Pedik Russkiy - 1. Chapter 1

Unexpectedly and totally devoid of any anticipations for the coming evening I sauntered into my regular gay pub in the small alley in the city’s center. A look around confirmed that hopes could remain low: there was just the regular bunch of guys, some of whom I only knew from face and others more intimate. Until I saw one person that I had never seen before.

Don’t ask me where he came from, I don’t know. But it seemed as if he was there all of a sudden, tucked away in a dark corner of the pub. He behaved like he didn’t want to be seen, pushing himself in the shadow of the hall stand. But from his dark dungeon he observed all going-ons eagerly with so every now and then a twinkle of total amazement and bewilderment in his eyes.

And there was no need for him to hide. I never saw such a gorgeous and desirable boy before in my life. If he would come out of his fortress, he would surely be the beaming center of all attention. I estimated him in his early twenties. He was of average height and weight, maybe a tad too slim. But he emphasized his slim body by wearing tightly fitting clothes. His face was dominated by high cheekbones that made me believe he was of Slavic origin, a beautifully shaped nose and equally beautiful full lips. His hair was too dark to be called blond but far too light to be called brown. His eyes…? I had to guess about them. Because he had withdrawn himself in the scarce light, I couldn’t discern them. No matter what: he intrigued me and since the other chair at his table was still free I decided to join him and see where things might lead to.

So I sat down opposite to him and started with a kind:

“Hi there, I’m John. May I ask what your name is?”

He stared at me with sheer panic in his eyes as if he was expecting me to rape him right now and there. And then I saw his eyes: they had a soft grey color and gave me the impression that normally they would look into the world softhearted and kind, but right now they glanced around nervously and frightened.

He recovered, looked at me shortly with some curiousness and answered with a soft, barely audible voice :

“My name is Ilya”.

“Nice to meet you, llya. It’s a beautiful name. It sounds Russian, I think?” I said with a smile.

I had no idea what it was in my remark, but it caused another look of panic and skittishness in his eyes. What was it that made him so frightened?

I decided to limit myself to casual chatting to put him at ease:

“I’ve never seen you here before”.

He shook his head emphatically and answered in the same soft voice as if nobody else had to hear what he said:

“No, I just arrived in-country”.

I recognized the accent in his English. He had Slavic features, his name was Russian and his accent was Russian, which made him Russian for all purposes as far as I was concerned. My curiosity got the upper hand: how did he get here? What was he looking for? And being far too spontaneous to swallow my questions I just asked them.

He bent over the small table until his lips could almost touch my ear and whispered:

“I ran away from it. I’m a refugee”.

“What for?” was my next astonished question.

His fear became tangible and I felt the doubt if he would reply me. I could almost read the struggle in his mind in his eyes: answer or just ignore the question? He took a deep sigh and whispered:

“I’m a pedik!”

“A what?” I asked, not understanding his reply.

A short insecure and nervous smile slid over is lips and he answered:

“I have no idea how you call them, not a homosexual but…you know, the abusive word”.

“Ah”, I exclaimed laughing, “A faggot”

My laughing was extremely short-lived. In my spontaneity I had exclaimed the word too loud and disapproving and angry faces from the tables around us were my share. I mumbled a “sorry” and felt a bit uncertain under the gazes. But I managed to ignore the angry looks around me and concentrated on the beautiful boy that called himself Ilya.

“So what?” I said pensively, “You’ve got a whole pub full of gays over here, nobody cares!”

“That would have been impossible where I come from”, he said softly, “It would have been raided by the police in no time and we would all be in jail by now”.

“Where is ‘where you come from’?” I asked curious.

“Saint Petersburg!” was the short answer.

I thought it over for a short moment. I had heard enough about the discrimination and suppression of homosexuals in Putin’s Russia, or should I say the Russia of Czar Vladimir I.

“Ilya” I said cautiously, “This is not Saint Petersburg, this is not Russia. This is free western Europe. As long as you obey the laws our police is not interested one fuck in what you do in bed and with who you do it”.

“The ban on homosexuality is a law in my country”, he remarked with a sad face.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean our laws. So no messing around with boys under 18 and you’re not allowed to force someone to sex. And as long as you stick to these simple rules no policeman will check on your sexual behavior. But tell me, are you not allowed to be gay in Russia?”

“Oh yes,” he answered with a wry smile, “of course you are allowed to be gay. But you’re not allowed to express yourself as gay, to live like it. You’re not supposed to get in touch with other gays, not in pubs like this one, not in the parks, not in the woods, nowhere. You can’t even do it via internet because the secret service controls the internet. So we’re convicted to celibacy without choosing for it”.

