I first met Ivan in Toronto, at a campus coming-out celebration that was louder than it was sincere. Rainbow flags draped across the quad, someone in a unicorn onesie danced on a bench, and the speakers blared over every conversation. In the far corner, almost hidden by a food truck, a young man, short, broad-chested and sturdy, with straw-colored hair and a rural look sat cross-legged on the grass, reading aloud to a small group of attentive listeners. His voice was steady, low, completely unbothered by the chaos around him. I asked what he was reading. He looked up, a little startled, then smiled and said, “It’s Janka Kupala. Belarusian poet. No one reads him anymore.” His name was Ivan, though he quickly added, “But call me Janka — like him.” He said it softly, as if the choice itself were private.
That was two years ago. Since then, we’d exchanged long emails — mine full of deadlines and travel plans, his full of lines from old poems, half-translated, half-explained. When he invited me to visit Belarus for Kupalle Night, I replied “Yes!!!” as soon as I got that message.
In June next year Minsk surprised me. It was wider, calmer, cleaner than I’d imagined, every avenue lined with trees and soft pastel buildings that looked like they’d been recently scrubbed. I was staying near Victory Square, and we met for breakfast at a café just off the main boulevard. The walls of the café were tiled white and green; the waitress moved slowly, like time wasn’t a problem. I ordered syrniki with thick sour cream and coffee strong enough to taste of iron. Janka had draniki — thin, crisp potato pancakes served with mushroom and dill sauce. He laughed when I tried to pronounce the word and said Belarusian sounds like “Russian after two glasses of vodka and a lullaby.”
We talked about Kupalle Night — a midsummer celebration of water, fire, and luck he promised to take me to in the middle of the night. He said it was both pagan and patriotic, something people still celebrated quietly, even when the government frowned on “old superstitions.” He spoke about it the way some people talk about family: half with love, half with weariness.
After breakfast, we took a walk along Independence Avenue. The street was broad and sunlit, trams rattling past, shop signs in Cyrillic letters that felt strangely familiar yet with some crazy spider like «Ж»’s and reversed «Я»’s. At a kiosk he bought a small book of Kupala’s poems, the kind printed on thin paper that smells faintly of dust. He asked the kiosk lady for a pen and signed it for me “To Augie for hearing me truly, Janka, Minsk, June 2025.”
I thought a tender kiss on the cheek was due, even in downtown Minsk, and he… accepted.
By noon we boarded a local train heading west. It was an old Soviet model, the kind that still smelled of metal and window grease. The seats were wooden, there was no air conditioning, and it was blistering hot when we hit sunny spots along the route. Outside, the city gave way to endless fields — pale green rye, forests of birch, villages with blue-painted fences and crooked wells. Janka leaned close so I could hear him over the clatter of wheels and said, “Get ready for something you’ve never seen! The misty lake at night, my God, you’ll remember it forever!”
We arrived at a small village that didn’t appear on my map. A dirt road led past a line of pear trees to a wooden house painted mint blue, roof sagging but sturdy. His grandmother met us at the gate, short and brisk, with a scarf tied under her chin. She spoke only Belarusian, but warmth needed no translation. Lunch was simple and perfect: a pot of potato stew with dill, hard-boiled eggs, cucumbers floating in vinegar, thick slices of rye bread, and kvass poured from a chipped jug. She called me “the foreign poet.” I nodded, because it was easier than explaining journalism.
After lunch, the heat softened. We followed a group of villagers down to the river. Women and children sat in circles weaving flower wreaths — wild chamomile, ferns, cornflowers, yarrow. Janka showed me how to twist the stems and knot them tight with grass. Mine kept falling apart. He laughed, took it from me, and redid the weave carefully, his fingers brushing mine. The smell of crushed flowers and river mud filled the air. Somewhere behind us, someone started singing an old song — a thin, high melody that seemed to belong to no one in particular.
At sunset, the bonfire was lit. The whole village gathered — young couples, old women in headscarves, kids chasing each other through the smoke. Flames rose in orange sheets, sparks floating upward like new stars. People sang and clapped, jumping the fire in pairs, shouting names, laughter echoing through the field. Janka turned to me and said, “We should try.” I hesitated, pretending to weigh the idea, but he didn’t wait. He grabbed my wrist and ran. The heat hit first, then the roar, then the cool air on the other side. My heart slammed against my ribs. He was grinning at me, this broad-framed gray-eyed guy who looked like the Belarusian version of a cowboy, his eyes brighter than the fire.
After midnight, the music and the crowd drifted toward the lake. The path was narrow, lit by the glow of candles floating in wreaths. The water was still, black glass reflecting the sky. Janka told me that if a wreath floats toward someone, it means your heart has found its twin. He said it lightly, but I heard something under it — the same quiet ache he carried when he spoke about poetry, or home. Our wreaths floated quietly into the mist along with others and soon disappeared.
***
We stepped out of our crumpled clothes onto the silent pier and slipped into water glass-calm, so still the moon lay on it like a polished coin. Cool silk licked up my shins, my thighs, until the hush closed over my waist; mist curled off the surface and wrapped us in pale gauze, hiding everything beyond an arm’s reach. Janka’s fingers found mine underwater, tugged me closer, and our chests met with a soft, wet clap that sent the tiniest ripples skating outward—only to die at once, swallowed by the lake.
