Seven Wonders Of The WorldChapter 5: Bohemian Rhapsody free porn video

“Stay humble,” my host admonished me as she led me up the final flight of stairs to my room in Bucharest. I started to ask her what the hell she was talking about when she pointed up and I ducked my head so I wouldn’t hit it on the low ceiling of the hall. Stay humble. In other words, keep your head bowed.

I was a little testy, but it wasn’t her fault. It had been a miserable trip from Sofia, Bulgaria. I had just nine Bulgarian lev when I headed for the train station. My previous trip to the train station told me that I needed a reservation for this train and when the ticket window would open. Well, the ticket window wasn’t open and some porter-type guy shanghaied me and told me he would take me to the train. Of course, he wanted to carry my pack for me, but I declined. I don’t let go of my shit. It was stupid to follow him. In my rush to get to the train station, I hadn’t had coffee or breakfast yet and planned to get them at the station. But this dude ushered me straight to a train car that looked like a derelict on the track with no engine attached. He pointed to a lit sign on the platform that said Bucharest and normal boarding time half an hour from now. He was pretty brusque and showed me to a compartment that didn’t smell too bad.

He stood there as I said thank you and waited until I figured out I needed to tip him. I dug in my pocket for the five lev note and handed it to him. He kept his hand out.

“Not enough. Ten.” Oh, fuck. I fished out my other four lev and handed them to him.

“That’s all I have. I intended to get cash in the station before I got dragged to the train,” I said.

“Euros?”

“No.”

He huffed and sighed. I wasn’t going to dig in my wallet and pull out a fifty euro note and expect him to give me change. A woman stuck her head around the corner and looked at me.

“Are you American?” she asked, ignoring the porter.

“Yes,” I answered.

“She is American. You will get along fine,” the porter interrupted.

“Yes, thank you very much,” I said.

“We’re good now. Thank you,” she said. We stared at him and the porter apparently decided he wasn’t wanted and wouldn’t get the other fifty cents he wanted either. One lev equals about fifty-seven cents. He backed out of the compartment and left. “Is this for real?” the woman asked. “Are we even on a train?”

“The sign outside says Bucharest, but boarding isn’t supposed to be for half an hour yet,” I said. “That dude just kind of hustled me out here.”

“Same here. He grabbed my case and told me to follow him. I thought I was being kidnapped. But I don’t leave my case.”

“Well, we’ll keep an eye on the sign out there and see if an engine comes to hook onto this car.”

“I’m Janet, by the way,” she said, sticking out her hand.

“Aroslav,” I greeted her. “Would you like to share the compartment? I don’t think this required a reservation after all.”

“Thank you.” She disappeared and a moment later rolled a huge aluminum suitcase into the compartment and tossed a regular suitcase onto the rack above. “Sorry about all the equipment. I have to cart it with me.”

“What is it?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen a suitcase that large before.”

“Camera equipment. I film documentaries for companies in LA.” I don’t think she noticed my sub-vocal groan. My last experience with a film student had been interesting. I still hadn’t found the right time and place to view the finished products. My room in Sofia wasn’t really very private. Which isn’t to say that it was in any way unpleasant. My host had been absolutely delightful, even though she told me that having me as a guest was just like having a father in her home. She was one of those I hoped to have a long friendship with.

“You’re working on a documentary?”

“Yes. My company gets hired to do movies about movies. They’re filming another Fast and Furious sequel and the location work is being done in Northern Romania. I’m supposed to be there tomorrow morning to start filming them film.”

“Oh. Kind of a ‘making of... ‘ sort of thing.”

“Exactly. We never know how the footage will be used. Sometimes it’s just a record of the progress. Other times they actually cut pieces in to the previews or create a whole documentary about how certain things were filmed or who an actor was. All I know is that I’m supposed to do interviews and film the production.”

