MOSCOW, April 6, 2008 -- Is my “covert” sexual relationship with Sasha still covert? Maybe not, after I pressed a new wrinkle into our relationship -- and into my life – a couple of weeks ago.
Earlier in the week a formerly fat and ugly – no longer fat – female cousin of Sergei’s named Katya came to camp out for a few days. Since she’s sleeping with Sergei (Sergei has already broken up with his new girlfriend Julia), there was simply no place for Sasha, my adorable and accommodating little angel (see photo), to sleep.
I grow fonder of Sasha with every passing day. He's just as sweet and open and kind -- and loving -- as he looks. At night the three of us make a delectable sandwich, and I'm the filling!
“Can he sleep with you and Igor?” Sergei asked.
Don’t throw me in the briar patch!
So for the past couple of weeks I have crawled into the middle of our new divan-bed to wait for my two slices of toast to come make a sandwich of me.
Just before Katya’s arrival, Igor had brought Ira, his infatuation of the moment, to “visit” for the first time. I didn’t have to ask what they were doing, punctuated as it was by her recurrent moans throughout the afternoon.
“How many times did you plug her?” I asked him that evening.
“Three.”
Sounded like thirty-three to me. Oh well, who’s counting?
In any case, that solid hunk of Moldovan salami that periodically swells and throbs between my tongue and soft palate was this week swelling and throbbing against Ira’s scuzzy cess pool of iniquity (an old legal term :-).
The following Saturday night he didn’t come to bed till 3 a.m., and then only after I commanded him to. Now that we’re three in a bed, sweet little Sasha and I sleep in the spoons position; and after we had all three settled in for what was left of the night, it was very easy for my hand to melt down to where Sasha’s phymotic little piska was beginning to stir.
Although Sasha pretended to be sleeping, I was sure he was awake, and with a little coaching, his pretty little piska was soon rock hard. He rolled onto his back, and while I was caressing, petting, and stroking his swollen rod I became aware that Igor was simultaneously pressing up against my other side. All sounds of his breathing had stopped.
Uh-oh, Was he still awake? If he was, he had to be fully aware that Sasha and I were having sex – at least as much sex as we dared with him in the bed with us.
Without the benefit of my tongue and throat aided and abetted by his own final touch, Sasha never managed to come, and I finally packed it in, patted it one last time, and pulled his shorts back up before we all three passed out.
The night of Katya’s arrival, Igor had come to sit on my bed and talk about our relationship. He has no problems with my sucking his straight boy’s dick, he insisted; and I in turn assured him that I don’t object to his having a girlfriend “as long as it doesn’t interfere with our relationship.”
“It won’t,” he promised. “We have a permanent relationship.”
And then he said, “You love Zhorik, don’t you?”
At last! A chance to delve into this unexplored question and find out what his thoughts are on the matter! But before I could answer, in bopped Sergei and Katya for introductions. The magic moment was gone.
“We’ll talk more in the park,” he promised. But “the park” has never materialized. I’ve tried to broach the subject a couple more times, but he replies, “we’ve already talked about our relationship.”
In any case, the wicket may be getting stickier. It seems obvious he views our relationship as a long-term, continuing one. How will that be affected by Zhorik’s arrival 70 days from now? And how will Igor and Zhorik react to the realization that I am also sucking Sasha’s cock?
The soap opera gets soapier. Don’t miss the next thrilling episode.
Sergei and Katya are moving into their own apartment, he announced this week. “She’ll pay half and I’ll pay half.”
I don’t know where he’s going to get half the rent for an apartment, but it won’t be my problem. It will actually be a huge relief. As much as I love Sergei, and as responsible and protective as he’s become, he still erupts occasionally in uncontrolled temper tantrums, and his whims and whimsies are absolutely unpredictable and demand immediate attention. .I have no doubt that he’s clinically hyperactive, for starters.
And he wants to take Missy with him, which is okay with me. She has a very annoying compulsion to wake me up anywhere from 4:30 to 6 a.m. for her morning constitutional, a predilection I can well live without.
“Zhorik’s coming,” Sergei reminded, and he, Sergei, thinks it would be better if he left before then. He’s right. He would inevitably try to continue his old role of Zhorik’s big brother and boss, which would create dissension, stress, and probably fistfights.
The downside is that when Sergei vacates his bed, I will no longer have an excuse for sleeping between Igor and Sasha with my arm around Sasha’s angelic form and my tongue occasionally around his cock.
On the other hand, as Sergei wryly noted, Zhorik, Igor and Sasha can share his room and I can have my room by myself, and I can pick a different one to sleep with every night. Somehow, I think that’s a dream that will not be realized.
In may all be moot in any case. As mercurial as Sergei is, he’ll probably change his mind half a dozen times between now and the end of the month.
The boys gave the bicycles their spring debut last week, now that temperatures are reaching into the 50s (F). They've become best of pals, but I think they're reserving their gay sex for me.
Round three with Sasha came earlier this week after he and Igor came to bed about 2 a.m., When I returned from taking a pee, I motioned Sasha to move to the middle and I lay down beside him on the outside.
I again put my arm around him, spoons fashion; we shifted restlessly. Finally; I rolled onto my back and he rolled facing me with his leg looped over mine. When I let my left hand fall casually onto his inner thigh; he didn’t move.
When my fingers went exploring, they found a fleshy lump, which – with the gentle caress of my fingers – very quickly took on the shape of a rigid cock.
In the meantime, Igor had begun to breathe regularly.
I let my fingers wander to the top of Sasha’s shorts. When I lifted the waist band; he remained motionless. I pulled his shorts down slightly and let my hand wrap around his now fully stiff piska.