Out past the reeds we could hear muffled laughter, splashes, the low drumbeat of other couples chasing Kupala magic, but here by the leaning boat pier we were our own small country. Janka’s breath grazed my ear, warmer than the night air; he brushed my hip and I felt him half-hard already, the glide of skin on skin sparking under the mist. Every slow movement felt magnified, as if the lake itself held its breath while we measured heartbeats against each other, waiting for the next quiet shift that would tell us both to move deeper.
Janka’s arms circled my waist from behind, chest sealing to my spine as he murmured against my neck, voice low and breathy:
“On the Kupalle night the mist of the lake will hide us, the fire will cleanse us, the water will float us, our love will ennoble us.”
Each word carried a tremor of Belarusian vowels, the raw translation tasting like smoke and honey on my skin. He turned me gently, mouth finding mine, and the kiss felt half poem, half prayer—soft at first, then hungrier, his tongue sliding in time with the slow rock of hips that brought us groin to groin, heat meeting heat while the mist curled thicker around our shoulders.
His cock—short but thick—nudged mine, both of us slick below the surface; under the water they slid side to side, heads kissing, shafts crossing like bowstrings. Janka kept whispering, raw Belarusian syllables tumbling against my lips, each breath a line of that unrhymed love poem while his heart hammered into my ribs and the lake cradled us, buoyant and secret, mist swallowing every small, wet sound we made.
His palm closed around us, one firm sheath squeezing cock to cock, skin sliding on skin with the lake’s own slickness. Heat surged up my spine, sudden and bright, as if the water itself had turned electric. Through the hush I caught faint wet clicks and muffled moans somewhere off in the mist—other lovers finding each other—and the echo made my pulse skip; it felt like the whole lake was breathing with us. Janka’s fist pumped slow, thumb rubbing the twin heads on each upstroke, while his other arm cinched my waist, lifting me just enough to feel the dense power in his shoulders, a quiet strength he’d never shown outside these moonlit minutes. His kiss swallowed my gasp, tongue pushing in time with each tug, and I realized how completely he could hold me, move me, own me—strength disguised by gentle words now stripped bare in the dark.
My feet left the silt as Janka’s forearm hooked under my ass, lifting me onto him, then easing me back down—slow strokes that rocked us both. Hot kisses burned against my cold lips; lake water lapped my shoulders while his fist kept working us, knuckles tight. Each upward tug peeled my foreskin back over the swollen crown, a bright sting that shot straight to my gut, mixing with the chill and the heat until I couldn’t tell pain from pleasure, only that I wanted the next lift, the next slick drag, the next breath he stole from me.
I’d always thought I was packing plenty, but Janka’s cock—shorter, yes—felt like iron wrapped in velvet, thicker, harder, unyielding inside his stroking fist, the way the man himself was compact and immovable. He found a spot just below my ear where his lips and the edge of teeth met skin; the moment he sucked there I moaned loud enough to scatter the mist. While he lifted me again, slid me down that rigid shaft, he kept whispering against my neck: “What do people know, have they ever felt the love of two souls that soar? What do people know, have they ever shot arrows of love into the morning air?” Each soft line clashed with the next rough thrust, fingers digging into my hip, water slapping our chests—gentle poetry and brute rhythm twisting me tighter until I couldn’t tell verse from the spike of pleasure shooting up my spine.
Janka spun me toward the leaning pier; rough wood grazed my palms as I gripped it, legs floating wide. His fingers trailed down my spine, parted me with a gentle spread that felt almost courteous—then the blunt head found its mark and slid home, no burn, just a slick pop and a flood of heat. Surprise fluttered through me: I was already open, relaxed from all that charged stroking. His short, thick cock nudged straight onto my prostate, each thrust a firm, perfect press that made my thighs spasm. Gone were the whispered verses—now only sharp little grunts left his throat, punctuating every pump. Water sloshed around us; I shoved back to meet him, matching his cadence, the pier creaking in time while sparks lit behind my eyes.
I felt Janka’s breath hot on my shoulder-blades, his hard nipples grazing my back each time he drove in; the scratch of his hairy chest rasped against my skin, sending small sparks down my spine. Underwater his strong legs brushed mine with every roll of his hips, a slick collision that kept me spread and steady. The rhythmic slap of water against the pier posts sounded like a drumbeat for our fuck, and even though the lake chilled my skin I stayed rock-hard—heat pulsing up my hole, sweet cold ache pooling beneath my balls, the contrast twisting me tighter with every short, solid thrust.
I caught the hush breaking apart around us—women’s moans threading through the mist, a clumsy splash, another couple’s laughter drifting closer until shadows moved like ghosts only three metres off. The discovery thrilled me, I loved to know that in time with us everyone else was surrendering to the same Kupalle spell.
