Date: Fri, 28 Jun 2002 09:25:44 +0930
From: andrew staker <mallowisious@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Holiday in Eastern Europe" Chapter 2

Holiday in Eastern Europe
Chapter 2

Morning finally came around, and I unstuck myself from the cum-glue that
bound me to Luke. He was still asleep, gently dreaming perhaps. I put on an
azure robe, and walked over to the window. Snow. Fat, lovely flakes were
streaming down as if from an infinite, God-like source of whiteness and
purity. The cars on the street below woke lazily, shaking off the slumberous
night. There was a bit of condensation on the window. I blew on the window,
and my breath formed a ghost for a while.

I showered, and upon my emergence, Luke, beaming like a far off Aussie
sunrise whispered "Hello" alluringly.

"Why hello hello," I replied, keeping the alluring tone alive. "Sweet dreams
dear?"

"Yes. But far from wet! God, I miss wet dreams. Don't you?" he asked.

"Definitely. I haven't had one since I was about fifteen or so. I should
stop wanking so much. Then maybe!" A pause ensued, wherein he just looked at
me. "You'd better shower. Zoli will turn up. And plus, I'm hungry."

Luke then said, getting off the bed and walking toward me and exposing his
member: "Munch on this Aussie sausage?" God, his smile. The smile! But I
needed to have a  *proper* breakfast, so I urged him into the shower.

I turned on the telly but there was nothing on. Rather boring. He showered,
and came out. Was he horny or something? He wouldn't stop alluding to his
penis and what I might wish to do with it. But not now! (Though, it was
pretty!)

He was getting dressed, and I sat at the TV. He had one shoe on, then came a
doorknock. "Coming!" he yelled. He walked unevenly over to the door, his
hair wet from the shower, and almost fell from his imbalance. He opened the
door. "O, Zoli!" He looked at me. "It's Zoli!"

"Well, open the door," I said, doing nothing to help poor Luke. It was too
funny.

"Where the fuck is the key?" he despaired. He walked back and forth, vainly
searching. It was hilarious.

Then Zoltán interjected: "Maybe it's in your purse?"

My giggles exploded. I shouted: "Hear that Luke? You have a purse now!"

Luke said, in the queeniest voice imaginable, after he had stumbled to the
door: "Zoli dear, girls have purses--" (stressing the "s") "--*I* have a
handbag. Handbag!" (A pause.) "Now, where is that bitch of a key? Mark! Help
me!"

So, deciding it was enough, and feeling sorry for Mark stumbling around
shirt-less and in one shoe, I helped him, and sure enough we located the
key. We let Zoli in. He came in, resembling in no way at all the boy from
last night. Gone were the timidity and the insecurity. His vibrancy and
awareness of the glamour of his looks and youth formed a breathtaking smile
on his smooth face. He burst in in the manner of a drag queen and said,
"Good morning girls. How are you today? A wet night?"

So we talked quickly, and Luke finally managed to clothe himself to his
taste's satisfaction. We left. In the lift, we asked Zoli to join us for
breakfast. He did not refuse. Now, for me, the innuendoes between three gay
guys at table are numerous and enjoyable. At one point, each of us had a
sausage on a fork, and we let it gently brush against our glistening lips.
Zoli, obviously indulging in queer extroversion, gathered a plate with a
banana, a carrot, a sausage and a large fresh cucumber and bathed these
generously in warm white garlic sauce. Luke smiled. That had got to him. He
was finally starting to like the lad.

Luke, sipping some very pink tea (strawberry one would think) said to
Zoltán: "So... are we going to see Madame Vision?"

Being instantly reminded of her, and of our goal to see her, I jumped and
said, "Yeah... can we see her?"

He looked at us both, and leaning back leisurely in his seat, he said, "Why,
but of course." We smiled at each other. Zoltán continued, "But I must warn
you... she is... how you say... there is an often said phrase in English...
'Expect the unexpected'? Well, do that."

We continued our breakfast discussion, and finally headed out of the Hotel
Liszt, with Zoltán pointing to the name. "You guys know why it's 'Liszt'?"
He went on to tell us about Franz Liszt, the famous composer and piano
virtuoso. He said that Franz was wrong; that to him, and any other
Hungarian, it will always be Ferenc.

