MOSCOW, August 14, 2007 -- Update on the wages of sin in Moldova (Chapt. 260, Igor returns to play, but Zhorik keeps top spot): The Moscow Times account added a couple of details not included in the Yahoo news story. It said Bianchi had previously been convicted of “similar charges” in Russia but had been subsequently released under an amnesty bill.
But we still don’t know who initiated the case. Did the boys themselves complain? Or was the prosecution launched in Moldova, or was the case initiated by the anti-sex vigilantes in America?
The whole affair reminds me of the account related by a former English Exchange colleague several years ago: He was a caricature of the aging queen: fat, repugnantly unattractive, with effeminate mannerisms and a Capote-like voice. He was also suffering from sugar diabetes.
He said he had been teaching English in the Moldovan capital of Chisinau for one of the many English-teaching companies throughout Eastern Europe. He had been enchanted by the beautiful boys on the streets of Moldova, who also happened to be suffering from the national economic destitution shared by most.
He began inviting them to his apartment for meals, after which he would bed down with some of them. They didn’t seem to mind swapping the only thing they had to offer for a full stomach. So according to him, everybody was happy.
Except the neighbors.
They complained to the police about the horde of young boys flocking to his apartment. The cops didn’t buy his Moldova charity story and came to his school one day demanding that he accompany them to the police station.
He told them he had left his passport in his apartment and would come after class that day.
Instead, he went to his apartment, got his passport, packed, and caught the next train to Moscow.
Just goes to prove: There are Puritans everywhere.
The bucksi crisis continues, exacerbated by more cancellations: On Sunday, Information Plus cancelled both of last week’s classes because of an exhibition – a $ 100 deficit from the projected budget; then on Monday afternoon, Masha called to say she needed a vacation and wouldn’t have lessons for the next two weeks – minus another $ 200.
On Monday evening, new TOEFL student Andrei called and said he had bought the Barron’s preparation book with CDs and thought he could prepare for the TOEFL test on his own – another $ 100 for two weeks; then on Monday evening, Dima called and said he and Sasha would miss Tuesday morning’s class because of meetings they would have to attend all week – subtract another $ 40.
Tuesday evening, Alexei called to say that his wife had bought theater tickets and we wouldn’t have our class -- $ 30. The final coup de grace came when gorgeous Dima called Wednesday evening to say he had the flu and could we cancel our Thursday morning class – another $ 50.
So instead of the nearly $ 400 I expected to take in last week, I managed to scrape up less than one-fourth of that – until Alexei’s lesson on Thursday night, when he paid me $ 100 and started a new cycle of three lessons.
So that kept me out of destitution, but the prospects aren’t much better this week. Sergei from my Monday/Wednesday Information Plus class SMS’d me that they were going on vacation and that classes for the rest of August will be cancelled -- $ 100 a week x 3 = $ 300 for the month. Rent is due on Friday, and I need to have an extra $ 300 for Igor.
On Wednesday, a little more than 24,000 rubles went into my BankAmerica pension account. But I still need another 6000 for the landlady on Friday. I don’t see how I’m going to have it. I may have to tell a fib and say that Igor didn’t come, and we’ll start the 30,000 ruble-per-month schedule next month.
But maybe a miracle will happen.
Speaking of miracles, Sergei and Andrei brought me one as a gift when they arrived on Friday afternoon. At least it started out as one.
Sergei had called the afternoon before saying, “Dane, I’m on my way home and I have a present for you.”
I had hoped his present would be the $ 300 he had promised when he had called the week before (Chapt. 260), which would have been a godsend, and which – as attested to above – I desperately need.
I was at the local market when they arrived, and when I got back, they met me at the door with hugs and kisses and souvenirs -- a backscratcher, which I really was glad to get, and a seashell replica of a sailing ship, which I really wasn’t. Are these his proudly touted gifts?
And then Sergei announced: “Come see our present.”
And out of the kitchen walked one of the most beautiful young blond boys I’ve seen in Russia, naked to the waist, with his trou barely managing to hang on to his hips about six inches below his navel. The only reason I didn’t see his pubic hair is because he almost doesn’t have any.
“This is Artur,” he said.
“Very happy to meet you,” I said as calmly as I could.
“How do you like our present?” he asked me later.
“He’s beautiful,” I said. “But a gift for me? Why do you think he’d want to have sex with me?”
“He’s sort of bi-,” he said. “I think maybe….we’ll wait and see.”
