Catfish Takes a Vacation Part 5
By Bald Hairy Man
This is a sexual fantasy with no effort made at real life experiences. If you object to gay fiction, DO NOT READ. This story is not for you. If you have any comments send them to bldhrymn@yahoo.com or bldhrymen@aol.com.
I tried to return the calls, but had no success. The phones in St. Petersburg were undependable and I must have been calling at a bad time. I went to my room, showered and then wandered towards Misha's. His business was closed, so I looked in a few more shops. As I progressed down the street and around the corner, the shops became less and less respectable. It took me a while, but I finally realized I was in a Red Light district. It was still really early, so the houses weren't open for business yet.
I went into one of the few open shops and found the place filled with an odd combination of Soviet memorabilia and porn. The place was clearly a tourist trap and most of the stuff was overpriced. I had a feeling I was being watched. The man at the checkout desk wasn't even pretending to be interested, so it wasn't him. At the back of the store, behind some World War II uniforms I saw a face staring at me. When I saw him, he hid. I wandered back.
A voice whispered, "American?" I nodded.
"Want a blow job?" the voice asked. "Very cheap."
"Done it already; got it for free." I said. A young man emerged from behind the uniforms. He was downright gaunt.
"Shit, I need the money," he said. The man at the desk became agitated when he saw the guy and began yelling. The young man ran from the store. I left shortly after. As I walked away, I saw the guy in an alley a few buildings away.
"Changed your mind?" he asked forlornly.
"Hell no, but I am looking for lunch, can you tell me where there is a good place to eat?" I asked.
"Follow me," he said. "I know a good place, two can eat as cheaply as one." I got the hint. A few blocks away, we went into a restaurant. It was a no frills place; the food was okay and plentiful. My friend introduced himself as Peter. He was an aspiring artist who had fallen on hard times. I told him, I was looking for Czarist Memorabilia.
"The best place is the Nicholas Gallery," he said, "but for a really good price, I can take you too the Smolenski market. That is where the deals are."
"Will you take me there?" I asked. He said, he would if I'd buy him dinner. It was a deal. I took him back to my room and tried to return the calls, while Peter showered. The hotel had hot water, which he regarded as a great luxury.
I reached Anatol, who told me he had given my name to a friend of his and the guy would be calling me.
"Is that Josef Schmidt?" I asked. Anatol said that was the man. He hung up and I called Schmidt. We had some confusion on the phone until he realized who I was. He told me, he had some things I might be interested in. He arranged to pick me up at noon the next day and he would take me to a showroom.
Peter emerged from the shower looking a lot better. The food and the warmth of the shower revived him. "Would you like a blow job now?" he asked. "I'll do it for free. To tell you the truth, I like sucking." I looked at the thin boy. He was probably 25, but he looked much younger. His cock was average and he wasn't my type, but he also looked eager enough. I got undressed.
He saw my cock. "I'm in love!" he exclaimed. Peter was right; he did like cocks. For the next hour he worshiped my member. I'm not sure he even took a breath. He loved it. I finally shot a respectable load into his mouth and he was satisfied. We got dressed and he took me to the Smolenski market.
The market was an informal mass of booths, shops and men with suitcases. They were selling anything and everything. I guessed that no more than 50 to 60% of the goods there were stolen. The rest were just suspect. We wandered deep into the mass of people. Peter was a good companion. He spared me from the hucksters and con men. On one side of the market space we went down an alley.
In the alley the atmosphere was of a bazaar in Central Asia. Most of the people were Asian, selling carpets, metalwork and cigarettes. We went through a door into the courtyard of an apartment house. Here there were Persian miniatures and Middle Eastern antiquities. A tall, bearded man beckoned to us. Peter spoke to him.
The man looked at me, "Czarist memorabilia is shit!" he said, spitting out the words. "I sell real art! Centuries old, some even thousands of years old"
"Let's see it." I said. He smiled and we followed him into the apartment house. He took us to a small apartment, chocked full of art works. I wasn't sure, but I think most of it was real. The craftsmanship was superb and at worst the works were first-rate copies. I picked up a few items.
"I see you know something about Asian antiquities." he said. That was purely accidental on my part. "I'm Abdul, and I carry only the finest things." I introduced myself and we got down to business. I told him my clientele wasn't very sophisticated, but if he had some things that were flashy enough, I might be able to sell them.
"Lets look in the back room," Abdul said. We went in the next room. It was filled with Greek, Roman and Middle Eastern works.
This is more like it." I said. "This is stuff a redneck could like." Abdul looked puzzled. I explained it. "Hillbillies." Abdul smiled.
"Peasants?" he asked.
"Not quite, but you're getting close. If you had a naked Venus it would be perfect." I replied. Abdul opened a cabinet and pulled out a bronze figurine of a goddess. We negotiated a price. I took the goddess back to my hotel. Peter stayed with Abdul, but I had a feeling I would be seeing Peter again.
