MOSCOW, July 28, 2005 -- While I was teaching my Monday morning class at Data-Plus, my mobile rang: The display showed my home number, but the voice sounded like Sergei’s.
“When will you be home?” he asked.
“10:30.”
“Then I don’t know if I’ll get to see you.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Sergei.”
“Sergei! Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Honey, that’s wonderful! I very much want to see you. I’ll be home by 10:20. Please don’t leave till I get there.”
When I got home he was dead asleep. I woke him just long enough to hug and kiss me. “I didn’t get any sleep last night,” he mumbled, and passed out again.
In the 15 minutes I had after my student Anton left at noon before I had to leave for my observed lesson at British Forum, I roused him again. “I want to sleep some more. My friend isn’t going back till this evening, so I’ll be here all afternoon.”
My lesson at BF was a breeze. I had prepared well, and two very handsome students – both named Andrei -- showed up. The tall dark-haired one works for Radio Russia; and tall blond one is an IT student at a Moscow university.
It was the same class I had observed on Thursday, though only blond Andrei had been there. Its teacher is a grim-faced American broad named Lisa, who wins the Rudest Teacher award. She had known for at least four days that I would be observing her class. She was not using the standard upper intermediate textbook, so I couldn’t follow the class from the textbook. She told me nothing about her class, so I had no clue.
I had to ask her for a copy of the materials she was using, and when I started to write on it, she snapped, “That’s another student’s.”
So at the end of my class on Monday, which Sean Fitzgerald had observed, I assigned the two Andrei’s to write an essay on a topic relating to TV.
As I was leaving, Lisa arrived. As a courtesy, I informed her of the homework assignment. “It’s up them and to you whether they should carry through on it or not.”
“Not another writing assignment,” she huffed imperiously.
“I have assigned them an essay to write,” I snapped in suppressed (I hope) anger. “Whether they do it or not is up to them and you. They told me they had time problems, so I said maybe their teacher would let them write it during this next half hour, but that’s your decision,” and stalked out.
Bill Skyrme later told me that she’s a mental basket case. Twice she’s been found passed out on her bathroom floor from an overdose of aspirin -- an attempt either at suicide or getting attention. She’s clinically insecure and often brings candy and cookies to her colleagues to try to make people like her.
It would take more than candy and cookies for me to give her the time of day. Being nice would be a good start.
It’s an old story for little minds: By denigrating others’ work, she thinks she can make hers look better.
Anyway, the nice thing about free-lancing is that I don’t have to have anything to do with any of the water-cooler yentas – only Sean and my students. Sean will contact me in a couple of days when they get their class needs sorted out.
So it looks like I’ll be having some extra classes and some extra money.
When I returned from BF about 2:30, Sergei had resurrected and was bursting with energy and excitement. He had paid somebody 5 to bring him up to pay off the last of his slot machines and hadn’t told me because he had wanted to surprise me.
He is feeling on top of the world. He has a business of his own and is running his own life. The mysterious problem over the phone about the money was actually a crisis with the mafia. Zhorik had apparently called some macho Chechen a cocksucker. Since they’re still in the stone age and manhood is everything, they threatened to kill him unless Andrei et al paid ,000 to compensate for the injury to his character and reputation (read, “pride.”). Andrei told them the most they could come up with was ,000. They took the two grand and let Zhorik go. So he owes his life, literally, to the twins.
Though I like to think he came to Moscow to live with me and continue his education – and he did – he also had little choice. Either he lives here, it seems, or he dies there. These fuckers play for keeps.
I asked Sergei if my life would be in danger if I decide to move there. “No way,” he assured. I still have doubts, but I have nearly another year to make up my mind.
Andrei seems to be having business problems, though he won’t talk about them – even to Sergei. But Sergei thinks that the mafia is bleeding him. He’s making good money, but never seems to have any; so Sergei thinks the mafia is taking a couple hundred here, a couple hundred there – despite his alleged “cover.”
Sergei was to connect with his ride Monday, but when the ride hadn’t called by 10:30 p.m., Sergei took Zhorik with him to go to the guy’s sister’s apartment. I was awakened when they came in about 3 a.m. Before they had managed to get to his apartment, they had run into an old friend of Sergei’s whom he hadn’t seen in three years, had bought canned cocktails, then had been arrested and tossed in the metro station police holding cell for a couple of hours for drinking on the street – a new law that is only selectively enforced.
Zhorik still didn’t have his proper documents with him – bez bumazhki, ti still kakashka (without papers you’re still a piece of shit)…. – but at least they didn’t pay any fines this time.
But while they were sitting in the metro “guest house,” Sergei’s ride had gone on without him, and the three of them – Zhorik, Sergei, and his friend -- had come home together. “He’s gay,” Sergei confided. “His name is Misha; I’ll introduce you in the morning.”