I have to admit that I was a little in awe of camera operators at the moment. Janet was absolutely nothing like Anastasia. She was older—probably near forty—and attractive, but not the breathtaking beauty that Anastasia was. Every time I thought of that woman, my eyes glazed over. The day she left, I drank raki all afternoon. I stayed in bed hung over most of the next day and had to book an extra night in the hotel. I never did make it to the other three monasteries. I guess I have a reason to go back to the Metéora one day.

Eventually, an engine did hook up to the car and we discovered we were the last car in a line of a dozen rather than the first. Going the other direction. A conductor went through after we left and checked our tickets and passports. I asked about a dining car and he just shook his head. Great. No coffee.

As the trip stretched out, I realized it was not only no coffee, but no food. I used the toilet at the end of the car and it was one of those that was just a stool with a hole in the bottom where you could see the railroad ties flashing by. Gross!

By the time the train crossed into Romania, I was already woozy from lack of food. There wasn’t even drinking water. Just before crossing the border, our car and another headed to Bucharest were left on a siding. Police came through the car and checked our passports, stamping them. They opened compartments, flashed lights under the seats, and even opened a panel in the ceiling. Then we sat there.

Half an hour later, another engine hooked up and we crossed the border into Romania. A couple miles in, we stopped at a station and a new conductor got on. He checked our tickets and gave them back to us. Behind him were Romanian police. They collected our passports and left. For a long time. My traveling companion began to get fidgety.

“I only have fifteen minutes between trains in Bucharest,” she said. “I’m not going to make it if they delay any longer.” Who books only fifteen minutes between trains? Well, her travel agent, obviously.

Fifteen minutes later, the train started moving. We still didn’t have our passports! Both of us were nearing our personal panic points. It was just too much after the freaky porter and five hours without food or water. Finally, the police came back through the car and handed us our passports. No words. No questions. I figured by now Interpol, Homeland Security, and the United Federation of Planets must have been informed of my exact location in case they needed me.

And still the train kept going. Janet asked the conductor about her connection. He thought we were traveling together and wanted my ticket, too. That took a while to explain. Then when he checked the timing of her transfer, he shook his head. “Bad,” he said. Then he started making phone calls from his cell phone.

Twenty minutes, half a dozen phone calls, and several broken conversations with Janet, he finally nodded and said, “We’ll make it.” It was comforting, even though we didn’t believe him. Remarkably, however, we could actually feel the train speed up. Shit! They were trying to make up the time for her. I could only hope the tracks were in better condition than the car we were traveling in.

Three hours later, we pulled into Bucharest. The conductor was standing by our compartment impressing upon Janet that she had to run to Platforma 13. We were coming in at Platforma 1. The last I saw of her, she was pushing her case as fast as she could into Bucharest Gara du Nord.

I had my own problems. I was shaking. I hadn’t had food or drink all day. I headed for an Exchange and cashed a hundred USD into Romanian leu. Like most of Central Europe, Romania is part of the European Union, but it looks like it will still be five years before they have fully adopted the Euro. This is true of Bulgaria, Hungary, and most others, except Greece and Slovenia. Regardless, I needed currency fast so I could get food fast.

Which was my second problem. I rushed into a fast food place at the end of the platform. It said ‘Best Fast Food’ on the sign. What could go wrong? The woman behind the counter didn’t speak English. I don’t speak Romanian. After a frustrating few minutes trying to indicate I just wanted soup and a sandwich, we agreed to switch to German. Neither of us spoke German very well, but I ended up with a bowl of soup, a loaf of bread, and a plate of mici, which is basically rolls of ground meat. I wolfed down the food and simply sat there waiting for it to take effect.

Eventually, I dragged my pack out of the train station and straight into Starbucks. I drank a large cup of coffee as I walked the twenty minutes to find the ‘Bohemian Flat’. I read the directions again.

“The address is Transilvaniei Street. When you enter the courtyard you’ll see 2 doors. Pass the 2 doors, go all the way to the back yard and you will see a white door with a small pet door. That’s the entrance :) Go all the way up to the loft, and on your bedroom door you’ll find your name. There’s coffee and tea in the kitchen, feel like home. I’ll try to be home when you arrive. Cora”

‘Stay humble, ‘ indeed!

