In the quarter of a century since the Communist regime had fallen, and even within the fifteen years that had gone by since my first visit to the city, Prague had changed beyond measure. It was a change that was almost universally welcomed, with the Czech Republic reassuming it's rightful position amongst the democracies of Central Europe. Even after all this time, progress was still the buzz word, repeated ad infinitum by politicians and business leaders and in contrast to the cynicism found to both the West and o the East, people here really believed it. The Soviet yoke had been broken; the past betrayal of the West had been forgiven and the turning of every year saw the city's beige past fade to grey.

Such had been the experience of the majority, anyway. But there was another Prague, dark and seedy, writhing just behind the rococo façade. Like a colonial outpost of Amsterdam, the city had been too liberal to stand in the way of the sale of it's own soul. Although the mafia had been driven underground and with it the anarchy that had passed for freedom in the 1990s, Prague was still an incubator for vice, it's night-time streets prowled by screaming-drunk groups of young, foreign men and lone sex tourists, shadowed at every step by those who had made it their business to cater to their needs. The dark underbelly still existed - you just needed to know how to eviscerate it.

I thought about this as I sat in the café on Seifertova, a main street that began at the back of the main train station before running Eastward into the heart of down-at-the-heel Zizkov. From the outside the café differed little from the many others that lined the streets of the district; a cheaply-made sign advertising one of the thousand brands of Czech beer, faintly grubby windows surrounded by battered stone ornamentation and a photocopied price list displayed behind glass outside the main door. But to those in the know, this was the very epicentre of Prague's rent-boy scene.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it was an antechamber to the real garden of earthly delights, which was situated in the basement, down a worn flight of stone stairs and through a solid steel door. There, on a nightly basis, twinks ranging in age from sweet eighteen to mid-twenties would sell themselves to horny men from all over the world. In the dark corridors of the club, raging hormones had opened a million wallets over the years, the toilets and hidden corners witnessing climax after sticky climax to the beat of Euro-pop and the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, vodka and beer.

The club had been here when I had first visited Prague as a wide-eyed and bushy-tailed twenty year old and despite police raids and protests from that part of the gay community that actually had morals, had somehow managed to survive. True, it had changed it's name and was no longer the bastion of drug use and underage boys that it had once been but there it still stood nonetheless, seemingly unsinkable in the face of progress. I had known it in it's prime and travelled halfway across Europe on many occasions just for the promise of boys with dark, Slavic eyes and hard cocks who could satisfy my hunger. I had run my fingers across teenage abdominal muscles, forced anal cavities open with dripping fingers and felt the heavenly embrace of young lips around my pulsating shaft.

And back then there had been other places to find the kind of boys who were denied entry into the club. Homeless junkies in the train station who would humiliate themselves for the price of a single meal. Dark-skinned gypsy boys who would rob you but suck your cock as a consolation prize and, in the glittering video-game arcades and crumbling outdoor swimming pools, boys who were far too young to get into any club but who had wanked off enough old men to have developed a technique to rival any Bangkok ladyboy. Most of that had gone now, swept away on a tide of economic prosperity and busybodying by a thousand and one international charities.

I pondered all this as I sat by the window of the café, a half-finished packet of cigarettes and an untouched espresso on the table in front of me. The window was open a fraction and the suggestion of a breeze played across my face as the August sun blazed away in the distance. I glanced at the clock behind the counter. Three P.M; still a long time until the action would get going downstairs. Seated at other tables were faces that I recognised from the club, some with young friends sat by them, others as alone as me. I had met a nineteen year-old hustler the night before, had got half-drunk with him and paid two-thousand crowns to grind his arse in my rented apartment. It was mechanical, it was art-by-numbers but it had ended with my cum dripping off his back.

Tonight I was hoping for something fresher, something younger.

I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl upwards. I was never entirely sure whether it was legal to smoke indoors in the Czech Republic or not but no-one had ever stopped me and in any case, I reasoned, tobacco was the least of my vices. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two men, both in their early fifties and both dressed in the cheap jeans and t-shirt combination that speaks of having given in to the temptation to let cash be their sole attraction. One had an accent like mine, the other was maybe Austrian, possibly Swiss, probably German. Their conversation drifted my way.

You went with him, yes?...I had to tell him to slow down. I mean, if I'm paying that fucking much then I want to get my money's worth, know what I mean?...He was a moody little fucker, couldn't get him to smile or say more than two words...I must lie with my glasses on, this is a problem sometimes...Made him have a shower first...gypsy...nice piece of arse...cock the size of a baby's forearm...have you tried Moscow?...Bucharest?...I think another beer, yes?