“Jeez….”…there was nothing more I could say. It was by far too absurd for words.

“You see”, he continued, “Our President has convicted homosexuality as something from the decadent Western world. We Russians have no gays. We Russians don’t do things like that”.

Something popped up in my mind, it was a memory from a chat a long time ago.

“But”, I tried, still not able to grasp the meaning of what I heard, “I had a chat with a Russian guy some time ago and he told me it wasn’t all that bad as the papers in the west told us”.

Ilya looked at me with a face that was almost desperate, took another deep sigh and replied:

“You guys are really spoiled in the West. Of course he said that! I already told you: the secret service controls the internet. If he had said something else he wouldn’t have been arrested for being gay but for endangering the state security. And beware: our state security is endangered very fast! Then it is counting trees or digging for gold. Or it was a secret agent who told the official government line”.

I stared at him quizzingly…counting trees? Digging gold?

“That is the Russian euphemism for exile to Siberia or forced labor in the Kolyma gold mines. They don’t do that anymore but the euphemism stayed”.

“What do they do nowadays?” I asked.

“With gays? Officially you are fined. So that is not that serious. But unofficially mug gangs attack gays and gay bars, beat guys up, in some cases very serious. Rumor says that these gangs are secret service-financed and organized. Don’t bother to report it to the police, they will do nothing to protect gays or investigate crimes against them. Because you’re only a pedik! We are free game and totally outlawed”.

The only thing I could do is to emphasize it again:

“Ilya, you’re here now! You have nothing to fear so just enjoy it!”

Only for a very brief moment a happy, almost relieved smile was visible on his face when he said:

“I intend to! I yearn for it!”

“Then come with me to my apartment!” I blurted out spontaneously and without thinking, “We can talk some more and after that…let’s just see what happens!”

He looked at me with penetrating eyes but didn’t speak a word. For a short moment I had the feeling I had gone too far, that I had asked too much of this boy. And I felt some trouble brewing in my conscience: didn’t I really just abuse his situation and the unsatisfied desire that had resulted from it?

But what was done was done: I had just blurted it out and now I could only wait how he would react.

He reacted greedy, very greedy: “Yes, let’s go!”

So, I paid my bill and together we left the pub for my apartment.

When we arrived at the apartment building the fear and skittishness were back again. While walking over the parking lot towards the main entrance his eyes meticulously scanned the bushes around it inch by inch, searching for hidden mug gangs and secret agents. I saw it happen but choose to ignore it. Maybe it is the result of years of state terror and suppression. It is a well-developed defensive reflex of self-protection like some Pavlov reaction. It doesn’t matter if the situation and circumstances change: once the reflex is in place it remains there on full functioning status. It would take years in a less threatening and volatile environment to slacken off.

When he re-started the whole ritual again at the main entrance it really got to me.

“Ilya, there are no secret agents over here”, I whispered softly.

“Sorry, force of habit I guess”, he replied with a guilty smile.

When he commenced the whole procedure for the third time at the front door of my apartment with glances down- and upstairs and to the neighbor’s door I was fed up with it. I opened the door, simply took him by the hand and dragged him in. In the hallway I said to him:

“Ilya, there’s only you and me in this apartment. There are no hidden camera’s or microphones and nor is there a KGB agent under the bed”.

He smiled, but it was not a happy smile.

“FSB”, he said, “The KGB does no longer exist but is re-named in FSB. Doesn’t matter, it’s the same recipe, just some fancy window dressing”.

We sat down on the couch and I offered him a drink. I decided to slow down a bit, so we started with small talk. But suddenly, without any announcement, he changed subjects after he had pensively looked out of the window into the dark night when he said:

“You said in the bar you wanted to know how it is to be gay in Russia?”

“Yes…I would like to understand it”, I confirmed.

“Strange”, he said with a sigh, “I trust you. And I’ve learned the hard way not to trust anybody”.

The implicit compliment made me nod in gratitude and respect, but he didn’t seem to notice it, because he started his story with a question:

“Have you ever experienced the fear that your death is really imminent?”

The tone in which the question was asked surprised me: it was devoid of all emotion. But, being honest, I could only shake my head in denial. Thank God I never had that feeling.

No matter the tone…his eyes changed. The insecurity, on itself already a rather negative feeling, was replaced by an expression of sheer terror. After taking a deep breath he continued almost toneless:

“It was last summer, one night in Saint Petersburg. I was strolling home after I had kissed my date for the evening good night. And all of a sudden there was this gang, coming out of nowhere! They pointed at me…I didn’t know why. I was just a boy walking on his own, not a gay with his boyfriend in his arms. It didn’t matter…they started hunting me…yes,..they were literally hunting me!”