Artur and I chatted as long as I could think of anything to say just so I’d have an excuse to keep staring at him. He was born in a town in the Moscow region, but his parents either deserted him or died – he told Sergei he didn’t want to talk about it -- when he was two, and he’s lived with his grandmother near Sochi ever since. He works in a furniture factory there, and met Sergei and Andrei on the street and struck up a friendship. Sergei really liked him and on a whim invited to come home with them. He accepted.
And I’ve been feasting my eyes – and from time to time other parts of my anatomy – on him ever since. About 9 that evening he decided to take a bath. He came into the spare bedroom, where the rest of us were playing on the computer or watching TV, with nothing but a dish towel wrapped around him his tiny waist. He couldn’t get the hot water faucet to work.
You need a pair of pliers, actually, and I magnanimously offered to help him. When I finished wrenching off the hot water tap, he was between me and the door. As I turned toward him, he took his towel off. Omigawd! I couldn’t stare right at his crotch without giving myself away, so I smiled and patted his beautiful naked ass as I squeezed past him.
He giggled.
I tried to think of an excuse for a repeat performance, and suddenly realized: Yes, of course, the bath towel is dirty. I hunted up a clean one and took it too him. The door wasn’t locked. He stood up as I walked in, turned to face me, and began drying himself. I managed to stare at his naked dick this time. He had a semi. It was very large, and hung in a downward arc from his 17-year-old body.
Afterward, he, Igor and I went to buy some blank CDs on which to put the digital photos that Zhorik took when he was here on leave. As we were walking, I realized the end of my dick was wet. He was tripping my peter meter non-stop.
I kissed him and Igor – both sitting at the computer -- good night before I went to bed about 12:30. I was hoping fate would be kind, and that he and Igor would both wind up in bed with me, as Zhorik did the first night he stayed here (Chapt. 120, Fantasy comes alive: sex with Zhorik). But when Igor came to bed about 3 a.m., he was alone.
“Where’s Artur?”
“On the floor in the other room. Why?”
“Just curious.”
On Sunday night, however, my fantasy was realized. I had loaned Sergei 1000 rubles – about $ 40 – and he had sworn he would get it back to me Saturday. He didn’t get it back. Then, he promised Sunday. So he and Artur were sitting on the bench in the courtyard waiting for the guy who was ostensibly going to bring it to him.
When I took Missy for a walk, there were drinking a lemon-vodka cocktail. I joined them on the bench. I continued staring relentlessly at his flat, smooth lower belly, with just a hint of pubic hair rimming the top of his low-slung trousers.
Sergei told me that Artur had told him Sergei’s “grandfather” – me – was a very good, kind, gentle man. As he told me, I took Artur’s hand in mine and squeezed it. He squeezed back.
Our closeness grew as the afternoon wore into evening. Andrei fixed some borshch for supper and by the time Artur and I found ourselves eating alone together in the kitchen, our lips somehow found each other.
I tongued him and he tongued me back. Our teeth clicked as we kissed passionately.
I put my hand on the flat lower belly I’d been ogling for two days. He took my hand and pushed it down to his cock and unzipped his trou. I could feel his dick getting harder and longer.
“I want to suck your cock,” I said.
“Later, when everybody’s asleep,” he promised.
I went to bed to await whatever would happen.
About 12:30 the door opened and Artur – by now quite drunk -- made his way into the room, knocking over the floor fan in the process, which brought Igor in to see what was going on. Igor picked up the fan and ushered Artur out of the room.
Boo!
But not for long: Yay.
He returned almost immediately and lay down crossways on the bed. We French-kissed again and I reached for his hardening dick. We both fumbled and grappled with his trousers and managed to pull them off. He pushed my head toward his cock.
For such a pretty little boy, it was huge – not quite the enormous balloon of the beautiful “Romantik”/Artyom I found on the Internet last summer, (Chapt. 212, Conspiracy theory: Putin is American tool!), but it was a close runner-up. And his face and body are even more beautiful.
I deep-throated his bulging shlang. He undulated and moaned. When I began tasting the pre-cum, I started jerking him.
But suddenly I realized I was sucking a piece of dead meat. He had passed out. The alcohol had taken its toll. Ah well.
