Unabashedly borrowing from the literary precedents set by John Guare’s Six Degrees of Separation and Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, Slovakian Boy is a kaleidoscopic account of handsome young Pavel as seen through the eyes of interested — sometimes too interested — parties of family, friends, and fans. William Maltese’s narrative of a boy’s determined reinvention of himself as a porn god is a sexy romp through a rarely explored realm.

********************************

“Who said—and when did he or she say— that Czechoslovakia, of which Slovakia was then a part, was ‘a faraway country, populated by a people of whom we know nothing’? Want to give it a try, Drahoslav?”

“Neville Chamberlain, British prime minister, 1939.”

“Very good. Although it was actually 1938. And why is Chamberlain, otherwise, so infamous, Andrea?”

“He signed the Munich Agreement which allowed Nazi Germany to appropriate a large part of Czechoslovakia.”

“Yes, he did. And after the Nazis, the Russians. The end of Communism, called what? And why? Bohuslava?”

“‘Velvet Revolution,’ because of its remarkable lack of violence.”

The buzzer sounds.

“Pavel.” I can’t help myself. “Will you remain a few minutes?”

“Yes, Mr. Professor Vodni.”

I’m turned-on by his good looks. There’s something about his dark hair and exquisitely shaped eyebrows—something about his blue eyes, his thick and sooty eyelashes. Not to mention each iris with its own intoxicating black halo.

I’m captivated by his good humor, his air of naïveté.

No matter that he’s probably straight as a stick. He dated Berta Hukvaldy, probably regularly fucked her, until her father got that promotion to Bratislava. I hear the teenage pussy forever whispering what a catch Pavel is. How he’s such a gentleman. All true. I’ve never known him to raise his voice. I’ve never seen him in bad humor.

A very pleasant young man, in superb physical condition because of all that hiking, caving, and varsity ice hockey. I can’t think of anything bad I’ve heard about him, from the faculty or from his peers.

Granted, the kid’s no rocket scientist, but who says everyone has to be? He’ll be the first to tell you he’s not one. He wants a job in forestry, or some other profession that will keep him out of doors, in fresh air and sunlight. Although he knows enough about cars to get a position in some garage, if there were one offered.

I suspect sunlight tans him all over, though I’m not his gymnasium teacher and have never seen him naked. I wouldn’t want to see him naked, either, because I immediately recognize the worrisome prospect of his offering up too much temptation.

He’s my student, I’m his teacher. All sorts of legal and moral complications and implications in that.

I’ve my job to think about. I’ve bills to pay. I’ve a wife to support. I’ve two kids to feed, to house, to send to university. Sex with a student isn’t possible. It’s better to indulge mere fantasies.

It’s because of my fantasies that I’ve asked Pavel to stay after. It’s so I can play sponge and soak up even more details of how he looks, close-up, for total recall later. For when my wife moans and groans and begs me to fill her bottomless pit with passion-cooling cum, and I need a little help to oblige. Or, for when I next perform solo.

I’ll be alone this evening. Mainly here, correcting paperwork, writing the next exam.

My cock is hardening, although I always wear baggy pants to keep hidden all evidence of my cock, hard or soft.

“I thought baggy pants went out of style,” said Mrs. Professor Pribor, who has visually checked out every male basket within a two-hundred kilometer radius and would like a better look at mine.

It’s unlikely Pavel knows or cares what goes on in my trousers. Now or ever.