The Panacea

At the bottom of the screen, a yellow-orange bar was flashing. On the desk, among scattered papers, crumpled tissues, and blister packs of my meds – a few glasses with green tea sachets. The silence was broken by the rumble of passing trains. Reflexively, I kept opening and closing the tilt window so it wouldn’t disturb my playlist – “Relax. Take it easy” – because my idol, the forum moderator where I had the rank “admin’s dog,” was still listening to it. And Israeli oldies: Et mi at ohevet? Et mi at ohevet? Betachanat harakavot shaaalti – Who do you love, who do you love? At the railway station, I asked.

To the right, down the hallway, the closed door of my parents’ room. My father’s snoring. They were sleeping as they did every night, with the little dog dozing in the armchair. Their night, my day.

I clicked on the chat window. He was two years older, twenty-nine. He lived in the neighboring housing estate. Tall and lean. I didn’t register size, it had never interested me. What did I care? The face matters, and the feet – big feet. Small ones are for women. And the Adam’s apple – preferably a protruding one. I love that.

He was looking for a top – like everyone else. I wasn’t really suited for it, but I wanted to meet. I hadn’t done this in a long time. His name was Radek. Not particularly attractive. I gave my real name too. We agreed on neutral ground, a nice spot – the basement in my stairwell. He said he’d get into the building easily with the police code.

For a long time I felt relaxed, even while getting dressed, then quietly left the apartment, went down the stairs and opened the basement door. The adrenaline felt good. A fucking awesome vibe of waiting for an exciting adventure.

Then the conversation moved to texts. I grabbed my Yari. He wrote that he was on his way. He found my block and stairwell without any problem. I got a message that he was already there, waiting in the agreed place – straight ahead and to the right, right next to my parents’ storage locker. I grew serious.

For a while I still felt pretty normal. A nicer T-shirt and hoodie. Mirror, a bit of fluid on my face, deodorant and cologne. Jacket. I left the apartment into the hallway, locked the door. Slowly I descended the stairs to the ground floor.

As I passed each floor, my face fell, my legs started to buckle. After all, he wants to get fucked like a rag. The last time I was a top was with that massive whore at her place, where I had time to get used to the situation. This time it was going to be different – right away, fast.

I entered the basement. The darkness didn’t bother me. I knew the layout by heart, and not long ago I had given head to some random ugly but insanely hot guy my age right here, who kept saying: “But we care about discretion, don’t we?” I didn’t give a shit.

I smelled cat droppings and rat poison. I passed the fork I had warned him about and found him in the half-light – somewhere in the distance a lightbulb was burning. He was tall and beautiful. Fashionably cut hair, leather jacket. He smelled of expensive cologne. I walked up. He looked at my face.

And then he burst into sincere, booming laughter.

I understood immediately. I was so tense, practically terrified, that I was completely useless. For nothing. Me, a top? With what, for fuck’s sake? With my social phobia, neurosis, chronic dysthymia? Fuck that, not a top. I was sure he’d blow me off and leave. Everything was over. A complete mistake. And it was my fault, all mine.

And then he pulled a beer out of his pocket.

— Drink it down fast — he ordered.

I was twenty-seven and I didn’t know alcohol. I had never drunk before.

But now I grabbed the can and obediently drained it. He waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Soon I felt a buzz in my head. Suddenly I was cut off from myself. I felt raw, animal lust. I threw him against the wooden grate, unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants. I was rock hard. His body was wonderful, his ass perfect. I entered him quickly. I thrust into him like a conqueror. I was a wild, untamed warrior. I took him like a man takes a bitch. He didn’t moan, he stayed silent. He had control, he was experienced. Soft, gentle and defenseless inside.

— You’re gonna cum! — I heard.

— Where?

— Wherever you want!

