Author: Dane Lowell
Submitted by: redadmin

Chapt. 279 – 2,354 words
Columns :: Women’s Day leaves Red Queen a happy girl!

MOSCOW, March 29, 2008 -- Comments:   Ratings:

Don't wish macho teenager Happy Women's Day
But it was a happy one for me :-)
I find my limit in orgasms
Future with Zhorik a little clearer - maybe
Ivan rekindles dream of Spain
Potemkin U Students have Russian media pegged
Kennan: Let Russians be Russians



MOSCOW, March 21, 2008 -- Women’s Day in Russia – the one day in the year when the macho Russian male chauvinist pretends to appreciate and honor his female counterpart – was March 8.

I made the mistake of SMS’ing Zhorik “Happy Women’s Day” when I woke up Saturday morning.

A few minutes later I received his indignant response: “Why did you wish me a Happy Holiday on Women’s Day?” he bristled. “Am I a woman to you?”

Ugh-oh! I’ve offended his teenage Russian masculinity! His knowledge of les affaires gais is tres limited to begin with – essentially only what he has heard from his macho pals in school and in the army. I couldn’t help recalling the first time he let me suck his cock. “Does this mean I’m gay?” he queried anxiously (Chapt. 177, The unbelievable happens: He lets me suck his cock!).

So for me to congratulation him on Women’s Day looms as a supreme insult. It means I think of him as a girl, and therefore don’t respect him, since Russian women are traditionally not respected, only fucked.

But his indigation didn’t last long. When I explained that I was congratulating him for having a day off work, he responded with “Understandable. What are you doing? How’s your mood?”

So everything’s smoothed over till the next crisis.


It turns out I was the one with something to celebrate on Women’s Day: It proved to be the backdrop for Round two of my sexual adventures with my adorable, irresistible Sasha (see photo, Chapt. 277, Remodels: The apartment and Sasha).

Saturday night, the night of Women’s Day, he and Igor went with Sergei to fete the occasion at Julia’s apartment. Igor hinted maybe he’d come back, but maybe he wouldn’t, which would mean he had hooked up with Tonya or Ira or Irochka, or ...

Sergei whispered that Julia has a girlfriend named Dasha who “really, really” likes Sasha, so I figured Sergei would pair off with Julia, Sasha with Dasha, and Igor with winner-still-to-be-announced.

At 4 a.m. Missy woke me up for a walk and pee. I was still fuming about her audacious insensibility of my need for my beauty sleep when the entry phone rang – Sasha!!

We hugged and kissed exuberantly. It turns out he hadn’t rendezvoused with Dasha after all, but had met an old girl friend (as opposed to girlfriend) and they had spent the night boozing at a nearby café. He was quite drunk and quite affectionate. After showing me computer pictures of some of his classmates and relatives, he obligingly headed for my bed. He pulled off his long-sleeved T-shirt and then sat on the edge of my new bed looking embarrassed.

“I’m not wearing any shorts,” he said apologetically.

“Thank gods!”

His ass was smooth and tiny, as I remembered it. We held each other eagerly and tongued each other passionately.

I began playing with his dick, it was still anesthetized from the vodka. I offered to give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation

“Okay.”

With my stroking tongue and repeated swallowing, it grew stiff enough to stroke. I was in ecstasy as I jerked until he again took charge for the final act. When he came I again plunged it down my throat and as I continued lavishing it with my tongue, my orgasm joined his.

We again fell sleep holding each other.

When I woke about 8 a.m., I took advantage of the full sunlight to drink in with my eyes what I’d been so greedily Brailleing. Yes, he’s absolutely hairless except for a tiny triangle of pubes that starts an inch above the juncture of his dick with his body. His legs are baby smooth. There’s no hair in his ass except a little in the crack, and only a tiny tuft of hair in his armpits.

When completely flaccid, the little tit at the end of his redundant foreskin points upward audaciously. As I played with it and gently stroked it, it again began stiffening. I retracted it as far as it would go to reveal the crimson head still wet and shiny from his gism of a couple of hours earlier. When his erector muscles started responding. I took hold of my own dick and within seconds I had come again – the third time in 24 hours. (I had orgasmed while playing with Igor’s sleeping dick less than a day before.)