*

Having travelled by train, bus and tram through the bowels of Buda and Pest,
we arrived somewhere at the base of a hill. It was quiet, with children's
laughter and dogs' barking floating from far off through the chilly air. The
scene was grey and winter was evident without any restriction. There were
old, naked oak trees, their branches thinning out in each and every
direction. Zoltán lead us through little streets that only seemed to get
tighter and tighter, darker and darker. The buildings lost their colour. We
passed from flashy capitalistic décor to drab communist colouring, but
stopped not. We passed through time almost. The buildings assumed a
nineteenth century look. Then a Rococo look. This faded away into a Baroque,
then a Renaissance atmosphere, but we kept on going. No one said a word and
no one made the slightest sound. There were no more people, and the sky was
a biting grey.

There were stray dogs, thin and near dying, and haughty, thin black cats
floating like distant ghosts. Yep. Dark Ages. I was bewildered. I was almost
expecting the Black Death to nibble on me. Yet still I was too awed to speak
my mind to the other two.

We arrived at a vast wooden door whose paint had been no doubt stripped
many, many years ago. It was solid. Luke knocked three times. The massive
door swung slowly open, but only enough to allow a person through. We
entered and closed it behind us.

There was a tiny, dark courtyard with a rusted hand-pump. There were icicles
hanging off it. Smoke rose from a pile of expiring embers. A crow hovered
high above, and I could almost feel its black eyes piercing me.

Zoltán took me by my hand, and I took Luke by his. We walked Indian-file to
a corner. There Zoli spoke to someone. A door opened, and we entered. The
smells inside were bizarre. Meat perhaps? Cheese? God knows. They weighed
heavily on my nose. The light was dim, and there were candles scattered
randomly here and there. On some cushions or a gigantic pillow perhaps,
Madame Vision sat, as if in meditation. She seemed to be asleep, yet because
her face was covered by black lace, one could not accurately ascertain the
truth.

The boy approached her sheepishly and whispered something. After a minute
pause, she replied to him in Hungarian. Zoli came to us and said, "She says
she will do you both. But I must tell you... it's pricey. How much do you
have?"

I replied "Well, we've got--"

"Enough," Luke interrupted curtly.

"It's thirty American dollars... or sixty Deutschmark... got that?" Zoltán
asked again.

I laughed self-assuredly, "Hell yes!" Luke did not like that.

"Who first?" the boy asked.

"Luke... you?"

He looked at me as if I were stupid. "No mate. Sorry Mark. This isn't for
me. You have a go."

"O... why?" I pleaded with him. "Come on Luke. It's fun..." my voice was gay
and whiney. He just shook his head as a reply. I was rather disappointed. I
told Zoli that only I would go. He then led me over to the Madame, and she
said something to him. He told me that he and Mark had to leave. "Well," I
said, looking at them, "if that's the way it is, that's the way it is!" The
two were leaving, when it hit me. "Zoli... how am I to understand what she
says... if she can't speak English?" He assured me it would be okay, and
escorted Luke out.

I felt a sudden uneasiness. A strange, odd woman in a weird, unfamiliar
place. She kissed a medallion around her neck, and started humming. Up until
that point I had earnestly thought it would be nothing more than a sideshow
attraction... pay for the kicks of it. But it seemed much the opposite. She
started humming and gyrating her head slightly. She took my hand in hers.
Her eyes were closed. Her breath was atrocious. She spoke in a weird tongue,
for it sounded not like Hungarian.

The perspiration on my skin started to accumulate. Her breathing was
reminiscent of a woman in labour, waiting any moment for a baby to enter the
world from her womb. And thus she felt my hand, breathing heavily, worrying
me increasingly each moment.

She then stopped on the spot. It all ceased. An eerie, unearthly quiet
entered the room. She was not puffing for breath, nor was she agitated in
any way. Her lips parted, and she said in strangely Australian-sounding
English: "Hello Mark White. How are you?"

Confused for a while, I knew not how to respond. Eventually I muttered:
"You... you know English?" I was amazed. It was truly a mind-blowing
experience to hear English in such a place.

"O... is that what it is?" she said in an earnest tone. Her voice was husky
and battered by age. "I had no idea."

"You know my name?" I asked, still rather baffled.

"Yes. So, what brings you to my home? I know of you. Your lips touch another
man's. I know all of you. At the very centre, where your hottest blood
boils, I see no woman, but a man. So hide naught from me. You were by the
river... and you love this boy... Luke... and your blood is sacred."

After taking my time to digest this most intimate of incisions into my
persona, I dribble out: "Sacred?"

She cackled gently at my curiosity. "Yes. Special. Spanning many, many
periods and years, from the ancient past to the foggy future. A long, long
story is written in your blood."

"A foggy future?" I asked, growing more interested and narcissistic. "What
do mean... exactly?"