I called Ivan. He came over and we went out to dinner. He didn't know who Schmidt was, but was interested. He had heard of Abdul.
"He's a small time operator with good connections to the east." Ivan said. "I would doubt many of the objects have a good provenance, but he's honest, compared to most."
"I'm afraid I'm getting a lot more cock than leads." I commented. "I'd hate to go home with no progress, except for well drained balls."
Ivan laughed. "To tell you the truth, you've done much better than I would have guessed," he said. "They've never seen you before, but your cock is better than any introduction. Lust seems to have made them much less cautious. I think you're doing well." Ivan paused. "Does it bother you to have guys lusting after your cock?"
"I had a long talk about that years ago with my Uncle Jake. I was a bit worried about those who might love my cock, but didn't give a flying crap about me," I said. "Jake told me, I wasn't exactly movie star material, so I might as well use what assets I had. Then he asked me, if I had many friends. I said yes. "How many got to know your cock before they got to know you?" Jake asked. I told him most. I've got lots of friends, good friends and most are sex buddies too. That's been good for me and good for them too."
Dinner was over and we walked back to my hotel. Ivan saw some guys he thought he recognized in front, so he left and I went in the hotel alone. There was a note under my door from Peter. It said, Abdul wanted to see me again and had some friends I might like to meet. The note gave a number to call for the next morning. I went to bed early and slept well. I needed the rest.
I called the number in the morning and told Abdul I might be free that night. He said, he would call me. The phone rang as I hung up. It was Josef Schmidt. He was waiting for me outside the main entrance to the hotel.
Schmidt drove a brand new Volvo. When I arrived he got out and his "associate" took the driver's seat and Schmidt and I sat in the back. He was a small, dark haired man with nervous eyes.
"I have heard you are interested in antiquities?" he asked.
I explained my needs. "Antiquities are a sideline, but I have some clients who might be interested in having some culture around the house," I said. "If the object is good and the price is good, I may be in the market."
"You live in a rural area?" Schmidt asked. "Off the beaten track, is that the right expression?"
"I guess you could say that," I replied. "Too tell you the truth, some of my clients are way off the beaten track and let's say, they like it that way. Some of my clients aren't real social, if you get my drift."
"I have become the owner of some very fine objects," Schmidt said. "I would like to dispose of them, but they are not the sort of things that can be sold in major galleries."
"A problem with provenance?" I asked. He smiled.
"That is a nice way to put it." he said. "They would be ideal in a small private gallery in a home. You understand?"
"I get the drift," I answered. "My clients don't have much of a problem with irregularities in the chain of ownership. Most of them got their start with metal detectors on someone else's property. They don't mind informalities. They do know that "irregularities" may adjust the objects value."
"Of course, that goes without saying." Schmidt said. The Volvo slowed down and we turned into a courtyard surrounded by warehouses. A garage door opened by remote control and we went inside the building. The interior was dark and seemed empty at first. We got out and went into an office area. Here there were some first quality items. When Schmidt left the room and his friend made some coffee, I got to look at a vase carefully. It had a museum catalog number painted on the bottom. I saw the remains of a tag with the words "Musee des Bea . . ." faintly visible.
When Schmidt returned, I told him I was most interested in Indian artifacts, especially Mayan or Aztec.
"Not Inca?" he asked.
I guess Inca stuff would be alright," I said. "An Indian is an Indian to most of my clients, Apache or Inca, it's all the same to them." Schmidt's associate disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a box. Inside was a beautiful Mayan Vase, elaborately painted and inscribed. It appeared to be in perfect condition. He gave me gloves and I looked it over. There was no tag or tell tale catalog number. I tried to remember all the forger's tricks I had learned. I was pleased when most of my crash course in Art History came back to me.
Schmidt wanted $6,000.00 for it. I offered $3,000.00 and settled on $4,900.00 as the selling price. The associate produced another box. This was a Peruvian, Inca figural pot. I was pretty sure it was a forgery and didn't take it. I didn't make a fuss over Schmidt trying to foist a fake on me, but he knew I spotted it as a fake. Schmidt must have figured I knew enough about the rules of the game to not be shocked.
A third object, an obsidian ritual knife, was real and I got it for $12,000.00. I said, my clients liked weapons and if I told them it was used for human sacrifice, I could get a good price. Paying up was complicated and eventually I agreed to wire money to a Swiss bank; they would hold it in escrow until I received the objects.
Schmidt drove me back to the hotel. He seemed pleased with the days work. So was I. I had purchased all clearly stolen, or looted goods. I now knew a dealer and some of the financial institutions that were handling the funds. It was a good day.
Back at the hotel Peter was waiting for me near the door. He made sure Schmidt was out of sight before he came up to me. He looked uneasy.