In our pre-cum pillow talk, Sasha had explained in English that “I like boys and girls.” And, it seems, dirty old men.

So on Women’s Day, I was about the happiest girl in the world. I would not have been in the least offended if you had been thoughtful enough to wish me “Happy Mother’s Day.”


But in the process, I also discovered the cut-off point for a septuagenarian – at least for this one.

When Igor finally came to bed about 4:00 the following morning, he was squeaky clean and cuddly. The night before, before dropping off into a deep sleep, he had promised me a romp on his playground “tomorrow night.” When I couldn’t control my straying hands, I soon found my right fist wrapped around his sleeping cock and my left one around my own – very much awake. Within seconds I was again bathed in cum – four times in two days.

So when Igor murmured umm-hmm to my “can I play?” at 4 a.m. Tuesday, I leisurely stroked and sucked and jerked and sucked some more. He was bursting by the time he stiffened for the final thrust, which I took deep in my throat.

As he repeatedly shot and his dick swelled again and again against my tongue, I grabbed for my own cock, but found instead a wimpy piece of limp liver that simply refused to stand up and do its duty.

What could I do but apologetically whisper, “it won’t work.” Igor chuckled, and we both dropped off to sleep.

Do I wish I’d saved some of those earlier orgasms? Not really.

There’s always tomorrow, but at my age, who knows if tomorrow will ever come? Strike while the iron is hot. Make hay while the moon shines. Never waste a good hard on.

A couple of nights later, when he didn’t murmur umm-hmm, I asked him if he had sex with me just to please me or if he enjoyed it too.

“I do it for you,” he said.

“I was hoping it was fun for you too.”

“Well, it is. I do it for you and because it’s fun.”

I kissed him and we went to sleep.


My future with Zhorik became a little clearer this week, and maybe I won’t have to face reality after all when he comes marching home again in the middle of June – about 90 days from now!

On Wednesday morning he SMS’d that he’d had an idea the night before about how we could buy the apartment in Stavropol that he dreamed about earlier (Chapt. 244, Zhorik interlude proves frustrating, 245, Zhorik exits; and so do human rights). “Borrow some money and get a mortgage and we could pay it off each month.”

I had already rejected that idea, I reminded him. “I’m too old. No bank would lend me money. Maybe when you get a job you get a mortgage and I could help pay it off.”

“Dane,” he replied, “understand that I have two main goals: The first is to buy an apartment; the second is to get an education. I don’t want to live like Sergei and Andrei, who have nothing.

“I will go myself to Stavropol” to try to get financing for an apartment there, he said.

“But in the meantime, we will live in this apartment in Moscow, right?”

“While I am at the university, yes.”

Then I got down to the nitty gritty: “Living in the apartment now are Sergei, Igor, and Sasha. Do you want us to live alone or do you want others to live with us; if so, who exactly?”

“If everybody gets along, I’m not against their living with us. But when we go to Stavropol, it will be just the two of us living together.”

So he wasn’t kidding when he asked me to wait for him and promised that if I would help take care of him while he’s getting an education, he would take care of me when I got too old to teach. He’s really looking that far ahead. It eases some of the doubts I’ve had about his sincerity.

It also reduces the incentives for switching my locus vivendi to Spain.


When I told Sergei what Zhorik had said, he reiterated his notion that Zhorik and I should live here together.

“I will live with Julia,” he said.

“Where will Igor live?”

“With one of his girlfriends.”

“And Sasha?”

“I don’t know, we’ll see. Of course, we’ll come to visit, but you and Zhorik should live alone.”

That’s fine with me, if our relationship turns out to be more rewarding than his days here on leave last April (Chapt. 244, 245).


In the meantime, Ivan from Spain has arrived on a business trip. When he came by Friday night to see the remodel, to chat, and to bring the three bottles of wine I had had to leave behind because of the extra weight, he reiterated his insistence that I move to Spain.

