it. Come in milkman, it's cold out there, and hot in here!" He took me by my stiff member and guided me to the shower.
It was around about six. We were having some dinner in the hotel. It was already dark, it being near winter and all. He cut a bit of schnitzel and ate it. "This isn't too bad!" and he smiled. Yeah, of course it's not too bad. Anything in your mouth is not too bad, I thought. We ate our dinner and put on our coats.
On the street, there were quite a few people walking God knows where. People with their problems and pleasure. The sky was blackened by night, and fat, fluffy flakes fell from it. They collected on the cobblestone path, and crunched dryly under our feet. I kept stealing sly glances of him. His blonde eyebrows were slightly covered by crystals. He looked at me and smiled. Can fate ever be this generous? To think that the simple fact of two people meeting can be conducive to one's unparalleled happiness is sometimes overwhelming. We looked at some statues and some lovely old building. The main shopping area was very busy, and it soon grew tiring.
Luke asked, sitting on a bench: "So, what now?"
A breeze cut through the freezing air, and my nose had that ever-so-slight moisture in it. I looked around and saw quite an inviting sign: "Sauna/Spa." My face perked up, and I pointed to it. He saw it too, and he got up. He laughed ad innuendo, dashing off in its direction, holding my hand in his as he did so.
The glass on the sumptuous entrance was wet with condensation. We entered, my eyes flying in each and every direction, obviously not at the same time. There were many, many young men and boys. So a myth had been consummated. I had heard before of the baths in Europe. Now, my own eyes were at the feast! It was great to be alive. I twitched down below at the prospect of being in the same water. We paid the fee, and had to purchase some swimwear.
Luke looked great in racy blue Speedos. I was not so happy with myself, but who cares if not me? The marble columns and palms went together quite well. It was all so spectacular. Everything was tastefully lit, and the stained glass dome for a ceiling betrayed the snow falling outdoors. There were girls and women, and chunky old grannies. Wrinkled men were abundant too, but who was eyeing these specimens. The water was hot, and springing from far below. Luke and I had our little pleasures in the water. He disappeared for a while under the water, and brought a hushed yelp to my lungs. He reappeared, gasped for breath, and repeated his procedure. I felt so good. I was so happy. Far from Australia; far from parents; far from study.
While Luke was off at the toilet, a charming little bird of a boy lingered over to me. He smiled sneakingly, and said in Hungarian, "Szerbusz!" I did not understand.
"Pardon?" I asked. "I don't understand..."
His accented English kicked in. "Hello." He was well shaped, and not more than fifteen. He had the lovely curves swimmers acquire. I envy swimmers and their scrumptious bodies. His hair was wet all over the place. He had brown hair and green eyes, and his skin was white yet deliciously taut. "You're not from here, are you?" he asked.
I looked around a bit, the replied that I was not. "How did you guess?"
"Well," he laughed, "your accent. It's lovely. I wish I could speak like that. You are from England?" And under the water I could feel his foot on mine.
"Um--" I stumbled. "No. No. I'm from Australia actually. You know... Austr--" I was cut off. My voice had lost its power.
He continued his dialogue, apparently unaware of what he was doing. "Please, I know where that is. Sydney? I would love to go to Sydney."
"Really? Why?" I continued, growing warmer in the already hot water.
"You tell me!" and he raised his eyebrow. "I hear you have lovely parties there. Street parties... in Sydney?" By now he was much, much closer. I could feel his smooth skin. His eyes were liquid like the warm water enveloping us. Our eyes locked. My breath stuttered whilst my mind tried to handle the pleasure flowing though it.
SPLASH! The water filled with white bubbles and the waves sent my body into a gentle rhythmic motion. Luke reappeared from under the water, his face fresh and excited. He was glowing. "Hey!" he shouted close to me. "How's it going? Man, did you see the guys in the..." (A sudden halt.) "Who are you?" he asked quickly, looking over to the boy.
The boy was equally quick in supplying a reply: "Zoltan. --How are you?"
Luke said, still rather cold: "Why do you care?"
I interjected, sensing something was not quite right. "Luke! He's my friend. Zoltan... this is Luke, my friend. He's also from Australia."
