Seven feet deep

I've been digging for months. I've been digging through grass, through soil, I even broke my spade. It splintered on a grey stone. I got another spade, I kept on digging. 

One foot deep.

Easy job. I'm one foot deep. I found nothing on this level. Not that I should expect to find anything. I haven't made the effort. I know it's somewhere down there.

Two feet deep.

I'm warmed up. Drops of sweat chase down my cheeks, neck, and dry up at my collar. Where is it? I have to keep digging. It has to be here.

Three feet deep.

I tuck up my sleeves. Damn, it's tiring! And it's still not there! Is it sweat running down from my eyes?

Four feet deep.

If I bend, I can't see out of the hole. My back hurts. Where the hell is it? I've been told it would be here. She told me it would be here. It was put here, she said!

Five feet deep.

No! Nothing, for fuck's sake! Nothing! She promised! She told me I'd find it here! Just dig a bit down, and you'll find, she whispered! Poisonous tongues always lure you into a trap. Yet I knew the thing I was looking for is there, right below me. I have to dig.

Six feet deep.

Dead men rest here. Even if I straighten, I see nothing. Just a hole I dug. Still nothing. What a lie it was! A sweet lie...

Seven feet deep.

I look around. It's almost pitch black. As I extend my arms vertically, they can't reach the edge of the hole. I'm trapped. Have I found it? I fumble at the bottom but my hands grasp only the cold, soft soil. What I'm looking for is warm. Throbbing, probably. But now I see there is no turning back. Grabbing my spade I have to keep on digging. Wind grazes my nape; it ruffles my shaggy hair. Sweat dryens on my skin quickly. I shiver. My dirty fingers clutch around the hilt. Determined motion raises and strucks the spade into the ground.

Eight feet deep.

Dim, wit

Man is dressing up in a dimly lit bedroom. Woman watches every movement of his.

-No, Lula. I'm sorry, but no.
- No what, Mickey?
- No for this. No for you.
- I don't understand, Mickey... don't you want me anymore? Don't you love me anymore?
- Hush, Lula. Enough of this nonsense.
- But Mickey, where did all those dreams go? You said you would love me forever! You said we'd fuck and drink forever, or maybe until we die...
- Enough of it, Lula. We can't.
- But Mickey! I'll go with you anywhere! Anywhere! I swear to God, I swear for the sake of my Ma' and Pa', and...
- Shut your mouth, silly.
- Am I silly, Mickey? Am I silly for loving you? Am I silly for wishing nothing but you?
- You are silly, Lula. You are silly for following me.
- Oh but a woman does what a woman's heart tells her to do. And my heart tells me to follow you, Mickey.
- I'm leaving town, Lula. And I won't stop just to eat, sleep and fuck.
- I don't care, Mickey! Take me with you! Take me and stop to eat and sleep and fuck with me!
- I can't, Lula.
- But why?
Woman pants miserably. Man appears to be wondering for a second. He turns his head towards the woman.
- Why? You ask why? Here is my answer. I go cuz I have to go. I go cuz I'm not from here. I go cuz I don't love you. I go cuz I'm restless. I go cuz I'm selfish. I go cuz I'm weary.
- Stay Mickey... if you are weary. I can cure that.
- No woman could cure weariness. You cause weariness. You simply don't use poison as remedy.
- What do you mean Mickey?
- I mean I have to go, sweet Lula.
Man finishes dressing. Woman makes no movement, just stares at him.
- What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.
- Oh Lula. You and your sentimental hunger for drama. Things aren't as Chris Isaak sings it.
- They are Mickey. And you rivers are also on fire, just in the song. But I'm calm, Mickey. And you know why?
- Tell me.
- It's cuz I know that nobody loves no one. And you ain't an exception, Mickey.
Man pulls a bitter grimace, a wicked smile maybe. Opens the door, slams it. Woman sobs silently as his footsteps fade.

my pipe

start,
start,
start,
ignite

start it.

my grandpa's pipe's in my mouth. its like having a piece of history in my mouth. not like when lewinski blew clinton. its like my grandpa, long dead and buried, leaving his pipe untouched for decades is coming to life again. this tiny piece of well-fabricated wood survived him. it survived his wife. survived thirty years. waited with patience, as much as a wooden pipe could wait. with patience.
now its here, in Eger. the only thing which deserves capital letter in my post.
so, this pipe is mine now; and its lit. lit with fire. lit with this fucking enthusiasm which doesnt want to come to an end, this impulsive fraction of life, sorry, Life.
im drunk with love, drunk with life, drunk with writing. drunk with pipe. drunk with my grandpa. is he there? anywhere? watching? listening? grinning? paying attention? i hope he has a pipe up there. even though i know we'd have a lot of fun smoking tobacco together in fonyód, now i only wish he has some tobacco up there.

people die around you. they leave you, they exit your life. it doesnt make a difference. they vanish even if they are still alive. they are dead for you. is grandpa  gone? yep. is he still smoking the pipe with me? yep.
i bet he fuckin does.

some others may still be alive; and yet they are dead.

my pipe survived my grandparents. it will probably outlast me as well.

lovers come and lovers go; but my pipe is always there. so as my pen; and so as my words.

oddly enough,

i just love this life.

just like i love my pipe.

