MOSCOW, February 26, 2006 --Things got back on track in the post-twins era Monday night. When I had fondled Zhorik’s piska the night before, his response had been, “I don’t want to.”
“Do you mind if I jerk off while I play with your dick,” I had countered.
“Maybe tomorrow night.”
So when we went to bed about midnight “tomorrow night,” Monday, I started giving him his usual massage, and dropped to his crotch. “Do you mind if I play with your dick a little bit?”
“Just a little bit.”
I could feel it growing and stiffening as I unbuttoned his shorts. By the time I got it out and in my hand, it was ready. “Do you want me to suck it?”
“Huh-ugh.”
As I stroked my dick, he began erecting, guaranteeing my explosion a few seconds later.
“Dane,” he said, while I was still recovering, “do me.”
I continued stroking, just touching his glans with my lips as I did so.
“Does this help?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s put the porn on,” he said.
He came very quickly, and I gulped it down, continuing to stroke with my mouth and tongue.
“Dane,” he said, “I want to come again.”
So I changed hands and resumed the process.
“Dane, I’m going to come,” so I again captured his 6-incher with my epiglottis.
“Was that okay?”
“Yes.”
“I love….,” I began as he got out of bed to turn the computer off.
“What?” he asked.
“Having sex with you.”
“We’re not having sex,” he declared.
“What are we doing?”
“I don’t know, but we’re not having sex.”
So he’s still in denial. He’s not having sex with a man. That’s okay. I don’t care what he calls it as long we do it.
Wednesday afternoon, I came home for a nap after my classes at School #69. I was awakened at 5:45 by Zhorik.
“Give me 2,000 rubles,” he said. “It’s very important.”
“What do you want 2,000 rubles for?”
“Maybe I’ll give it back to you tonight.”
“If not tonight, when?”
“I’ll find out tonight.”
He sat down on the bed.
I”ve been at Avtozovodskaya Station. I’ve been at a friend’s house.
“What’s his name?”
“He’s a policeman.”
“When did you meet him?”
“You remember when I lost my passport….” And launched into a story which I didn’t understand, ending with something like, “He’s going to get my passport back. Understand?”
“No.’
“I don’t have time to explain it now. Maybe I’ll drink something tonight.”
“You said you weren’t going to drink any more.”
“But maybe because of this I will.”
“Listen,” I said sternly, “I want to tell you something.”
“Tell me something.”
“You have a drinking problem,” and I recounted the problems he’s had when he’s gotten drunk, ending with last Friday night.
“If you come home again like that, I don’t want to live with you. You can go right now to the army. I’m not going to live with an alcoholic.”
He was obviously angry. “I’m leaving.”
“I just want you to understand.”
“I understand.”
“It’s not a joke. I mean it.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Neither am I.”
I added: “I hope that you will be home when I come home at 10:00 tonight; maybe we’ll do something.”
He stood facing me.
I kissed him goodbye.
He wiped his face with his sleeve and left – with the 2,000 rubles plus the 900 I had given him that afternoon, which is what remained of the $ 50 I promised him for the week.
He was home – and sober -- when I got home that night. I called him via Anton’s mobile phone and asked him if he wanted me to bring him anything. “Yes, some French fries from Rostik’s.”
It turns out he had wanted the 2000 rubles to bribe the cops. They had caught him again without proper registration at Avtozavodskaya Metro Station. He had also befriended a cop earlier in the day, and he had thought maybe his new friend could head off the 2000-ruble bribe, but he wasn’t able to connect with him.
The next day, Thursday, was a holiday – Day of the Defenders of the Motherland, known during Soviet times as Red Army Day, then just Army Day; but more commonly now as Men’s Day. It’s widely scorned by many Russians, but it gives them with a three-day holiday.
I began celebrating Men’s Day about 6 a.m. by finding and fingering the stiff and erecting cock of the man nearest me and proceeding to prevent some more prostate cancer. He slept until I returned from a shopping trip about 1 p.m., then spent the afternoon playing computer games while I watched the TCM movie channel.
The affection between us was palpable as we fixed supper: He fried potatoes while I fixed Russian hamburgers: a pound of ground meat, chopped onions, two eggs, two tablespoons of sour cream, and two tablespoons of flour.
After supper we moved back into the bedroom to watch the Russian-U.S. Olympic soccer game, he in his shorts in the armed chair beside the bed, and I on the bed with my head on the chair, lovingly massaging his upper thighs. As my fingers wandered into forbidden recesses, he didn’t flinch.
He finally clicked to the porn channel where porn stars were already getting it on. “Want to?”
“Yes,” I said.
He rushed to close the bedroom door and then pulled off his shorts as he plopped on the bed beside me. It was down my throat in a second. “Jerk it,” he corrected. I swallowed his cum and kept his still erecting piska in my mouth while I pulled my own pud. After I came, I resumed stroking him and within another couple of minutes, he came again. When he didn’t pull up his shorts, I continued to stroke and kiss and lick his dick some more, and after a couple of commercials and some more serious porn, he came for the third time.