He said he had talked to people there about my getting a job, and I wouldn’t have any trouble. “Native speakers are at a premium.”

And he again said he would help find me a boyfriend.

“Spending the money on the remodel will probably set my schedule back two or three years,” I said.

He was visibly disappointed.

“But it all depends on what happens with my boys,” I added “with Zhorik, Igor, and Sasha.”

Deep down, going to Spain is what I most want to do, but I don’t want to betray Zhorik. I suspect we will find that our relationship isn’t what I have envisioned, and my excuse for packing up and getting my cula to Spain will suddenly materialize. But that remains to be seen.

Life gets more complicated.


I gave my American Mass Media class at Potemkin U, their final exam last week, and intentionally included a number of questions about Russian mass media to contrast the states of mass media in America and Russia.

In reality, mass media in America has fallen to an abysmal state. It has ceased under the deregulation of the ‘80s and ‘90s to pursue its original role of protecting Americans from government excesses and lies. Still, it hasn’t sunk to the Russian level. The America media is still free to criticize the government and the country, it simply refuses to.

Virtually all American mass media are now owned by a handful of obscenely rich media moguls, like Rupert Murdoch or Warren Buffet, or giant money-making machines, like Time Warner or General Electric.

They are free to criticize, but they don’t, because most of them have the same right wing agenda and prejudice as the Bushmaster. What is there to criticize? People get rich in wars.

My students have no illusions about the Russian press. Every one of them recognizes that the national harmony reflected by the Russian media is an illusion, and that Russian journalists don’t dare criticize Putin or the government at the risk of losing their job, their freedom, or their life. Will the growing acceptance among educated Russians that this is true have any effect on the Russian press of the future?

It’s hard to imagine, but I wouldn’t rule it out.


Meanwhile, are we rushing to judgment in our Western condemnation of Putin’s erection of his “vertical of power,” his unabashed reassertion of the government controls that for centuries characterized the Russia of the tsars and commissars?

Or is this merely a necessary first step in developing a “managed bureaucracy” in the slow evolution toward the real democracy that the rest of us has been experiencing for decades or centuries? Is Putin really something of a hero in rescuing Russia from the self-destructive chaos that marked Yeltsin’s pseudo “democracy?”

Former British Ambassador to Russia Sir Rodric Braithwaite suggested as much in a Moscow Times op-ed piece last week.

He pointed to the sage advice of U.S. diplomat and historian George Kennan, who is credited with the “containment policy” against Soviet communism that guided U.S. policy from the ’50s until the USSR collapsed.

“When Soviet power has run its course,” he mused in 1951 at the height of the cold war, “…let us not hover nervously over the people who come after, applying litmus papers daily to their political complexions to find out whether they answer to our concept of ‘democrats.’

“Give them time; let them be Russians; let them work out their internal problems in their own manner. The ways by which people advance towards dignity and enlightenment in government are things that constitute the deepest and most intimate processes of national life. There is nothing less understandable to foreigners, nothing in which foreign influence can do less good.”

I detect in my middle class Russian students a quiet yearning for freedom, for self-determination, fair fairness and equality in national life. It may take a long time to become strong enough and widely enough shared that it will begin to make a difference in how Russia is ruled. But I am cautiously optimistic that it will come some day.

And it just may be that the inscrutable Putin, and even moreso his seemingly more liberal hand-picked successor Medvedev, really believe that their people have to be led into democracy. There’s a lot of evidence to support the repeated assertion that “Russians are not ready for democracy”; and it’s possible, just possible, that Putin’s and Medvedev’s unpublicized goal is to help prepare them.

Or have I been in Russia too long?


See also related pages:
Chapt. #280 - With Sasha and Igor, life takes a satisfying turn
Chapt. #278 - New incentive to reach 80!
Chapt. #277 - Remodels: The apartment and Sasha
Chapt. #245 - Zhorik exits; and so do human rights
Chapt. #244 - Zhorik interlude proves frustrating
Chapt. #177 - The unbelievable happens: He lets me suck his cock!