Chocolate eggs

One day my stories from the hotel will be published. Paperback novel. Wicked black and white portrait of myself on the back, no blurb as no one would be willing to write any. And the title: Wellness hotel.
Whoa, whoa, hold your imagination cowboy! First you need stories to fill that book up.

Here, I present you the latest and probably the weirdest so far.

4 am. Night shift coming to its end. I'm about to leave the reception desk as breakfast has to be prepared. Drunkards sleep, lovers sleep, loners sleep. The hotel is asleep.

Except this fucking night. Two drunk Germans arrive. Yelling and giggling all the way, they stop with some hesitation at my desk.
"Hello there. We would like eine... zwei..., nein, two beers. Two beers, please."
"I'm sorry sir. We do not have any beer at the reception" that's me, lying obviously. We have shit loads of beer racked up behind the reception door in the fridge. But in their condition, they get only mineral water.
"NOOOO we wantzz some bier! Good bier."
"Sir, you have two bottles of Heineken and Carlsberg in your room. Check the minibar" I told him, hoping they will just vanish. Surely they didn't.
"Oh fuck the beer. But what other drinks you have then... OOOOH I see a lot of alcohol!" said the shorter guy, happily recognizing the pocket-sized liquor store behind my back. There goes my plan, I thought. I should have served the damn beers but now they are ordering some hard stuff. They did.
"Two martinis please, James Bond style. Zwei, yes Thomas is also drinking"
Damn you and your Martinis. Fine, so now what? Single or double? They are wasted already. Double it is. As they taste it, the short guy spits it back.
"Scheisse! OUFF this is is shit! I want some bier!" with the most German-English pronunciation one could imagine.
"Fuck this scheisse... What's your name?" he leans closer above the desk, stares in my eyes."Say, boy! You look like my friend in Germany... As young and as..."
"Stop it, Stephan." he gets interrupted by Thomas. Thomas is sober enough to restrain his buddy. Which I'm more than glad for. Thomas picks up one chocolate egg from the tiny silver bowl on the desk.
"Can I take this for my little kids?"
"Sure, take two." Stephan also starts playing with one egg. He peels the thin red paper, breaks the chocolate egg into two halves. He slowly grabs one half and drops it into Thomas' glass. The father of two kids takes a good, long look at his freshly made coctail.
"Fuck you Stephan. I'm going to sleep" Stephan laughs like an idiot. Chocolate bits between his teeth. Smell of alcohol hits my face. He winks at me and says,
"Thomas, tell him that (says something indistinct in German)," grinning.
Thomas has all the pain of humankind written over his face.
"He says you look like his boyfriend back in Germany. As young and as.. gorgeous."
Now I'm fucked. Figuratively, thus far. And I have to be aware if I want to keep it like that.
"HA! He is gorgeous indeed. You don't want a champagne maybe? My room is no. 5." adds Stephan with a menacing grin.
"I'm sleeping, Stephan" and this time Thomas indeed walks up the stairs.

We are alone. Faint lamp lits Stephan's wicked face.
"So... you want some champagne, yes?"
"Sir, I can't drink during shift. I'm sorry."
"Sorry, sorry... you are always sorry you fucking arschlock." he grabs another chocolate egg and totters towards the stairs. "Fuck this night... fuck this martini and your pretty white face."
His voice echoes up the corridor as he disappears on the corner.
"Always sorry! Fuck you and the eggs, the martini, and Thomas. Fuck..." and so on, until the door slams.

4.30 am. I have to start preparing breakfast. Fuck the breakfast.

Figuratively.

New header and more

You might have realized that something changed. This vanished:

And this appeared, changing the color scheme:

After a little cosmetics of course. Original:

So previous one was Misi, oldest of my brothers (turning 14). But he shan't reign long I told myself  thus the idea of bringing Andris (10) to the spotlight came last night. So there you go, share your opinion, like, dislike etc.

The hooker, the birthday guy and the boy

1

Wasted. That would be the perfect word. To describe me. Me, in general. And me, right now. You turn 40 and you seem to be forgotten by the outer world. Great fourth X birthday party! Huh! We all gonna come, they said. We are getting wasted, they said.
My saddest fuckin birthday. Ever. Sure, I've had bad ones. But not sad ones. Not like this. Mmmh, anyway. Eger and the valley of the beautiful women. That's how they call it. Yet the only woman I've found is a hooker. Yeah, I didn't actually find her. I just dialled a number. If you are having a miserable birthday, it has to peak in every possible means. The hooker is pretty. As much as a hooker can be pretty. She has some class, possibly faking it though. As we enter the hotel, she orders a whisky with coke. There goes the class. I take a black label and a ginger ale to wash it down. Boy serving it is whole-hearted, at least he appears to be. Brings the tray with the booze to the room. Fine, just get back to your desk. Let me close the door. Thanks.
The hooker is classy again. I suppose that's what you say when a woman grabs your cock with sure hands. Now she is naked, just the bra left on. I'm trying to grope her, everywhere. She is like a candy. The type of candy you bite on and you just can't stop chewing. It tortures your tasting buds so much that you chew faster, and faster until the moment you realize...