"Did you call Abdul?" he asked. I told him I did. "It's not about the antiquities. I told him about your cock. He wants to see it and play with it."
"Well as along as the cock is attached to me, I've got no problem with that," I said.
Peter looked relieved. "I didn't want you to think I was a pander. I just got carried away by it," he said.
"Hey, Peter, you aren't the first size queen I've ever run into," I replied. "It's happened before."
"Can I suck it again?" he asked.
"I think I'd better save it for Abdul," I said. I went into the hotel, had a quick dinner and went to my room. About an hour later Abdul called and said, he would send a car for me. This time the car was one of the old, Soviet era contraptions, held together with baling wire and duct tape. One of the drivers could speak a little English, the other none at all.
The driver took a very circuitous route to going wherever the destination was and I was a bit uneasy this might be an abduction. I later found out the driver usually drove a getaway car and he took a confusing route out of habit, rather than intention. The guy who could speak some English didn't speak it well, but he talked non-stop. He must have had the equivalent of a few years of High School English and many years of watching American movies. He was short, round, cheerful and totally unconcerned I couldn't understand much of what he was saying.
We finally reached a rundown, high rise building on the edge of town. We drove into the back and got out. Abdul must have seen us and he came out to greet me. He was glad to see me and took me into a low building on the side of the Stalin era apartment house. This building was new, but the design looked as if it had been built several centuries before. It has a shallow dome and I thought it was a mosque at first. It was a Turkish bath.
We went into a locker room; we stripped and went into the bath proper. The building was richly decorated in glazed tiles and marble. The first room was a shower and it connected to a steam room. Everyone in the bath looked Mid-eastern, or Turkish. All had black hair, mustaches or a beard and most had hairy chests. A few had salt and pepper hair and there were several younger men and boys.
We sat in the steam room and then went into the next space. The domed room focused on a pool, with a wide, marble paved area around it. This was a beautiful, brand new, luxurious, bath totally unlike the rundown bath I met Anatol in the day before.
Abdul was an important man here, a tribal chieftain of some sort. He explained his tribe owned the apartment house and had built the bath as a community center-club house. Most of the men he said worked odd jobs around St. Petersburg and sent money home to their wives and families in the Caucuses somewhere. I didn't get the name, but it was a "stan" of some sort. I though he said Hunanastan, but that couldn't be right.
"This bath is a better social center than a bar and a night of drinking Vodka," Abdul said. "The Russian's are destroying themselves with Vodka." Everyone was nude in the domed room. The older men were talking quietly. Some of the younger men were partially erect, one or two had full hard-ons. "There is no Vodka here, but I warn you about the coffee!" Abdul added, laughing.
"No wives to keep you from getting too wild?" I asked.
"No women at all for us. I was married when I was 14 and my wife was 12. We slept together for the first time two years later and had a boy nine months after that," Abdul explained. "I've slept with that woman four times only and have a child for each time! Her father paid me to leave."
"A bull's eye every time? Do you ever get lonely without a woman?" I asked.
"Never." he said. "Men friends are enough for me." We were sitting naked on the edge of the pool and he, as well as everyone else in the room was checking out my equipment. I was the only uncut man there. I peeled back the skin some, so they could see the tip of my cock head. That went over well. Abdul sat close to me, but got even closer. He put his arm around my shoulder.
"Peter said, you would understand this," he said. "For us sex is only with women and only with your wife. You westerners think of relations between men as sex, but we don't. If you can't have a baby it isn't sex. To make love to a woman you aren't married to is a great sin."
"And to make love with a man?" I asked.
"That is no problem at all. It's just part of being a man." Abdul replied. "To take pleasure from a man is a joy. To give pleasure to another man is an honor and a joy." He reached over and touched my cock. I had oozed a little precum. He spread the fluid over the portion of my cock head, which was exposed.
"You see the younger men with erections?" he whispered. "They are new here and very excited. Most of them are giving pleasure now; when they get older they will take it. It is still early, soon everyone will be relaxed and more . . . playful." An older man came over and sat on the other side of me. He spoke to Abdul in a language, which wasn't Russian. Abdul said something and the older man smiled.
"This is Bukar, my Uncle," Abdul said, "You remind him of my Grandfather; he was small like you, but had a cock like yours. They called it "the Club of Khanistan." To take it was a sign of adulthood. None of his sons inherited it, so it has become almost legendary."
I looked around the room. There were many well-equipped men, but all had big, cut, mushroom cock heads on comparatively slender shafts. It must have been a characteristic of their ethnic group. My club cock was thick and the head was the same size as the shaft. Abdul stroked my cock and coaxed a glob of precum from my slit. Bukar touched the glistening glob, then tasted it.
Bukar had a thick, white beard and he sighed in relief as he savored the taste of my precum. He said something to Abdul.
"He says you taste like his father." Abdul translated. "It is good, he says."