I followed Cora, my host, as we ducked our heads in the low-ceilinged hallway and she opened the door to my flat. It was much larger than I expected in width and depth, and a little lower than I expected in height. A good twelve feet wide and fifteen feet long, the ceiling began sloping down at a point about halfway across the room. I had to ‘stay humble’ from that point on. The bed was tucked under the eaves in one corner. Since it was only a foot off the floor, I could sit up in it at the head, but if I kicked my feet very hard, I’d touch the ceiling. A skylight brightened the room, which would have been rather claustrophobic without it. But this place was just perfect for me. I felt at home at once.

“Why don’t you leave your things and come to the kitchen for a cup of coffee,” Cora said. “I’ll try to give you some guidance for exploring Bucharest.”

I’d been told in Greece that they were very proud of their English skills, even though their president sounded like the equivalent of a Greek hick when he spoke. I’d met a couple Romanians in Greece who were even prouder of their English. Bulgarians struggled. My host in Bulgaria, one of my favorites anywhere, spoke pretty well, but I had to pay attention so as not to miss something. She carried her cell phone with Google Translate open all the time. In restaurants, she would often look up things on the menu to show me pictures and interpret what I was eating. Just the sweetest. My Romanian host, Cora, sounded British.

“Your English is incredible,” I said. “When I stopped for food after the train got in, the waitress and I had to stumble along in German.”

“A lot of people here speak German. Remember, we were all part of the Hapsburg Empire at one time. And then we were occupied by the Germans before and during the war until the Russians liberated us. I happen to speak English because I went to school in England for five years. I thought I could become an Olympic equestrian, but eventually I ran out of money and had to come home,” she said. “Now I’m studying dentistry.”

“Well, you have just the kind of hands I always look for in a dentist. Small,” I laughed.

“There is that.” Her hands were also immaculately manicured. In fact, everything about her was immaculate.

She poured me coffee and I sat gratefully to drink it. Four-thirty in the afternoon and it was only my second cup of the day! “I have a map for you and there are several very good walking tours. Bucharest is a beautiful city and I think you will enjoy your time here.”

I’d already started changing opinions that had been ingrained in me since my Midwestern childhood education. Romania was part of the Communist Bloc, we’d been taught. Communists were evil. Stay away from the communist countries. That included not only the Soviet Union, but Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Poland, and East Germany. Evil, godless people. ‘Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!’ Somehow, we never got reeducated after the multiple revolutions of 1989-1991. Everybody was free now, but that didn’t mean they weren’t part of the world problem. Making them part of the European Union would flood Europe with cheap labor and destroy the world’s economy. We still sat sanctimoniously in our middle class American homes and thought of them as godless communists. Cora plotted a walking tour that would help reeducate me about her country.

One opinion that she didn’t bother to correct was that Romanian women were among the most beautiful in the world. Cora was a perfect example. Her hair, makeup, fingernails, and clothing were perfectly done. She was the epitome of an office professional and still pulled off being sexy. Her silk blouse was buttoned all the way up, but was transparent enough to clearly show the lacy black bra beneath, encasing what I could only imagine to be perfect breasts. Was that a hint of nipple pop? Her tight skirt was just above the knee and her legs were encased in sheer hose.

“Which is your room?” I asked. I thought we had reached the end of the apartment when we finally made it through the living room into the kitchen.

“Oh, I don’t live here. I live about two blocks away. This was my mother’s flat and I was raised here until I moved to London. Now my mother lives with me and we rent out the rooms in this flat. Three of the rooms have monthly tenants—students and laborers—and we keep the Bohemian room for Rent-a-Bed guests.”

I thanked Cora for all the information and she gave me her phone number in case I had any questions or needed anything. She didn’t give the emphasis to ‘anything’ that I was hoping for. She left and I went to my room for a little nap before dinner.

I could be perfectly happy in this room. It was actually a little bigger than my trailer in the U.S. The bathroom across the hall, though small and shared with four other people, was still just a little bigger than what I was used to.