Well, fuck, obviously I wanted it inside. I wanted him so badly, I wanted him to be mine, mine to the very end. I did it. I came inside him. I collapsed onto him. And without pulling out, I gently, tenderly kissed his wonderful, masculine, fragrant neck. A feeling of satisfaction and masculine pride filled me. I had conquered him. I was the victor, an undefeated soldier, the owner of a slave I had taken and used like my property.

Later there was a short exchange of words. I said “thanks” or something, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He stuck to the script and quickly disappeared.

I was left alone with my pride, satisfaction, the story, the lived adventure, and the narrative slowly building layer by layer. And with a completely new experience — the knowledge that alcohol ultimately banishes fears into oblivion and awakens the beast in me, turning a trembling queen into an invincible male.

I had found the panacea for the social encounters I had dreamed of. From then on everything was going to change. I had received a powerful tool for modifying my mood. A tool far more powerful than I had imagined.

I returned home. I fired up my blog called cwelik and in one breath described everything I had just experienced. I was the king of the world. I was a man.

And yet I could have, like Radek, simply gone back to my life and stopped acting as if something monumental had happened.

I wrote to him on GG. He replied laconically, with humor. A cheerful emoji with its tongue out appeared.

I didn’t understand that for him nothing extraordinary had happened. There were no wild beasts, no alphas, no conquerors or slave owners. Just another encounter, a quick one in the basement.

Thirty Złotys

I was sitting on the backrest of a bench by a cobblestone street where trams had run long ago. That’s where the motorized fags and old queens well into their thirties used to stop — the ones ashamed to show themselves in the park because of their age or their looks. Or both.

Not long ago I had slipped Jolka my old, scratched MP3 player with some tracks from the thirties: “Not to love on a night like this is a sin. Let’s love while there’s still time…” Now, dosed up on a few 5 mg Valiums, he was drifting along the paths with his hands pressed to his ears. He babbled that he felt plushy and got excited by the pre-war diction. He was thrilled by that half-closed, back-tongue, “dark” o, and the kresy ł — that soft, Eastern Borderlands lilt from pre-war Poland. The whole old stage accent.

To me Jolka always evoked a sociology script: inverted vertical migration. From a top student at a prestigious high school to a park whore who slept in stairwells with the homeless.

Around me circled some twenty-eight-year-old, not fat, more of a bear type. Nothing special, but not repulsive either. Acceptable. He approached slowly and spoke in a lowered voice:

— Sorry, do you maybe meet for money?

I said no, but I dragged out the syllable and my voice hung in the air. The guy walked a few steps away but stayed close.

I stared into the void. Jolka was turning tricks. I was surrounded by people just like him. I myself had been offered money many times in my life. I always refused. Not out of prosperity, but because of a mindless belief drilled into me at home that prostitution was something shameful. But was it really worth clinging to that illusion any longer? How many experiences, sensations — beautiful, terrible, intense — had it made me miss?

I jumped down from the bench. I walked up to him. We discussed the rules, got into the car. He turned the key, the lights flashed on. The queens, including Jolka, noticed us and started wagging their tongues. It was getting better with every second.

He drove me to the Citadel. We climbed the stairs almost all the way up to the plinth. We turned right and veered off the path into the trees.

He was calm, quiet, and kind. He unbuttoned his pants, took a condom from his pocket, tore the foil with his teeth. I don’t know why, but he took it out. And now I was crouching in front of him like a regular whore. And I felt that this was what I had been made for.

Afterward I stood up, put my arms around his neck and brushed his sweaty skin with my lips. He politely asked if we could stand like that a little longer. We stayed in the embrace for several minutes. Neither wanted to let go. I felt his warmth, the beating of his heart, his breath — first heavy, then steady and deep. In that moment everything was exactly where it should be.

He gave me thirty zlotys. I kept them as a souvenir.

In the future he picked me up from the park a few more times. What he always wanted most was the long hugging. Jolka went with him once too. He later thundered across the whole park:

— That man should be ashamed! Paying for plain cuddling! Absolute rock bottom!