When Igor came to bed about 6 a.m. it was daylight. As soon as I thought Igor was asleep I pulled Artur’s huge dick out again and got a full glimpse of his pubic hair. What little there was, was in an inverted V-shape, concentrated within an inch above his dick. The foreskin of his dick didn’t fully cover the head. Even flaccid, the “little bald man” was peaking out.
In all the drunken, delirious confusion of the night before, I had heard neither the phone ring nor the signal for the text message. Only when I got to Information-Plus and the students hadn’t arrived by 8:15 did I call student Sergei to check.
“Did you get my message?” he asked.
“No.”
“I tried to call you and I sent you an SMS to tell you we won’t resume lessons till September. We’re going on vacation next week, so we decided just to wait till September.”
Oh-oh. There goes another $ 100 bucksi this week. And Masha’s cancelled her lessons –another hundred.
So I went home early. When Artur got up about 10 a.m., he was smiling and happy. I kissed him on the lips. He kissed me back. We were very affectionate and touchy-feely. Together, we fixed him a breakfast of eggs with onions, mushrooms, and parmesan cheese and kissed each other several times in the mouth.
I also hugged him and kissed the alluring lower belly that I can’t take my eyes off of. So there was no morning-after remorse and the stage seemed set for another more successful round with his beautiful dick over the next several days.
Monday night my dream dimmed into more of a nightmare. The three of them – Andrei, Sergei, and Artur -- left in the early afternoon and when they returned about 6:30 all three were shit-faced drunk. Happy drunks at first, but then the inevitable.
Artur was too drunk to stand up, but insisted on going to the courtyard outside. As time wore on, it became clear that his dick was bigger than his brain. There’s nothing more mindless than a drunk teenager.
Igor was the only one sober, and he tried to help keep them in line, but in the process started beating up on drunken Artur, which pissed me off; they kissed and made up, but I still wouldn’t let Artur outside. So he climbed out the window and down the fire escape. In the meantime, Sergei and Andrei got into their usual sibling rampage. There was hitting and screaming and scuffling and breaking. I told them all three I wanted them out by the next day.
Andrei said he’d leave immediately. “I’ve lived on the street for the last five years, I can survive for a few days on the street here.”
“Then leave,” I said.
He did. Also by the fire escape, but as part of his parting grand finale he stomped to pieces Igor’s guitar and knocked off and broke the souvenir seashell ship he himself had brought from Sochi.
The house phone rang at about 10 p.m. It was Andrei. “Open the door.”
“No.”
“Artur’s with me.”
“He also can’t come in.”
“We want to take Missy for a walk.”
“No.”
I finally relented and let Andrei and Artur in. I had to go put some money on my mobile phone so I could SMS Zhorik, and when I came back, Artur was standing naked in front of my bedroom door with his huge dick beckoning.
He was still very drunk, but what the hell? Before I could get undressed, he pulled me down into the bed. I managed to get the rest of my clothes off and began deep throating him. But that wasn’t enough. First he wanted to fuck me.
“No way,” I said.
“Then fuck me,” he said.
“I can’t.” The thought of plunging my dick into a shit-filled bung hole drops my peter almost as fast as a naked twat. So next best: He licked my finger and poked it up his asshole.
When all else failed, I started sucking his massive dick again, and since it looked like he was going to be too drunk to come, I jerked myself off as I manipulated his bulging glans with my tongue. Didn’t take me long.
When he found out I had come he started licking and sucking the cum off my dick.
This guy is supposed to be straight?
He also had me twist and contort his balls while he was jerking off. This was all bordering on sado-masochism and was beginning to disgust me.
Finally, to my relief, he announced he wasn’t going to be able to come. So I went and washed my finger.
Igor had been out gulyating all this time. When he finally returned, he hugged and kissed me again and again and told me repeatedly how much he loved me. It was very pleasant.
Artur said he was thirsty for something cold to drink. Igor volunteered to go with him to the store. “No more alcohol,” I demanded. “He can have some juice, but absolutely no alcohol.”
I expected them back within half an hour – certainly within an hour. When the house phone rang about 3 a.m., it was Igor. I opened the door and watched him climb slowly up the steps covered with blood and holding his head.
He collapsed on the floor next to the bathroom door.
I helped him up and helped him take a bath. I found out this morning that he had called some guy a cocksucker who then proceeded to beat the shit out of him.
Tuesday morning none of them remembered anything about the night before, except that Sergei remembered finally encountering the guy who owed him the thousand rubles that he had borrowed from me and which I desperately needed.