I’d had a kind of Bohemian flat when I was in college. It started with a job that I desperately needed. I made Styrofoam peanuts. You know, the packing material? Yeah. I wrestled drums of Dow Chemical plastic chips into a feeder bin at one end of the line, monitored the temperature and water levels of the steam boiler, and bagged the peanuts at the other end. It was a good job for two years in college. It got better when I discovered there was an apartment above the factory. The setting has worked its way into a number of my stories. I mean it was just too good. The apartment had one large room with a kitchen at one end and a little tunnel bath behind it. You had to squeeze past the toilet to get to the shower and the shower door wouldn’t open all the way before it hit the porcelain. But I was twenty-one years old, and I had my own apartment. The rent was subsidized by the fact that I ostensibly was night security for the plant. In other words, I slept there. There was a door to the left when you entered the apartment at the top of the stairs. If you opened it, you found a sheer drop off into the steamer. I kept it shut.

I was happy in that apartment. Life was simple. And when Lori and I came off the final night of the summer show between our junior and senior years, it gave us a place to go hide.

Lori and I were never really an item in college. We just happened to be the two people the theater director depended on most. We were sometimes referred to as the left and right hand of darkness. Playwriting was my passion, but set design seemed to be more profitable. At least immediately. Lori was the iron maiden of stage management. Ultimately, it was up to the two of us to keep everything in the theater department moving so that Bill could focus on directing. And teaching, of course. He taught, too.

The summer show, Snow White and the Seven Little Fuckers, was a disaster from the beginning. Bill insisted on doing a kids show during the summer, and inviting kids to be in it. Not only did Lori have to stage manage the show, she had to wrangle kids. Not only did I build the show, I had to keep kids from tearing it down around our ears. I decided that summer that I would never have kids—a vow I kept for over ten years. When we finally closed the show on Saturday night, the set had to be struck, the costumes laundered, the props stored, and the dressing rooms cleaned. The best part of the process was that the seven and eight-year-olds all had to go home without helping. That left us with the college kids and a few high schoolers to do all the labor. Of course, they all wanted to go party and we were ogres to make them haul flats to the scene shop and actually sweep and mop the stage and dressing rooms before we released people to go to Bill’s for the late night cast party.

I stayed and puttered a few minutes in the shop, trying to assess the damage I’d have to repair in the two weeks before fall classes started. I finally gave up, knowing that I’d be here Monday morning, or afternoon, and I’d figure it out then. I was locking the props closet when Lori came out of the dressing room, turned out the lights, and locked the door. She looked at me and smiled.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“At last,” she said. I reached over and flipped off the hall light so we could leave, not thinking about the fact that would plunge us into near total darkness. I always just followed the red exit light at the end of the hallway when I left late at night. I turned toward it and ran square into Lori. I stumbled and grabbed hold of her so we didn’t fall on our asses. She grabbed hold of me and didn’t let go. I couldn’t see a thing, but somehow I found her lips. Or she found mine. It didn’t seem to make a difference. We’d been through a hell of a week and we pretty much devoured each other’s mouths. And while our mouths were busy, our hands were, too.

“I could use a drink,” she whispered.

“I have Seven and Seven in my apartment,” I said.

“How appropriate. Is it far?”

“Five minutes.”

“Let’s go.”

I loved my little red Corvair. It might be unsafe at any speed, but it was fun to drive. Lori wasn’t so sure about my neighborhood when I pulled up in front of the little factory/warehouse, but I got her inside quickly and we continued to kiss as we went up the dark stairway. We stumbled into the apartment and I went straight to get us glasses of Seagram’s and Seven Up.

“Bathroom?” she asked. I pointed to the door behind the kitchen sink. I dropped ice into the glasses, poured us each a healthy shot, and filled it up with the soft drink. I turned around to hand Lori a drink as she came out of the bathroom. Stark naked. She took the drink from my hand and I followed her very freckled butt to the other end of the room and my bed. I’ve always liked a comfortable bed, so even though it was a small apartment and there was no bedframe, it was a double bed. She slid onto the bed and scooted over to make room for me. “You’re overdressed,” she said.