My eyes wandered further around the room. I wasn't the only one smoking - or the only loner eavesdropping on the more sociable, either. Behind the bar, a bored young worker reamed a glass with a white cloth, his biceps hard against the short sleeves of his t-shirt. Behind him the hands of the clock had advanced a fraction. Back home at this time on a Saturday afternoon in summer, I'd either be with friends in the pub or - more likely - cooped up in my room surfing porn.

From outside the window, something caught the edge of my vision.

I saw him on the far side of the street, sat on a low concrete traffic barrier, too short for his feet to touch the floor. He was smiling. When he saw me looking, he beckoned with his right hand. I looked behind me but no one else was looking this way. They were all still caught up in their conversations or their drinks. I looked back out of the window. He was still there. Again he made the universal 'come here' monition with his hand. I picked up my cigarettes and lighter and went outside. No one seemed to notice and behind me even my espresso had stopped steaming.

"Deutsch?" he said when I was finally stood in front of him. He was still smiling.

"No. English."

"Ah OK. English good. Manchester United!". He gave me a thumbs up. I had no idea what to say.

"You want business? With me, now?"

Business. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if that's the first word every Czech boy learns. I'd lost count of the number of hustlers that had whispered or shouted it to me over the years. A be-suited American had once even asked me for business, albeit when I was much younger and had blonde streaks in my hair.

"How old are you?", I said, squinting at him through the bright sunlight.

"Sixteen".

"Bullshit".

"How old you want?", he said, not quite winking but, somehow, not quite not.

He was a good-looking kid. Not classically beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but cute. With a set of new skate shoes on his feet and gel in his hair, he didn't look homeless but the couple of small glue-burns under his bottom lip and the faint remains of a purple bruise around the edge of his right eye spoke of something other than happiness. But he didn't seem desperate or broken-down by life. He had a winning smile, smooth white skin, dark blonde hair and almond eyes. He was short for...for however old he was.

I changed tack. "What's your name?"

"Diamant."

"What? Dia.."

"Diamant. It mean diamond."

"What's your real name?"

He ignored me and changed the subject. "Cost you only two thousand". He looked up at me in expectation.

If I hesitated, it was only for a moment.

"OK, let's go. I have an apartment on Dalimilova".

We must have looked an odd couple walking the short distance through the faded glory of Zizkov district to the anonymous apartment I had hired for the week. I was dressed in casual Armani while he bounced along in his baggy jeans and sweater. Perhaps people assumed he was my son; or perhaps they guessed that I was on my way to ram my cock up his arse. Either way, we didn't attract a second glance. Just at the turn off to my street, he tugged on my elbow.

"Wait, I hungry. You maybe buy me lunch?". He indicated a small, empty café on the street corner. He seemed to take my hesitation as assent. "Come on", he said and led me inside by the sleeve.

It was little wonder that the place was empty. It was downright grotty. Behind the small wooden counter sat a balding man with a walrus moustache, yellow fingers and tie that probably rolled out of the factory when the red flag still flew over the city. The boy said something to him in incomprehensible Czech and there followed a small exchange before Diamond asked me what I wanted. The man seemed to growl when he found out that it was just a coffee.

We sat down at a chipped Formica table. Some one had carved a careless squiggle into the centre of it and the boy traced the laceration with a tiny finger. There was a spot of grime under his nail.

"So, what is your name? And how old are you really?", I asked again.

He ignored my first question and didn't look up from his work when he answered my question.

"Thirteen. Next month".

Below the table, I felt my cock stiffen against the crotch of my trousers.

"What did you tell that man?"

This time he did look up, his finger resting at the centre of the graffiti.

"That you my English uncle."

"And what did he say?"

"He ask why I have so many foreign uncles". He smiled.

The man came across and placed a mug of a coffee in front of me and a plate of fries in front of the boy. The boy wafted the steam away with his hands and squirted an ocean's worth of ketchup across the dish. I looked up, expecting the man to be wearing an expression of disgust or at least to be eyeing me suspiciously. But his attention was fixed onto the pages of a fishing magazine.

I took a sip of my drink. "Have you ever done this before?"

The boy stuffed a couple more fries between his teeth and, with his mouth full, replied: "Hundred times".

"Where are you from?", I asked.

"Nusle", he replied.

Nusle wasn't a gypsy hellhole or a crumbling working-class housing estate. It was a decent suburb to the south of the city. A haunt of the respectable lower-middle classes and their nice, well-behaved children.

