MOSCOW, April 28, 2008 -- Yesterday was Easter Sunday in Moscow, a perfect spring day: sunny with temperatures at 70-degrees. Since I’ve already described how the true believers celebrate with eggs and “Christ is risen; verily, he is risen” (Chapt. 52, Easter in Russia – sans bunny), we won’t go down that road again.
News reports also say that the body of the missing Russian dissident artist (Chapt. 80, Another step closer to the past) has been found in Berlin, and the German police suspect suicide. Her participation in the “Caution Religion” exhibit which so offended the Russian Orthodox Church, coupled with the celebration of Easter Sunday, again brings the limelight to this bizarre throwback to the Middle Ages.
I’ve long wondered why Russian women cover their heads every time they enter one of these onion-domed wedding cakes, while at the very same moment the men are all taking their hats off.
Now it can now be told!
You see, underneath those beguiling feminine curls lurk veritable coveys of demons, which – were they not tightly restrained with peasant kerchiefs – would escape into the vast reaches of the Orthodox Sanctuary and incite all those sexually repressed priests and worshipers to commit manifold sins and wickedness that otherwise would never have crossed their minds.
My student Masha confided this bit of arcane wisdom to me as she was explaining the christening ceremony the previous Sunday for her nephew. Masha noted that she is also prohibited from praying, because she was never christened, or baptized, into the Orthodox, or Pravislaviy, Church.
Well, okay, she acknowledged, she can mumble some words if she wants to, but everybody knows that god won’t waste his time listening to an unchristened infidel.
“But anyway,” she pondered, “why would I want to have anything to do with a church that believes I’ve got a head full of demons?”
Good question. But most Russian women opt to ignore it.
And student Maxim, whose striking good looks (Chapt. 237, With Sasha and Igor, life takes a satisfying turn) are rapidly losing their luster with his repeated pontifications on the greatness of Putin and the rightness of his religion also contributed a bit more to my understanding of the Russian Orthodox religion.
Maxim has been in England the last two summers studying the language, and while he was there, he once went with his host family to an Anglican service. There, to his horror, he found a female priest performing the sacred rituals of the Anglican Church. “Can you imagine!” he gasped. “It was awful!”
“Why was it awful?” I asked, thinking it was probably just the same macho prejudice that prompted the venerable St. Paul to implore the men of the early Christian Church to keep women in their subservient places.
But there’s more than meets the eye, it seems!
“You know women have ‘problems’ once a month,” he explained confidentially, careful not to be too explicit and risk condemnation himself.
“So? What does that have to do with their becoming priests?”
“Their ‘problems’ just show how dirty they are. We would never let them be a priest in the Orthodox Church, but England does! It’s awful!”
Thanks gods we have the Russian Orthodox Church to lead the spiritual way to the most edified levels of Christian wisdom and charity.
And this is what the masses – both washed and unwashed -- celebrated yesterday!
Sasha has been increasingly affectionate and sweet. Last Friday night when he came to bed, we put our arms around each other and snuggled as usual. He asked me some questions about English and English words, all the while tactilely exploring and touching.
Igor had just gone to take a bath, typically at least a half-hour ritual.
“Honey,” I purred in Sasha’s ear, “I want to have sex with you.”
“Not tonight,” he replied. “And not tomorrow night. I have to go to the university the next day.”
“But sometime?”
“Yes.”
So we tested the “sometime” doctrine Saturday morning. It really works. But to tell the truth, I wish he and I were alone together every night. I can’t keep my hands off him.
“Are you planning to go back to America?” he asked one night last week.
“No,” I replied.
“Why?”
“It doesn’t interest me.”
“What about when you get really old?”
“Zhorik has said he will take care of me when I get really old.”
“I will take care of you too,” he said earnestly.
“Do you really mean that?”
“Yes.”
I hugged and kissed him hard in the mouth. “Thank you, honey. That makes me very happy.”
“I think Zhorik and I will be good friends,” he continued matter-of-factly.
“I think so, too. Zhorik’s a good guy; you’re a good guy. I think you’ll be good friends.
“When you graduate from the university,” I continued, “what do you think you’ll do?”
“I’ll get a job as an IT (Iinformation Technology, if you’ve been on another planet for the last decade) specialist.”
In Russia, a good job. There’s great demand for them, and the pay is good -- generally 2 grand a month and up. He and Zhorik and I could live together. We would all three be working, and living would be good in every sense of the word. Looking on down the line, even if I were unable to work, I would still have my pension, which will still be worth something, no matter what Bush does to the economy.
Sex, love, and constant affection from Zhorik and Sasha: the best way I can think of to skid down the last hill. And Igor? If he’s as devoted as he says he is, we’ll throw him in too.
Life is looking good again. Maybe I won’t go to Spain after all.
