Date: Sun, 23 Nov 2003 07:28:14 -0800 (PST)
From: Bob Archman <bldhrymn@yahoo.com>
Subject: Catfish Takes a Vacation 5

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."