MOSCOW, May 11, 2008 -- It’s a rare sunny, warm morning, the stuff of poetry, after a week of harsh chilly weather that heralded the inauguration of a new president and a Victory Day that saw tanks rumble in Red Square for the first time since the collapse of the Soviet Union.
I didn’t bother to watch either event – even on TV. There is a high school student, Katya, in my evening Institute of Diplomacy class. On Wednesday night, she said her teacher hadn’t permitted the class to watch the transfer of power from Putin to his puppet Medvedev because “it wasn’t important.”
Surprising candor from a high school teacher, but who am I to argue with a Russian pedagog?
My student Oleg, a DHL mid-level manager, watched the V-Day celebration on TV.
“How many tanks were there?” I asked.
“Ten, maybe a dozen. They had rubber on the treads to keep from damaging the streets. And there was a lot of artillery. It was to show that we are strong and can defend ourselves. Russians are peaceful,” he continued. “We never fight except to defend ourselves. We are not aggressive. We like peace.”
I thought back: “What about Afghanistan?”
“We only invaded after the Americans did, and we invaded to protect the Afghanis from the Americans.”
Did I miss something? I know American history is pretty skewed and unbalanced, but I’m pretty sure the Americans never invaded
Afghanistan until Bush’s little “anti-terrorism” farce. Of course, the CIA was involved in Afghanistan in a big way, and gave birth there to Osama Bin Laden, but not the American Army.
But anyway, that seems to be what the Russians have been taught: They are peaceful and non-aggressive, and only fight to defend themselves. Of course, you might check that out with Chechnya or the Czech Republic or the Balkan Countries before you swallow too much of it.
The Moscow City Council allocated $ 40 million to repair any damage to the streets after the tanks rumbled.
Forty million bucksi?
Yeah, that’s right. The engineers interviewed by the Moscow Times were as surprised as I – and probably you. Some tried to protect Lord Mayor Luzhkov and the City Duma. “Well, they probably allocated the absolute maximum just in case….”
But others were more forthright: Somebody’s pockets are getting lined big time. My bets are on Hizzoner.
Victory Day fell on Friday, but Wednesday night was Victory Night for me in another beautiful round of sex with Sasha (see photo).
The first photo I took on my new Canon "Power Shot" digital camera was this shot of Sasha's hairless, naked teenage torso as he walked unsuspectingly into our room. He fulfilled my fantasy with it again on Wednesday night.
When Igor got home from spending the afternoon fucking Ira, his Moldovan pal Finish called him and he immediately left to go meet Finish.
When Sasha came to bed at 3 a.m., Igor still hadn’t returned. I got up to take a pee and when I came back, Sasha and I began snuggling.
“Would you like to play a little,” I asked, reaching for his crotch.
“I’m pretty drunk, I don’t know if I can get it up.”
“Let’s try.”
I’m always turned on all over again when I see his fragile, naked, hairless 19-going-on-15-year-old body. Playing with his piska didn’t get it up, but in its flaccid state, I was able to pull the skin back and suck the glans. That was enough to get the process rolling, so that I could I put his semi-hard pepper into my throat and start swallowing. The erector muscles started working and very soon his dick was at full length – very long, very thin, and an extra couple of centimeters of skin at the end.
We took time out to French kiss and suck each other’s lips, and then I returned to devote full attention to the task at hand. By now it was beautifully responsive, and I could feel the uneven contour of his stiff muscle under the protective skin.
What is guaranteed to bring him to orgasm is stroking his cock and, as the glans peaks through the foreskin with each stroke, I do a little tongue action on it. His sweet creamy cum was soon gushing down my throat. I did a quick number on myself, and then we snuggled in, as we always do, to sleep for the rest of the night.
He’s always so cool about our sex bouts. There’s no hint the next day that anything happened. The only difference is that we’re always a little bit closer, a little bit more tender, if that’s possible, toward each other.
He went with me to meet Hong Kong [Harry] for lunch, and then we went shopping together for groceries. It’s great fun just being with him. Despite his volunteering to help Zhorik “take care” of me (Chapt. 281, Why women cover their heads in the Russian Church), I doubt that the opportunity will ever present itself for him to be my main squeeze, even if he should want to be and much as I fantasize about it. But we’ll take life as it comes.
The realization that Zhorik will be here in three weeks is a little intimidating. We have so much to talk about and so much to settle in such a short period of time. I want to get a sense of his feelings for me and of our relationship before I start investing a lot of money in him. He wants to spend $ 800 immediately getting his international passport and other documents he says are necessary to function fully in Moscow.
We discussed it by SMS on Saturday. He said he’d need 6,000 rubles – about $ 250 – for train tickets and road money to get here.
“How much time are we going to have together before we go to Svetlograd?” I asked.
“What do you mean? Why?”
“Well, I don’t want to immediately hop on the bus to Svetlograd until we’ve had a chance to talk about our plans for the future. We haven’t seen each other for a long time.”
“Yes, I agree. I can tell you my plans, and you can tell me yours.”
“Agreed,” I wrote.