"O, cool!" Zoltan said. "Are you two on your honey moon?" Just by looking at his face, one could not decipher if he had been in jest or not.
Luke burst out laughing. His eyes shut while he laughed away. Luckily no one cared. "Yeah Zoltan, we are!" He lunged over to me and kissed me. I was shocked and embarrassed.
"Luke!" I objected. I smiled. I looked at him rather angrily.
"What Mark? It's not like it's not true! I love you, and you love me! The end!" After saying these words, he ruffled my semi-dry hair.
Zoltan looked at us. After a moment, a curtain of sadness descended over his delicate features. I was quite worried at the suddenness of this. I looked over to my man. He too had noticed. I elbowed him. He then said: " Zoltan, is something wrong?"
Zoltan: "No, no worries. I will go. I am glad you two are happy..." and he sighed heavily. He was about to swim off.
His back was wet, and so smooth and strong. His body was lovely, and his sad state I could not handle very well. "Wait!" He turned around slowly, his face hiding ineffectively his glumness. "Are you doing anything later on tonight?" He shook his head. "Why don't you come to the Hotel Liszt? You could say hi?"
His mouth formed a smile. His eyes twinkled somewhat naughtily. I could tell Luke was not too impressed. "Are you sure?" the boy asked. I nodded, and told him the room number. "Cool. So room 323, at nine?" Again I agreed. "Great. I can't wait." He was once more buoyantly boyish.
A matronly voice burst onto the scene. "Zoli! Gyere haza! Nez menyi az ora!" The boy looked up. He said hello, and then said goodbye to us. "It's my mother. See you guys later!" He leaped up, his lithe body gliding upward, and disappearing swiftly. He was off with his mummy.
As soon as the coast was clear, Luke looked at me giggling: "Why the hell did you do that?"
"What?" I retorted. "He was lonely, and I thought..."
"So," Luke said, "I am not enough! You need fifteen year old cock now, don't you?"
"Hey hey hey. I'll have none of that Luke. That's not on..."
Luke: "O, sure man. I know you. You're after a pole for your hole... and God, he's so fucking cute. I can't compete with that..."
I looked at him seriously. "Luke, what the fuck are you talking about? Have you looked at yourself in a mirror in those Speedos? I mean, come on! I would be nuts to risk losing you." I laughed earnestly. "I really would like him over... but not for that!" (A pause. A smile arrived at last upon his face.) "I'm serious!"
We quickly reached reconciliation, and Luke and I were back as playful and sporting as ever before. We had a good perve through the place. The sauna was woven of the very fabric of my most exotic dreams, and even the showers had a sexy aura about them. We finally tore ourselves away from the place.
The snow cover had melted into inexistence. The cold smacked my face as we exited the spa. Once again on the street, Luke asked what I wished to do. "I can't really say," I told him. So we meandered through the old city, with every step leading somehow in the direction of the Hotel Liszt.
Whilst waiting to cross a street, we noticed on the other side girls and boys dressed very suggestively. About six or seven in total, loitering on the kerb, trying to keep warm. They all had that lovely air of youth and at the same time, the intoxicating stain of prostitution. And they walked up and down the path slowly, exotically, hoping to excite the attention of a driver.
The little green man lit up, and we crossed. I could not help keeping my eyes on one boy. I wondered how old he could be? And what could have happened to him? Was there nothing different for him to do? And what of the man who stopped the car, pointed to him, opened the door for him, and sped off, his horny dick already drooling with carnal expectation.
We found a gorgeous little park with a bench and all on the bank of the Danube. We sat down and looked through the myriad of lights. It was so beautiful. There were few people in the park. The air was colder than before. The sky had cleared, though the stars had faded in the city's lights. We sat there for a while, talking, thinking, and kissing. It was all so luscious a setting. I like Budapest, and I think it was an aphrodisiac in many ways.
A distant bell eventually rang eight times. Luke looked at his watch. "We'd better get going.... Your boy will to turn up."