The memory made him tremble all over his slim body, but despite that he continued his narrative:

“I started running…I never knew I could run that fast. But they were fast as well. So I started running even harder...Funny…one might almost think that the feeling of having death on your heels gives you wings. I managed to outrun them slightly…just enough to round a corner, making me out of sight very briefly”.

He closed his eyes…even his eyelids were trembling now. Me…I just listened…there was nothing else I could do. After a deep sigh he went on:

“And then there it was…as if God put it there: a large refuse container, its lid fully open. Without thinking I jumped into it, pulling the lid down in one swift move. It was right in time! I was invisible…at least, that is what I hoped for, before they rounded the corner as well!”

Trembling was too moderate a word…by now his whole body was shaking!

I granted him a pause in which he attempted to regulate his panting breathing. With hollow eyes he looked at me briefly and said:

“But it wasn’t over yet. They assembled just in front of that damned container and I heard them discussing where I could be. Things like ‘Where the fuck is he?” and ‘He can’t have vanished into thin air’. It seemed to take ages that they were talking in front of that container. I was even too afraid to breathe! I just laid there in this rubbish with closed eyes, praying in silence. One of them was probably that frustrated that he banged on the container. I thought my heart stopped beating at that moment. I’ve never been so scared in my life!

Well, I was lucky…they looked like prehistoric men but their brain capacity was like that of a Neanderthaler as well. Thank God none of them got the bright idea to open the container. After a while they left…that is…it sounded like they left”.

“But…?” I gently insisted, becoming very tense and absorbed in the ordeal as well, although I was only a listener to this horrible history.

“I decided to stay in the container. What if they only simulated they were leaving and were waiting a short distance away? I didn’t have the courage to open the lid and peep out. So, I stayed there. Only then I noticed the thing smelled like a pigsty. Rotting food, all kinds of undetermined refuse, even the smell of filled diapers. Although, I admit that I was afraid that this last smell might mean that I shitted my pants”.

His shaking hands swept over his anguish-filled eyes.

“I don’t know how long I stayed there. Could well be I even slept in this stinking hellhole…I really don’t know. Anyway…when I came to myself after a long time I listened very carefully if I heard something. I did…it were car engines in the street. So, very carefully I opened the lid and peeped out. The first thing I saw was the light of the rising sun”.

His shoulders slumped and shocked, his head lay in his hands. Softly he muttered:

“I knew I was safe for the time being…I survived!”.

He recovered somewhat and ended the story with:

“I climbed out and ran home like a madman…once I got there, I barricaded my apartment’s door with furniture to make sure they would stay out…then…I don’t know…I guess I dumped my smelling clothes and took a long shower…but I’m not sure about that. Then I decided it was time to get out of my country, before luck would run out on me the next time”.

I took his trembling body in my arms, looked deep in his desolate grey eyes and whispered:

“Forget about them goons. You’re safe here! Just enjoy it!”

Making that clear statement I kissed him softly on his velvet lips, looking into his eyes, where deeply felt desire and softness replaced the expression of undisguised fear.

It didn’t take long before we were in bed, naked next to each other. At least not longer as the time needed to shuffle through the hallway while kissing and caressing and undress. The way he lay on the bed was breathtaking. His totally smooth body was in one word perfect and he had a beautiful, torpedo-formed cock that defiantly stood straight up with a tip that gleamed softly in the sparse light of the bed lamp. It had no irregularity at all.

I felt like I just had to! There was no way out of the all overwhelming lust that came over me and I almost jumped at the glistening dickhead. I started to lick and suck it voluptuously and thoroughly enjoyed the young precum. It didn’t take much time to bring Ilya in heaven, causing him to ejaculate his hot white gold in my mouth while roaring and meandering. It tasted as if an angel cum on your tongue!

He took no rest. With something akin to fanaticism he rolled on his belly and sat up on his knees, pushing his buttocks up and to the rear invitingly. It was as if he wanted to make up years of frustration in one go.

Deliberately slow and tempting he spread his buttocks and I was rewarded with a full view of his delicious crevasse of joy and passion. It was as if I had spoken the spell “Sesame, open yourself” because it opened up all by itself, trembling in anticipation. I was just able to see a little bit of the intestines, a soft gleaming pink in which every little muscle shuddered with desire.