What I’m looking for is a companion. Can he – will he – play that role?
I’ve already made a list of my expectations: He has to be in bed by midnight; no drinking, as we’ve already agreed; love, respect, and sex several times a week. We will put each other first in our lives. He can have girlfriends as long as they don’t interfere with our relationship, especially our sex. And I can continue to suck Igor’s and Sasha’s cocks.
What I won’t tolerate is drunkenness, gambling, interfering with my sleep, refusal to have sex, disrespect, and violence.
In turn, I will give him a place to live, probably more love and devotion than he can handle, and pay for his education.
He and I will share my room with the computer and TV; and Igor and Sasha – when Sasha’s not living with Sergei – can have the other room. So Zhorik and I can have privacy and sex regularly, and I will have sex with the other two if and when the opportunity arises.
What I expect to be able to do, once we have seen how his expectations and mine correspond – or don’t – is at least be able to plan the rest of my life: with Zhorik in Moscow or without Zhorik in Spain. We’re talking about a major watershed, and it’s just around the corner.
Sergei pushed me Friday night and I fell and hurt my back. Only a bruise, I’m pretty certain, but painful; but I milked it to the max to teach Sergei a lesson.
He pushed me because I slapped him. I slapped him because he slapped Igor. It has long been obvious to both of us that Igor is lazy, irresponsible, and spends most of his time hunting pussy on the internet – or fucking it once he’s found it.
Sergei and I have agreed to bring Igor around, but our methods differ. Violence is what Sergei knows, and he’s convinced that corporal punishment is the answer. I abhor violence, and I’m certain there are other ways.
So Sergei was angry because Igor stayed out all night Thursday night with Finish, then came home and slept, got up and left to go fuck Ira without saying anything to anybody and without turning a hand to clean up our room or the mess in the kitchen.
So Sergei first verbally attacked Igor, then slapped him.
When Igor left the room, Sergei followed him, shouting.
I jumped up from the computer: “Don’t touch him!” I warned Sergei, and followed him into his room. He started shouting at me and I slapped him to show what it was like to have your face slapped.
He was furious and gave me a shove. I fell back against the unclosed door, which gave way and I fell hard on my back, bruising my spine and knocking the wind out of me.
Sergei was in immediately remorse. He, Igor, and Sasha helped me up and then he and I had a talk in my bedroom.
I again agreed with him that Igor was irresponsible and undependable, but warned him absolutely against using violence to “teach him.” He agreed.
“And this is exactly why I don’t want violence,” I continued. One second of violence can do an enormous amount of damage that can never be undone. Remember all the things Andrei destroyed when he was having a moment of violence (Chapt. 229, Andrei, caught red-handed, is evicted)? Those things were irreplaceable, and they are gone forever because of one moment of violence.”
He was very contrite. “I won’t do it again.”
I in turn called Igor in and talked to him. I told him that Sergei and I were both concerned about his irresponsibility around the apartment, and that I wanted him to change, but at the same time I don’t want Sergei touching him.
“Did Sergei push you?” he asked.
“Yes. I slapped him, like he slapped you, and he pushed me.”
“You did this for me,” he said, very subdued. “It’s my fault.”
“It’s Sergei’s fault.”
“No, it’s my fault. I’ll be more responsible and reliable from now on.”
We hugged and kissed.
Igor standing before a model of the funicula, or cable train, that we took from the metro stop overlooking the river to "Post Office Square" a few hundred feet up, whence we made our way to Sophia Cathedral, in miniature at the upper right.
Igor and I haven’t had much chance for sex since we came back from Kiev, with he, Sasha, and I sleeping together every night, but last night Sasha called and said he wouldn’t be home.
A perfect opportunity, I thought. But when Igor came to bed he said he didn’t feel well. He was tired and had a headache. Blin (Russian damn!)
But when I woke up about 8 this morning, I let my hand fall on his shorts. Aha! A major boner.
“Honey,” can I play with your dick while I jerk off?”
“Hmm-mm.”
Not what I expected. But I kept my hand on his dick anyway, as he rolled away from me on his side – but not on his stomach, which would have made it completely inaccessible. So I continued to fondle, and it continued to erect.
It didn’t take me long to prevent another case of prostate cancer. I continued to play with his animated cock for several minutes afterward, slipping my hand under his shorts and squeezing and manipulating. I continued until he finally rolled onto his stomach, signaling he’d had enough.
It was Igor's first night ever in a hotel bed, but he knew exactly what to do with it.
The night before, when he came to bed, he said he and Ira had had a big argument.
“What about?”
“She doesn’t love me. She just wants to fuck. It’s all she thinks about.”
“I’m not surprised. We call girls like that nymphomaniacs,” I said.
“We have the same word in Russian. That’s exactly what she is. She’s a slut.”
Well, well, well, what do I make of this? A guy who spends all his waking hours looking for poumintang has finally found his match and he’s offended? At least he has some standards! Hope is renewed!
Our guide book said our tour should begin with a metro ride to "The Seven Wonders of Kiev," gardens and parks above the Dnieper, which we would find "the most pleasant place in the city" with views of the river and the surrounding hills. Probably on a clear day this is what we would have found. Still, it was an interesting panorama.