Fuck! Well, Lori wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world. But she was naked. She had a kind of elongated, equine face, red hair, and lots and lots of freckles. But God! What a killer body! I set my drink down and stripped then slid onto the bed beside her. It was mid-August and I didn’t have air conditioning, but the box fan and our drinks cooled our bodies enough that we could stand to touch each other. Kiss each other. Suck each other. Lick each other.

She still had her drink in her hand as did I when she pushed me onto my back and straddled me.

“I hope you can last a little while because I really need this.” I’d never felt my cock slide into such a wet woman. Well, there hadn’t been that many women. It was a struggle to make it last the little while that she wanted, but I helped things along by brushing my cold glass up along her nipples. The cold made her gasp and clamp down on my cock. When I felt the muscles in her pussy vibrating around my cock, that was all she wrote and I filled her.

“Wow!” I said. “I think I needed that, too.”

“It was a good start,” she said. She downed the remains of her drink and set the glass aside before she really got to work. I didn’t have time to get soft before she was stroking me back to full hardness. I loved being twenty-one. It seemed like I could fuck all night. Even after a drink. I held an ice cube in my mouth and started sucking on her nipples. She got off twice more before I exploded again.

We were both willing to go another round, but the late night, the booze, and our general exhaustion caught up with us. By the time we woke up on Sunday, our bodies were a slippery, sweaty mess from being against each other all night. We just let them slide and picked up where we left off.

In case you’ve missed the point ... I had a point, but I realized there was another. I was talking about the little Bohemian room and how happy it had made me. But I also realized that was the origin of my infatuation with redheaded women and their freckled bodies. When I wrote about Elaine, Liz, Bree, Melody ... Yeah, at least part of that was Lori.

The kids from the room down the hall came into the kitchen shortly after I made coffee in the morning. I don’t think they were very enthused about me being there. He poured himself a cup of the coffee I’d just made, dumped half a carton of milk in it and left. She made a little smile and nod in my direction and started putting laundry in the washing machine. She was kind of a skinny little thing—not bad looking, just thinner than I’m normally attracted to. Nonetheless, when she bent over to put laundry in the machine by the kitchen door, the baggy t-shirt she was wearing fell far enough away from her neck that I could enjoy the view of both her pointy little nipples and could tell she wasn’t wearing any panties.

She caught me staring and started to stand up. I was pretty sure I was going to get yelled at and had no idea what language it would be in. Instead, she bent back over her laundry basket and took her time sorting out several pairs of skimpy underthings to put in a net bag and toss into the machine. She started the washer and turned to the shelf over the sink for a coffee cup. There were several mugs on a shelf at about eyelevel, but she stood on her tiptoes to reach a teacup from the top shelf. That pulled the t-shirt all the way up to her waist and I enjoyed the view of her tiny round bottom. Her hair grew all the way from front to back and was clearly visible. I think I sighed audibly when she got the cup down and turned to pour herself a cup of coffee. She held the pot toward me and said, “Café?”

“Yes, thank you,” I answered, holding out my nearly empty cup.

“English. Are you American?” she asked as she poured.

“Yes. Merci.”

“I’m French. So is Robert. Don’t mind him. He can’t talk until he’s had at least two cups of coffee. He doesn’t speak English very well even when he does talk.”

“I understand. I’m not worth much until I’ve had a couple cups. And I only know enough French to say thank you,” I said.

“The eyes don’t need a language,” she said, smiling at me knowingly.

“Nor does the body, really,” I answered, nodding to her. “What brings you to Bucharest?”

“We are studying engineering at the university. It is very good.”

“I suppose it is common to go to different countries for school in the EU. That must be nice,” I said.

“Europeans have always gone to whatever country they thought had the best school for them. The EU made travel a little easier. I’ve never known it any other way,” she said.

“In America students can’t even afford to go to a different state to go to school. We charge twice as much for a student from out of state. Quadruple for foreigners. We might accidentally provide an education for someone who didn’t earn it. It’s stupid.” My daughter had wanted to go out of state for college and we were appalled at the tuition. She stayed near home. No other reason than not wanting to start out life $60,000 in debt.