And so goes life now without the twins.
And this morning, Anton left for London, leaving just me and Zhorik in the apartment to play house alone together for two weeks.
The only thing missing is kissing. He doesn’t like to be kissed and still gets annoyed if I do it too often. Suck his cock? Yes. Kiss him? No.
Anyway, after some more TV, he announced he was going to take a bath. A few minutes later I went into the bathroom to clear my congested nasal passages. “Do you want to sleep?” he asked.
“I can sit and talk to you if you like.”
“If you want to.”
So I sat down on the toilet for our now-customary post-coital bathtub chat. He still feels very ashamed of getting drunk and losing the $ 100 (Chapt. 188 ). He had felt very proud that he was going to be able to help me when I needed it.
“I still don’t understand why you did it?” I said.
“I don’t either.”
“Promise me you’ll never get that drunk again.”
“I promise. I never will.”
He’s still not decided about the army. Monday evening he had gleefully announced that maybe he wouldn’t go to the army. I hugged and kissed him and started listing again all the things I/we’d do: Buy a video camera, fix his teeth, teach him English, get a driver’s license, get him properly registered, find him girls for sex, continue to have sex – or whatever it is we’re doing -- ourselves, and have a happy life.
“But Igor and I promised each other a long time ago that we’d go into the army together.” They’ve been best buddies since they were nine years old. They lost their cherries on the same night after going to a disco – Zhorik with some little twat on a bench, Igor with another on the grass. They went to the university in St. Pete together on a whim. They talked of living together “when they grew up.”
“Even so, honey, you owe your loyalties first to yourself, not to Igor. You’ll still be losing two crucial years out of your life.”
We sat silently. I let my fingers stroke his pubic hair and the long, lush, coarse cascade on his upper legs between his thighs. “Honey, if you go to the army, what will I do?”
He’s still certain he could choose where he would serve. “I will pick Moscow, and I will come straight to you,” he insisted.
“Of course, I will support your choice,” I said, “but I really don’t want you to go into the Army.”
But I’m very much afraid he will.
If your president (he sure as hell ain’t mine) is stupid enough to attack Iran, you may pay for it with your very own neighborhood terrorist attack, say intelligence experts from various sources, including the U.S.
It’s another reason I’m perfectly content to lurk in Moscow, whose president, while he himself poses threats too numerous to mention, is at least taking a much more sane approach to the Iranian nuclear “crisis” than the Bushmaster, and is therefore not setting his country up to be the target of Iranian terrorist retaliation. Maybe some more Chechen terrorist retaliation, but not Iranian, which is much more lethal.
The worldwide support network of the Lebanese Hezbollah, “Iran's main terrorist ally,” according to John Pike, director of the GlobalSecurity.org U.S. think tank, “is capable of attacks against US interests if it feels its Iranian patron is threatened. They have all kinds of people that would like to embrace martyrdom."
This raises the specter, noted “From the Wilderness” (FTW) news organization, “that a terrorist group allied with Iran would be capable of launching attacks inside the United States to avenge a strike against Iran.”
Maybe you should write your congressman and ask him to please help keep a leash on the Neocon cabal that runs your country. The life you save may be your own.
Too much oil money and too much power do strange things to your cerebral processes. Now Putin is trying to out-Bush Bush by announcing that Russia, too, will build a colony on the moon -- to mine the rare isotope Helium-3, a non-radioactive isotope of helium that can be used in nuclear fusion.
While it is rare on earth, it is said to be plentiful on the moon, and some wild-eyed science fiction dreamers are touting it as fuel for fusion power on earth because it is powerful, non-polluting and generates almost no
radioactive by-product.
The plan is to build a permanent base on the moon by 2015, and by 2020
to begin the industrial-scale delivery of Helium-3 “with….a heavy-cargo transport link,” according to Nikolai Sevastyanov, head of the Energia space corporation.
”The regular transport relay to the moon would be established with the help of the planned Clipper spaceship and the Parom, a space capsule intended to tug heavy cargo containers around space,” he says.
It’s an idiotic proposal that will never happen. “All the people ever going to the moon or any other celestial real estate, have already been there,” insists Tom Robertson, old friend, energy scholar, and moderator of the EnergyResource web site.
Nuclear power already has an abysmally low net energy return; i.e., the amount of energy you get out of it is only 3 to 5 times what you put into it, at best – an economic disaster compared with the 29-to-1 net energy of petroleum just a few years ago. If you add the energy costs of transporting H-3 from the moon to the earth, it becomes a laughable net energy fiasco – much worse than oil from shale oil or tar sands, or gasoline from coal.
But never let reality interfere with your grand schemes to divert people’s attention from their real problems with pie-in-the-sky promises of technology break-throughs, as Putin is doing, or as Dubya has been doing for the past week in America.
Somebody should tell your moron president that his golly-gee-whiz miracle of generating electricity with solar panels on the roof was demonstrated to the world when Jimmy Carter installed them on the roof of the White House back in the ’70s – 30 years ago.
Bush’s Republican predecessor, Ronald Reagan, removed them.