Meanwhile Janka’s hips settled into a piston rhythm, almost mechanical, each stroke identical in depth and force; his exhales cooled against my back, coming ragged now, edged with small rasping curses—“blyad...s-sss-uka...”—that proved the engine was overheating yet refusing to stall. In that relentless drive I felt the full bulk of the man who fed cows and hauled hay all summer—Janka the guide, steady and instructive, had vanished, replaced by this tireless, silent power plant hammering for its finish. The contrast sent a fresh ripple up my spine: behind me it was the gentle poet, the patient teacher, now stripped to raw, bullish necessity.
Janka’s forearm snapped around my throat, pulling me flush against his chest; for a heartbeat he simply stood there, cock buried to the hilt while his lungs worked like bellows. Then the choke tightened—gentle but unmistakable—and he started again, thighs quivering, each thrust now a shudder instead of a stroke. I felt the tremor travel through his shaft straight into my core; the warm itch coiled behind my balls, then crept up my urethra like slow mercury. Shivers raced my spine in time with his ragged growls, legs barely holding us. One final, juddering slam ground my prostate, the coil snapped, and I came hard—silent, shaking, held upright only by the arm at my neck and the cock still pushing and pushing me.
Janka felt the first clench around his shaft and stilled, letting the ripples go through him as I shuddered from the powerful orgasm, muttering something incomprehensible in the dirtiest English I could think of. In response, he pressed open-mouthed kisses to my damp neck.
The thick heat then slid out of me—one slow drag, then that blunt pop—and suddenly I was empty, open water where he'd been. A shocked gasp tore out of my throat, echoing off the pier posts, legs wobbling as cool lake rushed in to fill the space he'd left. I had to grip the splintered wood harder just to stay upright, thighs trembling while the echo of him throbbed inside me like a missing beat.
Janka spun me by the shoulders until we stood chest-to-chest, water lapping at our collarbones as he pounded his cock underwater, catching up with me. His eyes locked on mine, but they weren’t seeing me—something deeper burned behind them. First flashed a wince, like the cold lake bit too hard; then came pure exhaustion, shoulders sagging as if the night had poured lead into his bones. A flicker of anger followed, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped, directed at no one and at everything—at the ache in his thighs, at the need still coiled in his gut. He sucked a breath through bared teeth, shook the fog from his hair, and started again: fist pumping underwater, forearm sending small waves that splashed against my face, his elbow knocking my ribs with each hard stroke.
Renewed purpose hardened his face—lips peeled back, nostrils flared—and I watched the transformation like a private sunrise. His Adam’s apple jerked with every swallowed grunt, cords standing out in his neck while the water around us churned in small, frantic whirlpools. Eyes squeezed shut, he lost rhythm for a second, then found it again. A low growl climbed his throat, growing louder, rawer, until his whole frame locked—knees knocking mine, chest heaving—and the final roar tore free, echoing across the mist as his release pulsed into the lake, invisible but unmistakable against my thigh.
I’ve always loved the throb of a man emptying inside me, but feeling those hot pulses slap my thigh beneath the lake sent its own wild shiver through my gut—secret, visible only to us. Janka’s arms snapped around me, water sluicing between our chests as he hauled me close; our mouths crashed together, tongues sliding salty and slow while the last of him drifted off like a ghost in the current. I melted against him, weightless, the hard beat of his heart thudding into my ribs until the only sound left was the soft lap of water on the pier and the quiet pull of our mingled breath.
I’d lie to you if I said he was a good kisser; he wasn’t. But the brief fuck with his thick short cock in the warm lake has remained one of the most unforgettable experiences for me. Love him I did not; he was too rough and too manly for my taste, too much like a straight guy doing a reluctant service to a friend (even with the poetry lines), but the heat of him against the cool of the water and the moans of women enjoying about the same thing somewhere close—it still makes me hard, like right now as I write this. I think this is where I (and you, my reader) may need a break before I finish.
***
… When we finally walked back, the air smelled of smoke and wet grass. His grandmother was asleep. We sat under the pear tree in our crumpled shorts, sharing a bottle of homemade nalivka. The night had gone silent except for frogs and a far-off accordion still playing by the lake. Janka leaned against the trunk, looking up at the stars through the leaves. He didn’t say much; he rarely did. I wanted to ask if he ever felt safe here, but I knew the answer.
… At the airport, the spell of Kupalle felt already far away. Minsk looked sharp-edged again — no music, no smoke, just pale light on glass and concrete. Janka carried my bag as if it weighed nothing. He’d changed back into the version of himself that fit this world: clean-shaven, shoulders squared, voice lower, measured. A man’s man again. Standing beside him, I realized how carefully he built that armor every morning.
We stood by the gate where the announcements drowned every thought. No embraces, of course. Just a long handshake — steady, formal, too long for strangers, too short for what we had gone through just a day ago. He smiled that half-smile he used when he meant everything and nothing at once. “We’ll meet again soon,” he said. I nodded, because lies like that sometimes feel like mercy. When I looked back one last time, he was already walking away, tall against the window light, fading into the crowd that never looked twice.
…Two years later Ivan got married. Now he has two cute twin boys, as sturdy and strong as their daddy. His wife is the sweetest girl I have ever met, when we had a short reunion in Minsk between my flights. I sometimes wonder if he reads her poems or if on the Kupalle night he visits the remote pier with another guy.
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