That she is gone. And you came.

2

Oh boy, what an awful day. Hate Fridays. There is this fat-ass lawyer I have to blow at 6 pm. Every damn Friday. It lasts at least for 30 minutes. No matter how hard I try. Men say they cum fast if I use both hands. Well this lawyer seems to beat the odds every fuckin occasion. Leaving him is a bigger pleasure than having an orgasm after months of trying at work and home. And yet, receiving a phone call at 2 am is almost worse. Guy sounds excited. Drunk. Wants to fuck. Has a birthday today. Booked a hotel room. In the valley of the beautiful women. How ironic. The slut walks into a place which salutes to beauty. Well, I salute to cock. Even pretty girls do that. 

The hotel seems neat. Ardent boy raises his pretty white face. Whisky would do it. He dutifully executes our order. Sheer innocence. At least in my eyes. He even brings the tray to the room. Birthday guy takes the tray with unsure hands, slams the door quickly. A swift series of movements and he is all mine. Or at least that what he thinks. I moan as I think my working hours are almost over. He tries to control me, but he even fails to play the role of a man. His hips' pace deaden. Inhale, exhale. Heavily. Switches to snoring. 

My clothes still ooze perfume. Not even a drop of sweat. Luckily the notes are already on the drawer. I sneak out of the room. The boy smiles with embarassment. I nod and say goodbye. I could see him staring at my ass from the window's reflection. Oh boy, could you buy me? Not even for an hour. 

The valley is chilly. Eventually it's 4 am. I'm finished.

Six days left until next Friday.

3

Things bothering me about night shift, reason no. 1: guests arriving after midnight. Maybe I'm too harsh, but if I booked a hotel I would totally get to my room before midnight. But it's the valley of the beautiful women, eventually. People come here for one reason. That one reason is drinking, and I'm totally okay with that part; what bothers me more is what ensues. 

When the guy said he is getting drunk tonight so he needs a room downstairs, right across the reception, at the entrance, I already knew what he has in his head. It's his birthday, so his buddies will make it sure it would be a night to remember.

It's probably 3 am and he returns with a woman. Who am I fooling, a prostitute. Fine, still a woman. Damn, but a gorgeous one. How can a guy like this be with... oh, don't be so naive, Peter. Prostitution is the finest way to define how money based society works. The more money you got, that better and prettier things you buy. 

Guy takes two whiskys. Ordering a whisky is always cool. Leaves the impression you are classy. Guy takes the tray from my hands and quickly closes the door. Oh boy, you are horny aren't you? Fine, I sit back at my desk.

Last for five minutes maybe. The hooker giggles and moanes delicately. I have to concede I'm getting hard. Damn night shifts! Luckily a faint shriek signals the end of the story. The hooker appears soon in the corridor, nods goodbye and leaves. Her ass sways hypnotically until her curves fade to black. 

My pants get comfortable again. And I have only three hours from my shift.

And then I jerked off

Bad sex is like a poorly written script: the more takes you force, the worse it gets.

The most recent novelty in my life is acting. While I'm trying to give my best to the poor bastard who picked me for the main role by random, I have these amusing moments of silence. The crew does what it does best, the other actors are sitting and chatting around so it is not precisely the type of silence you may think of, however the peace I find amidst this seemingly chaotic environment is almost as relaxing as jerking off while taking a shower. Almost. So silence creates peace, peace creates fertile soil for my thoughts, and finally my thoughts are... well, they form up to something clever. Or dumb. This time: both.

She was the hottest girl in the dorm. She was a bit short but nonetheless gorgeous. Had danced for over ten years, had the curves you won't find anywhere. She was somewhat simple-minded which she perfectly deputized with her emotional intelligence: the kind of girl you'd never like to discuss Wittgenstein with, just rather fuck her til the last breath. Or at least that was what I had thought.

First time was bad. She was drunk. Being drunk usually has two implications on women: either turns them into a sexual predator who feed on cock, or instantly switches off their "seductive powers" button. It was only later when I found out that her buttons were deactivated by the manufacturer.

So second time was bad again. We weren't drunk. Not being drunk often has two implications on women: either turns them into the sexual fantasy you had been imagining about, or become the authentic counterparts of what we call as a "piece of wood".

Third time was the last time. She was drunk. She ate some spicy soup with beans before she rushed into my room to grab me out of my late night trance, and to -finally- fuck me. Being drunk usually has two implications on women, but I've already told you that. And yet I still believed the sheer eroticism of her character won't die out once I start undressing her.

I was wrong again. Still, the bathroom seemed cosy enough to bend her over (roomies' peace shan't be disturbed), but undressing her brought the same disappointment. She tired to kiss me but all her mouth spoke to me was an ugly burp which chanted the exact ingredients of the soup.

I sent her out. She needed sleep, and she even believed it's better to rest. There I was, sitting in the shower, hot water scorching my skin; half stiff cock in my hand. I laughed.

And since there was nothing better to do, I jerked off.