The guy had refused to give him the money so Sergei had proceeded to pound him and taken the thousand rubles out of his pocket and passed them on to me.
By this morning, Tuesday, everything was rosy. They were all promising never to get so drunk again; Andrei fixed some superb soup for lunch; Sergei cleaned the apartment; Artur went shopping with me and helped everybody else; and Igor lay in pain in our bed.
Nevertheless, I told them I wanted them to leave Thursday because the landlady was coming to collect the rent and I didn’t want them here. Despite their promises it’s bound to happen again. I still don’t know if I’m even going to have the rent money, much less an extra $ 300 for Igor.
“Let’s play tonight,” I told Igor Thursday night before I went to bed. “Sergei and Andrei will be here tomorrow, and it will be our last chance for several days.”
“I’ll have to take a bath,” he replied.
So I went to bed about midnight with the smug knowledge that I would soon be sucking his cock.
But when I awoke at 6 a.m., he still hadn’t come to bed. And Missy was clamoring to go for her early morning pee. First things first: my own early morning pee. Then I looked in the other bedroom where the TV and computer are, expecting to see Igor still sitting at the keyboard.
No Igor!
There are only two rooms and a kitchen in this apartment, and he wasn’t in any of them! Did he connect with some irresistible little chickie on the Internet and go for a rendezvous? Seems very unlikely. He had no money and the metro closes at 1 a.m.
Perplexed, I went back into our bedroom. And there he lay on his back waiting for me.
“Did you just go to bed?” I asked puzzled.
He smiled. “I fell asleep in the other room and just woke up and came to bed.”
He had darted in while I was taking a pee.
“I have to take Missy for a walk first. Save my place, I’ll be right back,” I said, pulling the old Elizabeth Taylor chestnut out of the closet.
When I came back a few minutes later, there he lay in the classic seduce-me pose. I quickly shed my clothes, hopped into bed, put my arms around his beautiful hairless torso, and -- justifying the Puritans’ “haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be having a good time,” I proceeded to fondle a Moldovan teenager.
I’m going to be a Russian teacher! Former Inst. of Diplomacy student Andrei called to tell me he’s lined up a couple of new students for me.
They weren’t the “beautiful woman and good-looking man” that he promised a month ago (Chapt. 256, Independence Day: Why is there tyranny?). Rather they are a business man who wants to begin lessons in late August and an American colleague who wants to learn – Russian!
Oh, Bozhe! Not only am I not a native Russian speaker, I don’t even consider myself fluent. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I could actually be a great help in teaching beginning Russian to other Americans– with of course the aid of a good textbook and some tapes or disks, which I’ve already bought.
Andrei’s colleague, Michael, wants me to teach him and his wife and two children in their apartment near the Shukinskaya metro station line. I’ve been in their shoes, I know the problems they face daily – with shopping, with finding their way around, with asking questions, with reading metro signs -- and I think I can help them overcome some of the hurdles I’ve confronted.
In the kingdom of the blind, after all, the one-eyed man is king. So if you don’t know any Russian, I’m a genius. Anyway, it will be challenging and fun – and it will no doubt help me improve my own Russian.
The perils of slang for male sex organs when dealing with the two languages was pointed out by a Moscow Times columnist last week.
I’ve already talked about the slang for the St. Peterburg “16-egg bridge,” which features a nearly naked sturdy peasant lad with one pair of balls, or “eggs,” and a mighty Russian steed with another pair of “eggs” on each of its four corners (Chapt. 217, Pitr idyll, no bath, and bad pennies).
The columnist recounts an incident that purportedly took place on a Russian metro involving the same anatomical features: An American friend had been standing on the metro in front of a seated man holding a paper cone filled with eggs – the old Soviet method of transporting eggs which was still in vogue when I first began visiting Moscow in 1993, but which has since been replaced by familiar western-style cartons.
The man had politely offered the American lady his seat, the columnist wrote, but when she replied in Russian, Oh, no, thank you, you have eggs. “The passengers giggled..
But he insisted, and to show her gratitude, she countered with:
“Very well, I’ll sit, but at least let me hold your eggs.”
“The passengers were now rolling on the floor with laughter,” he wrote. Later his friend asked him what had been so funny, adding that even so, Russians are very polite. “Just think, he gave me a chocolate bar just because I held his eggs in the metro.”
So maybe I can help my new American students avoid such embarrassing dilemmas.