I stroked gently for a couple of minutes, while his muscles erected to steel hardness in my hand. I rolled toward him and put my right hand around his dick and started stroking in earnest.
By this time, Igor was emitting the sounds of deep sleep. I scooted my head down into Sasha’s crotch and popped his weenie in. Since headroom and motion were limited, I couldn’t give him a full-fledged blow job. Instead, as I stroked his dick, I repeatedly licked the little tit of foreskin that crowned the head of his bulging cock, savoring the pre-cum as I did so,
I gently probed his tunnel of foreskin with my tongue and felt the urethral opening. He continued to grow stiffer as I continued to stroke and lick the sassy little tit. Suddenly my tongue was awash in warm, sweet gism. I thrust his entire stiff rod deep into my throat while he shot several times.
I took hold of his spent cock with my left hand and with my right pumped my own until a minute or so later my own gism swamped into my shorts.
We French kissed, and fell into our usual deep sleep.
The relationship between us is completely normal – if incessant kissing and hugging between a 19-year-old Russian teenager and a senile old American four times his age can be considered normal. But what I mean is, there’s no baggage of guilt, remorse, blame, or discomfort between us. Only eager, unadulterated affection and appreciation.
A different one every night, as Sergei suggested? The following night, which Sasha spent with friends, gave me a little taste of what that might be like.
When Igor finally came to bed at 3:30 it was romp-on-his-playground time. No surprises, but it’s a delicious routine of which I never grow tired. First I stroke the wispy little stand of pubic hair just beneath his navel before inching down to his inner thigh to toy leisurely with his cock and balls until his rod starts springing.
I continue playing as it grows stiffer and longer and harder until it’s ready to burst, then a final few plunges of his cock deep into my throat before the coup de grace. I missed it by a stroke this time, and had to lick some of the cum off his belly before indulging in my own intense orgasm.
I can only fantasize about wallowing in such a cycle: One night Sasha, the next Igor, the next Zhorik, with no jealousy, no possessiveness, no blame, no recriminations.
“Oh what a foretaste of glory divine,” rejoices the old Methodist hymn we used to sing at full voice in the pews of the Walker Memorial Methodist Church in Orlando.
Only now, nearly seven decades later, do I at last have some notion of what glory divine would really mean.
What are you doing? I SMS’d Zhorik last Sunday night.
“Thinking about life,” he wrote back.
“What are you thinking about it?”
“Thinking about what it will be like when I get out of the army.”
“Are you scared?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think I’m scared of alcohol. When I drink sometimes I lose control, and do things that could screw up my life. I have goals in life, and I don’t want to ruin them. It’s a problem. I talked with Papa about it.”
“Do you think you’re an alcoholic?”
“Sometimes I can’t control it.”
“Recognizing it is the first step to curing it.”
“I think I won’t be drinking, because I have goals in life, he repeated, and I don’t want to destroy them.”
His drinking has been a real concern in the past. One time he came home in the middle of the night with the vague recollection that he had beaten somebody up, and had been nabbed by the cops. Other times he came home without his mobile phone or his MP3 player. He and I have talked about it, and from time to time he’s promised to not drink any more vodka or to quit completely. But in true alcoholic fashion, up to now he hasn’t been able to.
“I will help you,” I promised.
“Great.”
“Then we’re agreed!”
How long will this treaty last without getting abrogated is the question. At least he recognizes his alcoholism, and that the only “cure” is to not drink at all. But that’s easier said than done. To my knowledge there is no Russian AA; and the pressure to get shit-faced on vodka among the working class from which he sprang is constant and unrelenting.
Drunks aren’t comfortable when someone in their company is sober, and they invariably persuade and cajole until the non-drinker caves in.
One of the students in my new Organizational Behavior class at Potemkin U. didn’t show up on Monday morning to present the assignment I’d given him on Friday – most unusual for this tall black Nigerian whose father is a Moscow business man.
I was a little irked at his no-show until another student told me on Wednesday that the student, whose rather quaint first name is Johnbull, had been beaten by a gang of drunk jocks on the electric commuter train the previous Sunday as he was coming home from a church service.
They did no permanent damage: only bloody gashes, bruises, and the haunting fear of what may happen to him next time.
But at least they didn’t kill him, as they already have seventeen other black and dark-skinned foreigners this year, a rate that if it continues to the end of the year will mark a 200% increase in racist crimes over 2007.
650 racist crimes were recorded last year in Russia, which is probably just the tip of the iceberg, since many racist crimes are not reported and many of those that are, are attributed to other motives to keep the figures from being too scandalous.
One of the artists whose work was shown in the “Caution! Religion!” art exhibition at Moscow’s Andrei Sakharov Museum and Public Center in January 2004 (Chapt. 35, Freedom of religion – as long as it’s Orthodox) has disappeared in Berlin, where her husband is a professor of Philosophy at Humboldt Univ.
There is of course speculation about a possible link between the disappearance of Anna Mikhalchuk and the controversial art show, which featured such works as Jesus on a Coca-Cola ad proclaiming “This is My blood,” and cut-out paintings of the Holy Trinity where you could insert your own head.
Her husband told German police that she had received death threats in the past.
Mikhalchuk as well as Sakharov Center Dir. Yury Samodurov and his deputy Lyudmila Vasilovskaya were tried on charges of “inciting religious hatred.” She was ultimately found innocent, but the other two were found guilty and fined 100,000 rubles ($ 3,600) each, which essentially put the final nails in the coffin of freedom of speech and religion in Putin’s Russia.
See also related pages:
Chapt. #281 - Why women cover their heads in the Russian Church
Chapt. #279 - Women’s Day leaves Red Queen a happy girl!
Chapt. #35 - Freedom of religion – as long as it’s Orthodox