Igor and I are going to Kiev this week. He has to leave the country every three months, then come back in and re-register to remain legal. His three months are up on May 1, so we’re heading to Kiev on the train Thursday, will stay in a hotel Thursday night, then return Friday night in time for Saturday classes.
But Igor almost scuttled the shuttle on Friday night. He and Sasha had each been out drinking with friends and had both returned by the agreed-upon midnight curfew, and both had already crawled into bed when my mobile phone rang – for Igor. I heard a female voice imploring, and I heard Sasha say, “let’s go.” Then they both got up and started getting dressed.
I exploded. As a result of my anger, Igor and Sasha both undressed and crawled back into bed. “We’re not going anywhere,” Igor said, reassuringly.
But a few minutes later – when they thought I had fallen asleep, I found out the next morning – they both got up. I heard what sounded like pants being put on, but I remembered Igor’s promise. Maybe they’re just going to take Missy for a walk, I told myself.
When they didn’t come back immediately, I called Sergei’s mobile phone, which Igor sometimes carries. Sergei answered. “Is Igor with you?”
“No. I just saw them leaving. I asked them where they were going, and they said you knew they were going out and that you said it was okay.”
Deceitful bastards! Over the next two hours, I planned my revenge: When – if – Sergei moved out, I would consign them to that room, and I would keep my room to myself, including the computer and TV. They could be responsible for their own food. No more money for either of them for anything.
And finally, I would cash in my ticket for Kiev, and Igor could go by himself. I also wouldn’t pay for his hotel. He could sleep in the train station or on a park bench.
Too angry to sleep, I played solitaire till 2:00, sipping absinthe to anesthetize me.
Missy woke me at 6:00 Saturday morning for her morning pee. As I opened the front door of the apartment building, there stood Sasha, quite drunk but coherent. I found out later, he had just arrived by taxi, and was standing at the door trying to figure out how he was going to get in without waking anybody up when Missy and I emerged.
“God’s will,” assure the Pravislaviy.
Good luck for Sasha, say I.
I greeted him coldly and he followed us for Missy’s morning rounds.
“I’m very drunk,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d stayed with you.”
“So do I. We’ll talk about it when we get inside.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again as he was undressing before climbing back into bed with me.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“We thought you were asleep.”
“I thought you loved me and respected me.”
“I do respect you,” he answered. “And I love you very, very, very much.” We kissed deeply. The ice began to melt.
“The first question,” I repeated, “is why did you do it if you love and respect me?”
“I was drunk,” he said. “When you’re drunk, you always want to drink more.”
That’s true, I know from experience.
“I’m sorry, he said again.”
“Second question,” I continued. “Can I play with your cock?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. But I’m very, very drunk. I’m not sure if it will stand.”
I pulled his shorts down and began manipulating his limp piska, raping his hairless body with my eyes as I did so. God, his slim little torso is so tantalizing.
While his dick was completely flaccid, I experimented with the foreskin. Yes, it would fully retract, so he is at least able to wash it when he takes a bath – providing he doesn’t get a hard on in the bathtub while he’s doing it.
His dick gradually responded to the caress of my tongue on his glans. When it was stiff enough, I crammed it down my throat and began swallowing. It still wasn’t really rock hard, but it was big enough and responsive enough to stimulate me to orgasm.
“If you can’t come, do you mind if I jerk myself off?”
“No.”
It didn’t take long. I pulled both our shorts back up, and we again wrapped ourselves in each others arms and talked until he passed out a few seconds later. I was not far behind.
I woke up at 8 a.m. when I felt a body crawling in on the other side of me. Igor took my face in his hands and kissed me in the lips.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” I responded coldly.
Student Valera was due in an hour, so I got up and began my day.
By the time my second student Alexey left at 1 p.m., Igor had revived and was sitting at the computer. I pulled a stool up beside him.
“I’m very angry,” I said. “You’re always kissing me and telling me that you love me, but I think you showed last night how much you really love me.”
“I didn’t show you how much I really love you. It was a really stupid thing I did.”
“Nevertheless, you made your choice last night;” I responded. “I’m making mine today. I’m not going to go to Kiev with you.”
“Why not?”
“I asked you not to leave last night. You waited until you thought I was asleep and then you left. Earlier you said you’d be back in an hour or so. You came in at 8:00 this morning.”
“I’ll never do it again. I’ll be in bed by midnight every night, and maybe earlier.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.” He kissed me hard on the lips.
“Please don’t be offended,” he begged, kissing me again and again. How could I stay angry?
Our trip together got very quickly restored to the agenda.
I could hear Ira moaning above the sound track of the TV movie in the other bedroom one day last week. Can I not be at least a little bit jealous, knowing that Igor’s bulging tumescent cock, which has so many times rammed my upper palate, is now ramming her slimy vagina with all the force his powerful hips can muster?
But am I really jealous, or is what I’m experiencing a sense of smugness. “Yeah, honey, you’ve got him now, but you’d better enjoy it, ’cause I’ve got him all day and all night.”