I sighed. I didn't really want to be going. It was such a scene ideal. But I got up. We stood there, the flowing Danube somewhere below us, and kissed. When his cold lips left mine, an elderly woman laughed. We looked around, and about ten or so metres to the left, a fat old gipsy woman sat on the freezing ground. She had a kerchief on her head. He laughter did not weaken. She looked at us and laughed! We walked up quickly to her.
Her haggard face was hardly visible in the dark night. Her eyes were black, and her voice was frosty like the air. Plumes of fog left her wide mouth as she laughed. Luke was infuriated. "Hey bitch! Quit it! Stop it!" But it did nothing. She relented not, and the boom of her laughter rang obnoxiously in my ear. He was sensible enough not to touch her.
"Let's go," I said. And slowly I eased him off, my arm around his shoulder.
After a moment or two, the old woman said in Hungarian: "En latok! En latok! En latok!" We did not know what it meant, so we left it there. But the sound I remembered.
I was looking out the window from out hotel room. Luke was on the bed. He was watching some TV show in English. MTV or something like that. It was some pop star singing their manufactured little heart out into the fabricated 'pop' market, so that materialistic little Westerners could pay ten dollars for a CD containing a 'single'. Ah, le Monde!
"Hey Mark," Luke said to me. "I don't think little Zoltan is showing tonight..." I replied. "Don't say that. What time's it?"
"Well..." he looked sarcastically at his watch, and continuing the theme, "according to my sophisticated deduction... half past nine..."
"So, he's late. He'll show!" I said hopefully. I walked over to the bed. He came up to my face and we kissed. He pulled me onto it. Intermittently I struggled to say, "He'll turn up..." and laughed. He laughed too, and he started to place his hands lower and lower. I began digging into his mouth, and removing his top. We were well into it and only had our underwear on. My hand was massaging him through the thin material.
A knock at the door. Again. And again. I kissed Luke, and left him. "That's him! Now get dressed, you fucking faggot!" I said laughingly. He liked the term.
"Okay, queer cock-suck! Will do." He lunged off the bed and threw some clothes on.
I too dressed, and opened the door. A nervous, red-faced boy was in the hall. "Zoltan!" I yelled. "Come in. Come in."
Zoltan entered. He was heavily clothed. His eyes flew about the room excitedly. I took his coat and he sat on a couch. Luke was much warmer to him than at the sauna. He said, "Zoltan, you made it! Great."
The boy was still a little edgy. "Yeah. My mother thinks I am at a friend's house, doing so homework..."
"What did she call you at the pool?" I asked.
He smiled, easing a little. "'Zoli.' It's short for Zoltan."
Luke then said, "Yeah, like Mat is short for Matthew..."
I offered him a drink. He asked for some juice. Luckily we had some. We then spend thirty or so minute talking. Stuff about his school, his swimming, his city and country. He was rather curious about the Sydney Mardi Gras, and about the plane flight, and about Australia. We broke a lot of ice!
"Listen Zoli," Luke said at one stage, "can you translate something for us?"
"Sure! What?" Luke asked me. We recalled together the old woman's phrase. "O, okay. Well, 'En latok' simply means 'I see.' Why?"
We looked at each other. "Well," I said, "this old woman said it to us..."
Luke: "Yeah. Some fat old gipsy woman. She was really eerie, wasn't she dear?" he said, looking at me. I nodded. "The bitch just laughed at us after she kissed."
Zoltan sat up in the couch. "Was she wearing a... a... thing on her head...?"
"You mean a kerchief?" Luke suggested, demonstrating it with his hands.
The boy then said, "Wow! That's Madame Vision."
"Madame who?" we both asked.
"Madame Vision," he replied. "She is a famous fortune teller."
"Ahhh," Luke said, "so that's why she said 'I see!'"
So we discussed the Madame Vision a bit more. Apparently Zoltan had much esteem for her. He said she could tell a great many things about one, and her 'readings' were always interesting. We further said we should try and follow her up, and get our own readings.
It was eleven o'clock, and Zoltan freaked out. He simply had to leave. He excused himself, and dashed off, saying he'd return sometime in the morning. We agreed with him.
"Well, what do you think of 'my boy' now Luke?"
"Very interesting... very interesting!" He pulled me from the door and we melted into the bed for the night.