“I’m sure you are not as stupid,” she said.

“I’m smart enough to spot an attractive woman when she presents herself in the kitchen,” I said.

“I’m not pretty like Romanian women. Robert is always talking about how pretty our classmates are. Did you meet Cora? Robert wants to ball her, but she won’t give him a look.”

“Oh, I’m Aroslav,” I said, changing the subject.

“I am Lissette. I need to take Robert more coffee or he won’t make it to school on time. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

“I hope to see more of you,” I smiled. She cocked an eyebrow at me and turned to the counter. I am pretty certain she dropped the spoon on purpose. I didn’t mind the view when she bent over to pick it up.

Well, that was interesting. I wrote in my journal at the table and finished making my day’s notes, including a pretty complete description of Lissette’s pointy little nipples and willingness to show them to me. I had credited her slow speech to carefully putting together the English words, but I suddenly wondered if she was on drugs.

Cora had laughingly told me that Romanians were just people like everyone else. They go to work or to school and out for a few beers on Friday or Saturday night. Or Sunday. Or Monday. Or Tuesday. Well, the beer had been getting progressively better as I moved north, but I was still enjoying wine, myself.

I walked several miles on my tour around Bucharest that day, choosing the southern route around the Parliament building (the largest building in floor space in the world), the old Orthodox Cathedral where people were gathered all the way out on the sidewalk to listen to the music, and the two huge parks. I also found three of the four coffee shops that were on my list and sampled the coffee from each one. In each, simply ordering coffee meant you got a shot of espresso. Ordering an Americano, as I had in Bulgaria, got me only a blank look. I could, however, order a long shot, which was about the consistency of an Americano or decent brewed coffee. At least coffee was available. In Thailand, ordering coffee meant a jar of Nescafé Red.

There were both basketball and volleyball tournaments going on in Revolution Square, just a few hundred feet from the ‘potato on a stick.’ That was how people referred to the monument commemorating the Romanian Revolution in 1989. It was the bloodiest of the revolutions ending communist rule in Central Europe with nearly 2,000 killed before the army turned against communist leader Nicolae Ceaușescu. The dictator was captured, tried, and executed within two hours. The whole thing was broadcast and that is what ended the revolution.

Of course, we learned in school years ago that he was one of the evil communist dictators. We scarcely heard anything about his death and the revolution. And people remember him with mixed emotions in Romania, even thirty years later. He destroyed a lot of churches and removed the tax exempt privileges of churches, but most people weren’t as upset about that as they could be. He was the center of what many considered a personality cult. But of all the Central European nations, only Romania paid off its war debt. And under Ceaușescu, it was paid off in five years. The five years plunged Romania into poverty and disrepair. The building of the presidential palace—now parliament—put thousands of people to work. And people had to work. As in, they were jailed if they refused to work.

I can only imagine what it was like. Or look at the direction my own country is heading and perhaps imagination is not needed.

“Some friends are coming over tonight,” Lef said. I’d only met him this afternoon when I got back from my hike. He was a construction worker from somewhere over on the Coast near Galati. There was a lot of work in Bucharest at the moment. Lef lived in the tiny bedroom across the hall from my Bohemian flat. In other words, about half the space and none of the charm. He left to go home most weekends.

“It’s okay with me,” I said. “I won’t be in your way.” The half-flight of stairs that led to the bedroom hallway was to the right of the apartment door and the living room and kitchen were to the left. I wouldn’t need to cross their paths at all.

“I mean, you’re invited, too,” Lef continued. “You don’t have trouble with a few people having a beer and playing some music, do you? You wouldn’t call Cora?”

Oh. Oh! I see! I seemed to recall something in the house rules that you weren’t supposed to have guests or parties. I just assumed that was for the transients and the four people who lived here on a regular basis could do whatever they wanted. It was their home.

“I don’t have any problem with it, Lef. As long as no one is fighting or shooting at me.”