Despite my urges I maintained some control over myself. I started to lick his cunt first so that it was well prepared to enter, tasting its wonderful earthy flavor and only after that I mounted him. I didn’t want it to hurt. To the contrary: this first time should be the most enjoyable and unforgettable experience for him after he had suppressed his normal but reviled human feelings and longings for years.

It became an experience for both of us. He was so wonderfully tight, soft and warm inside. I did what I could to postpone the final moment of ejaculation to enable him and myself to enjoy it a bit longer. I managed to do so for a while but the moment came inevitably. Moaning and panting he received my full load and screamed:

“Stay in me!”

I saw no objections to oblige to his request. He slumped back on his belly, my hard dick still in him and I kept thrusting, purring like an old tomcat.

Ilya stayed the whole night and we repeated it in every imaginable position. Each time there was this pent-up rage in him, full of urge, as if he wanted to catch up with all he had missed in this one night and maybe even get an advance installment for the future in case it turned out that this night was the only opportunity to get it. I felt sorry for him: he clearly had to get used to our western liberties, including the sexual ones. But he was young and given he would stay here, he would manage. I had to admit: I would love him to stay here and not only out of selflessness. Besides…isn’t sex one of the best stress reducers?

The next morning we showered and had breakfast in almost total silence. After that he made it clear he had to go: he didn’t want to run into trouble with the Immigration officials and had to get back to the refugee reception center.

At the front door I looked at him. Between making love and after he had fallen asleep totally exhausted I had been thinking. There were some things I still didn’t grasp so I asked him:

“llya, which personal grievances does Putin actually have against homosexuals?”

He looked me straight in the eye and replied:

“I guess Putin has no personal misgivings against homosexuals at all. It is all politics!”

I guess my look was totally puzzled so he continued:

“Putin dreams of a restoration of the Great Russian Empire like in the days of Catharina the Great. He thinks Russia is chosen by God to lead the world and that Russia is protected and guided by God. Of course he sees himself as the God-sent envoy with orders to actually execute the Almighty’s will in a hedonist and hostile world. You know…people have ended up in the security ward of a psychiatric clinic with lesser mental disorders”.

“But what has that to do with homosexuals?” I asked, not understanding what he was aiming at.

“The conservative Russian-Orthodox church considers everything, that even looks like a different gender identity or sexual preference than what they consider normal, as a gruesome sin. So, the self-crowned emperor saw it as his duty to commence his crusade against the LGTBQ-community. That he got the votes of the real conservative voters at his re-election was an added bonus…in his twisted thinking he might have even considered it as a sign of God’s gratitude, I don’t know”.

He sighed deep and continued:

“Every country has its share of conservatives who detest homosexuality. Your country too! Maybe our share is bigger than in other countries but they are everywhere. Anyway, we are just the ones who do the bleeding. But that is only a small sacrifice for the grandeur of the Rodina, the Holy Motherland. As everything else in Russia: it is all about politics!”

“But it is totally against human rights”, I exclaimed angrily.

To my surprise Ilya burst in a roaring laughter. When he recovered he said:

“You westerners can be so touchingly naïve! There’s a running joke in Russia that goes like this: when the European Union complained at the Kremlin they had to do something about the sorry state of human rights the Kremlin answered: “We’re sorry we can’t honor your request in this matter. There is nothing we can do about it, because we have no human rights over here”.

He stared thoughtfully in front of him, then he said:

“I guess it makes him think he has the right to decide over life and death. It explains the murder attempts abroad and at home, like the one on Nawalny. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hears voices in his head that he considers as God’s orders to eliminate everything that forms an obstruction to the good cause. And then this war came…it appears, that the Ukraine is just another obstruction to the righteous cause. Did you know that there are vague indications that again there is special attention for the LGTBQ-community in the Ukraine?”

“Meaning?” I asked taken aback.

He shrugged and replied matter-of-factly:

“I’m not in a position to check if these reports are correct. But there is some news circulating, that FSB troops, who are behind the Army assaults, have search lists for LGTBQ activists. There are even rumors that dead lists are involved. But again…I can’t check if this news is correct or just propaganda. Man…you know…I’m disgusted by the fact I’m Russian. I’m ashamed of my own country”.

“Don’t”, I tried to console him, “Never forget: this is Putin’s war, not the war of all Russians”.

His gorgeous grey eyes look me directly in the eye and he kissed me softly on my lips, a kiss I would like to receive another million times.

“Thank you”, he whispered.

“You’re welcome. Any time you feel like it”, was my deeply-felt honest reply.

He opened the door and ran downstairs, leaving me behind with my emotions in a state of extreme turbulence.