He kisses me hard on the lips several times a day, and lets me suck his cock any night that Sasha’s not here.
And that night, after she was gone, when we bedded down together with Sasha off visiting friends, we played again. “If you don’t want to come again, can I play with your cock and jerk myself off?”
“Yes.”
I pulled his shorts down over his hips, gently stroking the little patch of pubic hair halfway between his navel and his cock, and toyed with his slowly growing sausage until it was stiff enough to ram into my throat, and while I was sucking his erecting cock, I came again.
Of what should I be jealous? He loves her warm, pulsating pussy. But he loves my warm, pulsating heart and my love for him. And the love he feels for me is, I have no doubt, deeper than what he feels for her. There are a million copies of her. There are no more copies of me, and he knows it.
And how could I be jealous when I go to sleep every night with him on one side and my gentle, angelic, affectionate, and responsive Sasha on the other. Sex happens with whoever happens to be there when the other isn’t.
“Do you miss me?” asked Zhorik in an SMS message Sunday night.
“Of course I do. Do you miss me?”
“Yes, I miss you very much. What plans do you have for when I get back?” he asked.
“The first thing I’m going to do is hug you and kiss you,” I replied.
“But what plans do you have for us generally?”
“It depends on when you get back and how long you stay before you go to Stavropol, and how long you stay in Stavropol,” I replied. “How long are you planning to stay in Stavropol?”
“I think it will take two weeks to get all my documents. I will need a lot of money for that.”
“How much?”
“I think $ 800. A lot of money.”
“Yes, it is a lot of money, but I think we’ll have it. But we won’t be able to do any traveling in the summer.”
“We can travel in the winter, and I will need to enroll in the university. After I get my documents, I will come back to Moscow and won’t go back to Stavropol.
“I will get a job and borrow the money to buy an apartment.”
“It’s a good plan,” I replied.
“So we’re agreed?” he continued.
“Yes.”
So my future creeps nearer and nearer. I think Zhorik is quite serious in his affection and love for me and in his plans for our life together. The interaction between him and me and Igor and Sasha certainly offers some interesting prospects! I can turn out to be heaven, or it can turn out to be hell.
Holy hemorrhoids, Batman! I’ve got a confession to make: My author friend Sam Love has long been encouraging me to try to market these columns as a separate book. He’s given me lots of advice, sent me lists of agents, and generally been indispensable.
I finally got my shit together over the past week and sent out a sales pitch to agents along with about 30,000 of the words you’ve been reading over the past four years (has it really been that long?)
Imagine my shock and delight when I received the following from one of the agents I queried:
We like your work and think there could be a market for it. So we'd like to offer representation. We'd need to help you put together a proposal - really an expansion of your query - and tune up your sample chapters.
Then we'd sell the project to a publisher. It would be nice to speak to you but since you are in Russia it might be easier to do most communications via email.
Attached you will find our rep agreement. And I welcome your call or email if you have any questions or concerns.
This is a to-tal-ly new experience for me. Despite my having worked most of my life as a journalist, and despite having written a potboiler novel in the mid-’60s that got the reception it deserved (“it does not fit our needs at this time…”) from as many publishers as I could afford to send it to, and despite having co-authored a book on the approaching energy crisis that was published in the mid-’70s, I’ve never before dealt with the prospect of actually publishing my very own brainfart – er brainfruit!
I’m sure it’ll be a big success! I’ll hit the talk shows, and I’ll have Jay Leno rolling in the aisles. Will I become the toast of the lecture circuit? Will I….
Stop the presses! Call re-write! On Sunday, Easter Sunday, mind you, I got this follow-up:
I am sorry to do this, but you got caught in some bad timing here.
The colleague who was going to work on this just took on a new, different role here. So since he can’t take this on, I have to let you go (even before you signed the agreement).
It sounds crazy but I wanted to let you know asap so you could pursue any other agents that responded to your query.
Best of luck. This is not a reflection of your work, just a matter of having someone here to work on this book.
Well, shit! Story of my life. That close! I did receive three other responses from agents who said they were interested, but wouldn’t have time to read the manuscript for six to eight weeks. And I can always find more agent lists and send out more queries.
In the meantime, Jay Leno, you don’t know what you’ve lost!
Actually, I don’t think the project is dead. It’s just taken a detour.
But remember, you read it first! :-)
See also related pages:
Chapt. #282 - Tanks again rumble on Victory Day
Chapt. #280 - With Sasha and Igor, life takes a satisfying turn
Chapt. #52 - Easter in Russia – sans bunny
Chapt. #80 - Another step closer to the past
Chapt. #237 - Moldova adventure almost a certainty
This day years ago:
2004-4-28: Chapt. #56 - Things that Peak: Oil, Yegor, Sasha, Seryozh