"Well..." she laughed, admiring herself, "most people see the future. You
guess the future too. But... but it is I who can pierce the fog of
confusion, and tell you the truth." A pause. I had nothing to reply with.
"Do you... want to see the future. I can tell you."

"Yes! Of course I do. Go on," I said eagerly.

"It's not so simple." (She coughed at this point, opening her eyes widely.
They seemed to be glowing.) "Most people, I do not care for. I read them
their hands... tell them that they will have kids, a big house and a lovely
wife. Not you! My boy... you're blood is sacred. I will read it for you.
Want that? For only through your ancient, holy blood can I truly see your
future."

Yearning more intensely than before for my reading, I urged her proceed. "I
am really interested..."

"Hush! It begins!" she yelled. And again she assumed the bizarre rhythms she
did before: the humming and sinusoidal jerking of her head. Her hands sailed
across to my shoulders. I was transfixed. It could not stopped. They walked
down my torso and did not stop. Very skilfully, they were in my pants. And
still I couldn't move a damn muscle. My lungs were excited alright, as was
another member of my bodily ensemble, but to no avail. I was a big, grounded
mass--immovable! So she hummed and slid her fingers over, under and on my
erection. She jerked me with increasing vigour. Stopping short of my
bursting then and there, she placed her mouth on me. But, before she did so,
she said an odd, rather memorable phrase: "Human blood doth human milk make.
Tasting thy milk, I taste thy blood and see thy future." So she continued
the motion of her mouth, eventually swallowing my semen. She then took my
hand, and placed two of my fingers under her oily dress and into her pussy.
She hummed, and a dull orange hue inflamed her black, crow-like eyes. She
removed my fingers, ceased her humming once again in a most abrupt fashion,
and composed herself.

"So... open your ears," she said. I nodded. "Your future, my lad, is
uneventful." (I sighed slightly at my unstoppable disappointment.) "But
worry not. You carry that ancient seed in you. Your seed is special. Thus,
you must pass it on through the channels of time. Make sure you have
children. A boy. Have a boy! He'll be yet another vessel in the passage of
this most ancient of manly seeds.

"The distant future is dark. It's glum. I see a black sky. All is dim and
drab. The world, though one, is stitched of opposites. Some have clear,
shiny skies, others have soot-coloured skies. The peoples of the world,
after achieving one uniform shape, colour, language and culture, have
deliberately isolated themselves into pockets of 'pure' differentiating
remnants, such as blonde hair, or brown eyes, or yellow skin. The races have
once again been separated, and on purpose.

"Asia is exclusively Asioid. In Europe, only Europoids live. All the mixing
has been depleted. No more. And each continent is split into regions, where
similar people live. Religion plays a heavy hand. Though there was at one
point the Grand Unifying Religion, which amalgamated all the creeds and
divinities of the world, this has, in the distant future, been dissolved.
Religion, in whatever guise it is apparent, is ubiquitous, and strongly so.
All the 'pure' and 'good' members of the world adhere to its teachings,
whatever these be. To be a civilian of any 'decent' region of the world, one
*must* practice and believe in his or her local religion. Such folk are
called Puroids, for their souls are pure and clean.

"Now, your seed is in this world. It is a sad, wrong world by our standards.
No colour, no diversity, no happiness. If one adheres not to the ways of the
Puroids, it is a harsh, cruel world. So, most adhere to their ways. But, and
here your importance for the future comes in, not all believe this. Even in
the days when religion is shoved down each and every person's throat, some
will still refuse to swallow, and spit it back up at the donor. Your seed,
and people baring it, will be such. They will be leaders among all those who
refuse. They are deemed Erosadians. They are--"

"Erosadians?" I broke in. "What is that?"

"All in their due course my lad. As I was saying... Erosadians. They are
filth and scum under the Puroids' shoes. No proper civilian of the future
world looks on them without hate. They are in some places spat on, in others
tortured and killed. They are called Erosadians because they live or, if
lucky, are sent to a place of the future called Erosadia."

"Erosadia?" I asked. "That's like Eros and de Sade!"

"I know not what you mean. At any rate, Erosadia is the vilest and most
hated of places. It is a place Puroids deem 'grossly sinful' and 'horridly
monstrous'. All those who do not fit into the ways and words of the Puroids
and their strongly religious morality end up in Erosadia."

"And where do I come in?" I asked, for some reason interested in this warped
vision.

She laughed dryly. "You? Who knows! Aeons into the future I am speaking of.
It is only your seed that survives. Not you!" She continued indulging in her
laughter. Eventually she stopped, and resumed her monologue. "Those whose
blood is the colour of yours will be leaders of Erosadia. They will have
created it, and will be instrumental to its growth and continuation.