Sergei started taking the bedspread off the bed. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to sleep in the kitchen.”
He had all the makings of a new fantasy: 20 years old, 6 ft. tall, blonde tousled hair, blue eyes, a nice smile. He was asleep when I first went into the kitchen to fix my oatmeal; his pants were unzipped. Though his cock wasn’t visible, his absolutely hairless lower abdomen was. Not so much as a sprout within an inch of the outline of his chlen.
He was personable, friendly, and helpful. As a friend of Sergei, Andrei, Denis, and now Zhorik, he would just expand our family a little bit. Having regular sex with him would take the pressure off Zhorik. Misha could live here and help with the cooking and chores and everybody would live happily ever after.
As the day wore on, we spent a lot of time together and grew increasingly close and affectionate: first, a casual kiss, then some loving pats, then kissing on the mouth – several times – and finally french kissing.
When he said he wanted to spend the night, I gave him and Zhorik money to buy cocktails and vodka, and we’d have a party after my last student left at 9:30.
In the meantime, Sergei had lined up a new ride to Stavropol – he thought – that was supposed to leave that evening (Tuesday). Everything was all set: Sergei and Zhorik went someplace about 11 p.m.; Misha and I went to get some more vodka; we talked and drank. Several times I mentioned “bed”; each time, Misha pleaded for “a little more” vodka. Finally at 12:30, I said, “let’s go to bed.”
At that point, he came into the bedroom, announced he was going home and asked for 200 rubles – about .50. I was pissed. “Why? I thought you were staying here!”
“Saturday,” he smiled gayly, and left.
When Sergei and Zhorik returned about 2 a.m., Sergei was as shocked as I was that Misha had gone.
So my fantasy has ended as quickly as it began. There’ll be no Saturday. I don’t really want to see him again. It was a rude, manipiulative, prostitutka thing to do, and if he’s as fickle and flighty as that, I don’t want him cluttering up my life.
Besides, Sergei said he had a little dick.
Sergei and I had great sex last night, and we both came. He had told Zhorik that he wanted to talk to me alone in the bedroom. As his cock was thrusting six inches down my throat, I heard the door open and close.
I raised my head. “Was that Zhorik?”
Uh-huh.
“He saw what we were doing, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I think it’s better.”
Now he’s seen me sucking his big brother’s big cock, and I think it may smooth the way for his ultimate seduction. Sergei gave me the go-ahead a couple of nights ago when I was discussing the dearth of sex in his absence.
“And, unfortunately, Zhorik’s straight,” I concluded.
“Keep working on him,” Sergei grinned. “After all, he’s not 15 any longer.”
Of course, I had planned to anyway. I’ve already reached into his shorts or pants a couple of times as he slept and felt his inert chef d’ouvre. But both times, when I tried to make it a little less inert, he stirred and rolled over on his stomach.
But we have lots of time:
“Could I, would I, even though he’s sleeping soundly, should I….?”
After our sex bout, Sergei and Zhorik paid an unplanned visit to Sergei’s old friend Edik from Stavropol, who told Sergei he would pay for Sergei’s airplane flight to Stavropol today, Wednesday, if he would courier ,000 down to Edik’s mother.
When they returned this morning about 5:30, Zhorik was as loving and affectionate as ever, so witnessing the primal scene last night apparently didn’t traumatize him too much.
My measure of Sergei has leapt skyward in the last three days: He has been unstinting and absolutely sincere in repeatedly expressing his deep and abiding love for me. It’s clear that stiffing me has never even crossed his and Andrei’s minds; and he is planning to personally take the responsibility of repaying me the full ,000 or so he and Andrei have borrowed, and Andrei can repay him when he’s able to.
He has repeated his commitment to a life together with me, and he expressed his deep gratitude for what I’ve done for him, Andrei, Zhorik, and the others.
“He finds people crawling,” he was explaining to Misha, “and he takes them and lifts them up on their feet and helps them run. Don’t you Dane?”
The fact that he realizes it, understands it, and verbalizes it, and is trying to make me know how much he appreciates it says volumes for the scraggly, homeless, street urchin I first met less than a year ago.
When both my evening students cancelled last night, I called Dima and Kostya and we had an “English lesson” – aka poker game -- for the first time in months. I’ve missed them a lot. Dima is married, has a step-son, and will soon have a child of his own. As Kostya joked, “He’s a grown-up now.”
Kostya and I renewed our talk about a vacation together in Egypt – maybe during my November IB break. As usual, depends on time and money. We were again very touchy-feely with each other – affectionate in his macho way.
I’m still not sure he wouldn’t like to “take a walk on the wild side.” And a vacation together in Egypt would provide a perfect opportunity.
Chapt. 151 – 1975 words
Columns :: Sergei’s blond boy flunks try-out
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