Here I am counting rubles before rent day, and I just got beat over the head with another reminder of how hopelessly stupid I’ve been in the money planning and management department. I think I would be a millionaire now if my head instead of my dick had been ruling my brain.
Let me count the ways: First of all, when I came to Russia, I was in such a hurry to get over here to live with Tioufline that I forced the sale of our beautiful house in Seattle. It went for just over $ 400,000 dollars – not a bad appreciation, considering that my ex- and I had paid $ 189,000 ten years earlier.
But I found out that within the next two years it was sold and resold again—this time for over $ 800,000! If I’d only been willing to wait a couple more years.
After paying off our debts and splitting with my ex-, I only netted about $ 65,000 out of the sale, which I used to buy the apartment here in Moscow. Before the year was out, Tioufline had stolen it from me, and over the years I’ve spent at last $ 150,000 in rent that would have gone into my own pocket – not counting the appreciation on the apartment itself. If a one-bedroom apartment one metro stop out from the metro circle line is selling for $ 260,000 (Chapt. 254, Apartment prices confirm “most expensive” status), then a two-bedroom apartment with a European remodel inside the circle line would fetch at least that today.
So, if we start with the $ 200,000 I walked away from in Seattle, and add the $ 150,000 in rents over the last nine years, and the $ 260,000 the apartment would be worth today, we’re talking about 600,000 bucksi.
But let me tell you the unkindest cut of all:
As part of a sop to get my ex- to agree to sell the Seattle house so I could get here ASAP, I gave him my half of 52 acres of mountain-top property in Monroe County in southern West Virginia. He in turn, sold it to my nephew for $ 63,000. I just found out that my nephew has it on the market for $ 424,000!!!!!
I think that brings the cost of my bungling decisions up to close to a million. So now not only am I not a millionaire! I won’t ever be one!
And at the rate I’m going, I’ll die in poverty.
It’s at moments like this that I nod and say knowingly, “money isn’t everything,” and recite my old Russian stand-by proverb: “I’d rather have a 100 friends than a 100 rubles.”
Of course, I wouldn’t want to be rich and have no friends, but if I’d been a little smarter and a little less eager to pant after my roving dick, I could have had both!
So I’ve given it all up for a zoo full of mindless teenagers and wild animals?
And it would have been nice to never have to worry about money again! But let’s face it, even if I had a million bucksi, I’d probably give it away or make bad investments. Some of us were just not made to be rich.
Members of one of Chechnya’s most prestigious folk performing groups sought political asylum in Finland last week because of the “unbearable living conditions” in the Chechen capital of Grozny, greatly embarrassing both the Chechen and Russian authorities.
According to the Moscow Times, 18 Chechens, including 7 children, arrived in Helsinki a week ago for a series of performances in the Finnish capital. But immediately upon arrival, they asked for political asylum.
Chechen President Ramzan Kadyrov, the strong-arm goon who headed the Chechen militia before his father -- who then ran the country as Putin’s hand-picked stooge -- was assassinated, pooh-poohed the incident, saying only four “former performers” were involved.
And they didn’t go for political reasons, “they simply changed their place of residence,” he insisted. “Any citizen has the right to change their residence, and if they want to live in Western Europe, they have the right to do so.”
Russia several years ago declared the end of the war and the arrival of peace in the battered country, but there is weekly, if not daily, violence between Chechen natives and the occupying Russian soldiers. Car bombings and ambushes are commonplace, as is rounding up and “disappearing” of Chechen citizens by Kadyrov’s Chechen police and Russian occupiers.
The political self-exile of the Chechen performers focuses the world limelight on the tragic situation there and exposes the self-serving lies of the rulers of both countries.
On Thursday, Chechen authorities changed their story. It seems the asylum-seekers hadn’t wanted to abandon their country, they were simply “duped” by Westerners and now are desperate to return to their homeland.
The Chechen minister of culture said the dancers had been fired from the group a month ago, “although a Finnish businessman who invited them to Finland disputes that,” reports the Moscow Times.
The Culture Minister also insisted that “they enjoyed good working conditions here. They are crying and want to come back.”
After all, who wouldn’t want to live in Grozny?
See also related pages:
Chapt. #262 - Igor’s brain contusion will take him back to Moldova
Chapt. #260 - Igor returns to play, but Zhorik keeps top spot
Chapt. #256 - Independence Day: Why is there tyranny?
Chapt. #120 - Fantasy comes alive: sex with Zhorik