"You see, woman-loving women and man-loving men live there, mostly. And men
clothed in women's clothing, and women clothed in the clothes of men. And
all else in between. All the 'wretched misfits' of the Puroids are expelled
from 'pure' society, and enter Erosadia. Those of your seed welcome these
'sinning excrements' with open arms. It is clear why. Erosadians have no
natural interest to reproduce. Though love flourishes between them, they
have no offspring.

"Once in a while, Puroids have children who shame them. Parents suffer huge
frustration because their child will not or cannot bend to the ways of the
religious majority. Their blood boils for the same sex. Parents, wishing to
escape condemnation from the religious order, hide these 'embarrassments'.
Parents possessing no heart, take these specimens to the local religious
establishment, where they are either eliminated or assimilated. Those who
have a trace of a heart, or a full heart, pay travellers to and from
Erosadia to convey their child to that place. They know that Erosadia is a
haven for their child.

"So that is the basic shape of the distantly future world ahead of the
world. You see why you are of such great importance? Without you, your
sacred, special seed will cease its passage through time. There will be no
Erosadia! The whole world would be dull... and cold like the iron fist of
ubiquitous, inescapable religion. Erosadia, one warm, colourful island where
diversity and individuality are indestructible would not exist. All would be
an bland, mirror-smooth ocean of monotony and religious and cultural
conformity.

"You... you must live and pass on your seed through your blood-born milk to
save those of the future whose love and lust points them in the direction of
their own sex." And there she finished.

I sat pondering for a while. It was so unexpected. This whole bizarre,
motley revelation made me think. Erosadia! Puroids! God... what the hell? It
left me seated for a long while. I finally managed to say: "It is rather
ironic, is it not, that I should have sex with a woman to pass on my seed,
considering I have no inclination to her sex whatsoever?" But she did not
respond. I was disappointed, but I did not choose to pursue the question
further. I did ask, "What's Erosadia like?"

She spent a little bit of time thinking, and smiled. "I wish I knew. I
don't! I have vague, vague glimpses of it."

"Still, what are they?" I asked.

"There is lovely music, poetry and writing. The buildings are lovely, and
art lives at any and every place. The people smile, and everything is
plentiful. No one behaves as they are told, but rather as what they want.
There is respect and love is free and unchained. Food is plenty, and never
is there oppression. The Erosadians, though hated by Puroids, laugh loudly
at them. Because, you see, all free thought and expression find their way to
Erosadia. Scientists, mathematicians, writers... they all live their lives
in Erosadia. It is a fact that Puroids, though disapproving of their ways,
depend on those they condemn. So, you see, though in writing they are
condemned, in act they are needed by the Puroids."

"And where is Erosadia?" I asked.

She spent a bit of time thinking again, then smiled. "It is a vast, dry
land. A large, island continent. You yourself live in it now! So you see...
your seeds are already sewn in Erosadia! Australia will be Erosadia...!" and
she coughed herself to silence. That was all. Her head leaned back, and she
writhed her chunky body. Her eyes opened, and pierced through mine straight
to my soul. They lost their glow, and she collapsed in a fat, aged, tired
heap. All was silent.

"Hello! Hello! Are you okay?" I yelled at her. She did not react. I felt her
pulse. It was there. But she could not be moved. In panic and confusion, I
shook her. She still did not react. I ran out to search for the other two.
Luke was in the yard, pacing in a bored manner. Zoltán was opposite, dozing
on the cold ground, his back on a wall. "Hey! Hey! The old woman... help!
She's... she's collapsed! Help me...!"

Luke dashed toward me. After Zoli woke, he came too. I told them what had
happened. Luke and I were about to head in, but the boy said, "No worries.
She is done. Now she recovers. It's best to go. Leave your money in the
door."

"Are you sure?" I asked, still flustered. He affirmed with his head that it
was. So, I placed my cash in the door, and we left.

*

The labyrinthine way out was as strange as the way in. I was deep in thought
about Erosadia, and how good I felt about myself. I did not pay much
attention to Luke, and less so to Zoltán. We reached the bottom of the hill,
and walked to the tram-stop. Luke finally asked what she had told me. I
breathed heavily, and began telling them both, my voice deep with intrigue
and fascination.

Zoli guided us back to the hotel, where we were in time for lunch. Luke,
though interested in my tale, was very sceptical. He listened politely, not
frankly. Zoli was interested, so I grew to like him. The lunch was tasty
fried chicken. We ate in the dining room under a generous curtain of white,
heavenly fluff.

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