Despite myself, I asked anyway. "Have you run away from home?"

"What?"

"Have you left home?"

"No."

"You have parents?"

For the first time since the arrival of his fries, he stopped eating.

"Why you ask me this?"

"Just...wondering".

He placed a fry in his mouth, without much enthusiasm. For the first time since I met him, the smile that perennially danced on his face faded from his eyes. "My Father is..." and he said something in Czech. I noticed the bruising to his eye once again.

"Do you like men or women?", I asked him, changing the subject.

He pushed his plate away, empty but for a few blackened fries and a pool of ketchup. "I don't like them."

"People in general?"

"What?"

I shook my head. It hardly mattered anyway. I paid the bill and we got up and left.

Only a few minutes later we were in my apartment. The sun was still shining but the main room felt cool. I closed the shutters and turned around. The boy stood there with his hands in his pockets. After perhaps ten second of awkward silence he asked whether he should take off his top. I said yes and watched intently as he pulled the sweater over his head. His body was lithe and slim and milky-white. The shadows cast by the slatted blinds played across his abdomen and chest. I advanced towards him, every nerve-ending tingling and with my cock growing inch by throbbing inch inside my pants.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. His head barely reached my chest. I bent down a little so that my nose was on his forehead and my lips brushed his smooth cheek. He smelt salty-sweet; of summer and of hormones and of boy. I felt his spikey hair touch my face, sending electric sparks through my skin. I moved one hand down the curve of his spine and jolted involuntarily as I felt him mirror the movement down mine.

Then he stopped. With his free hand I felt him push lightly against my stomach and he took a step backwards. He looked up at me and asked if he got get a glass of water. Sighing, I told him that he could and started to unbutton my shirt. He turned to go into the kitchen.

My hands stopped on the third button. As I watched him walk into the kitchen I saw the marks on his back. Four red welts, running in parallel down from the bottom of his left shoulder blade. I felt the fingernails cutting into his flesh. It was akin to someone taking a knife to a Caravaggio.

When he came back, I was sat on the sofa.

"What do you like?" I asked him simply. He didn't really understand so I asked him again.

"Sex", he replied, without passion.

"Fuck that, Diamond. What do you really like? What makes you happy?"

He shrugged.

"There must be something."

He shrugged again. "Aeroplanes?" he said with an inflection, making it more of a shy suggestion than a statement.

Minutes later we were almost running down the street, him in some confusion, me in the grip of a flash of inspiration.

We arrived back at the café. "Wait here", I told the boy.

He looked confused. "Where is my money?"

"Just wait here a second". He nodded and leant against the wall

The cafe was still empty but for the proprietor, who arched a thick eyebrow at my sudden reappearance. In a heavy accent he asked if I wanted coffee. I shook my head and pointed at the object on the shelf behind him. With an air of uncertainty, he looked over his shoulder, then back at me. I laid a note on the counter. He looked quizzically at me. I laid another note down and pointed again. Exhaling, and without taking his eyes off me, he took the object from the shelf, placed it into a plastic bag and handed it to me across the counter. I nodded and went back outside.

The boy was still standing there. He held his upturned hands in the air and told me that I hand only 15 minutes left with him.

I dug into my wallet and handed him the two-thousand crowns. Then I handed him a thousand more. It was all that I had. Then I held out the plastic bag and motioned for him to take it. He did so slowly, not taking his chocolate-brown eyes away from mine until the object was in his hands.

"Czech Airlines. Airbus A320", I said.

He held it in his trembling hands, looked at me, then down at the model, then back at me. After a moment's hesitation he threw his arms around my waist and pressed his cheek against my sternum. After a moment, I disengaged myself from his embrace and knelt down on the street so that my face was level with his. I grasped his shoulders in my hands and spoke to him.

"Listen, Diamant, Diamond. Your Father might be a cunt, your Mother might be just as bad but it'll get better. Honestly it will. In a few years you'll be big enough to hit the fucker back. Go and be a good boy. Don't do this anymore. One day you'll be able to go in a plane just like that. You just have to hold on for a little bit longer and then, bang!, the rest of your life. Go home."

I have no idea how much he understood. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. He hugged me again and then turned and half-walked, half-ran off down the road. I watched him go, taking in the bounce of his step and the way that the lengthening shadows seemed to become a little less dark as he passed. I watched him until he was a few hundred metres away. And then it struck me. I shouted after him.

"Hey! What is your real name?!"

But he was gone.

I turned and walked in the opposite direction. In the distance, a train sounded it's horn.