Our trip to Kiev, though uneventful, was interesting, as forays into other cultures always are. Actually, Ukrainian and Russian culture have always been almost indistinguishable, except that the Ukrainians seem to have a stronger streak of independence than their Russian cousins – and many are literally that.
So it’s a little unfortunate that a wall has been thrown up between them, and Russia deeply resents it, though the Ukrainians seem quite content with the state of affairs post-Orange Revolution.
We arrived by train at 7 p.m. on Thursday, found our hotel, spent the night and had sex, and spent the next day cramming as many sights as possible into the hours before our train left at 7 p.m. – exactly 24 hours later.
The Kiev skyline is decorated with unending flourishes of gold domes, the oldest of which belongs to the Cathedral of St. Sophia (see photo), which was constructed by Yaroslav the Wise a thousand years ago and named after the famous Byzantine Sophia Cathedral in Instanbul, then Constantinople.
When St. Sophia's Cathedral was built almost 1,000 years ago by Yaroslav the Wise, Russia was known as Kieven Rus. At that time, to all intents and purposes, Russia was Kiev. But now, Kiev is the capital of Ukraine and has declared its sovereign independence from Russia, which many Russians resent as part of a U.S. plot to surround and dismantle the Russian State. Kieven Ukrainians seem quite happy with the idea.
Now it seems like just another copycat of the ubiquitous onion domed Orthodox cathedrals, but at the time it was quite unique and was considered to represent the most advanced and beautiful church architecture in all Europe. Today, a thousand years later, it seems remarkably contemporary in a land of golden onion domes.
It’s one of the few sights we had time to see. Another was the architectural masterpiece barely a stone’s throw away – in fact, in the St. Sophia complex -- St. Andrew’s Cathedral, named after the disciple who purportedly traveled around the known world of that time preaching the new Christian gospel. Legend has it that when he reached the banks of the Dnepr River he was so struck by the natural beauty that he announced to his followers:
“Do you see these hills? On these hills God will spread his grace. A town will appear, and God will raise many churches,” and, having blessed the place, planted a cross where he was standing. And on that spot (see photos) Russian Empress Elizabeth laid the first stone of St. Andrew’s Cathedral in 1744.
Both St. Sophia’s and St. Andrew’s are now museums.
If you’re into gold-plated onion-domed Russian Orthodox cathedrals, this is the place to be. But as an adherent of the if-you’ve-seen-one-you’ve-seen-them-all-doctrine, I probably won’t go back for a second look, even as friendly, beautiful, and clean as the Ukrainian capital proved to be.
Meanwhile, in the Bush outback, as peak oil reality hits, $ 4 a gal. gasoline threatens, and $ 100 fill-ups become an increasingly common, if painful occurrence, the New York Times reports that SUV’s seem to have lost their luster.
When the Apostle Andrew arrived on the banks of the Dnepr in the first century AD, he proclaimed the spot a place where god would in the future raise many churches. And today probably said god is the only one who really knows how many onion-domed tributes to him have been erected in this gold-ceilinged capital. Certainly the one named after him was not the first and probably won't be the last.
"Nobody is buying used SUVs," a used car dealer in California told the Times last month. He stopped accepting them as trade-ins six months ago.
Used SUV sales in March were down 14 percent nationally compared to last year, according to the Times, which has sent SUV prices “plummeting.”
So what’s a poor American car dealer to do with the SUVs that the increasingly impoverished and credit-drained American consumer can no longer afford?.
One option “is to sell the SUVs overseas,” the Times reports, adding that “At AutoNation's Maroone Nissan of Pembroke Pines, southwest of Fort Lauderdale, used car sales manager Julio Cardoso noted that he has three SUVs headed to Russia this month."
The streets of Moscow are full of them: Cadillacs, Porsches, Lexus, Infinities, Volvos, BMWs, Mercedes, GMCs, you name it, it’s here. Most of them are black with tinted windows you can’t look into and they are often driven by armed body guards.
Although the Orthodox cross hadn't yet been invented, that is what St. Andrew planted on this hill in the first century AD, according to legend. Some 17 centuries later Empress Elizabeth of Russia, daugher of Peter the Great, laid the first foundation stone for the Cathedral of St. Andrew.
My student Andrei, the IT CEO, has a Volvo SUV. He also wears expensive designer-label suits and is spending this May vacation in Cypress. He and his wife Masha went to the Maldives at New Years. Moscow is at the apex of the if-you’ve-got-it,-flaunt-it era. Andrei is a successful executive who needs to impress that success on his employees and his customers, who represent some really big names in Russia and for whom nothing succeeds like success.
So penny-pinching on gas consumption doesn’t really interest him, even though Russians pay about the same price for gasoline as Americans.
The fact of the matter is that there are few countries who are going to be hit as hard by peak oil – i.e., the disparity between demand and supply of petroleum -- as America. The inconveniences it will generate are going to hit Americans the hardest, because our whole lifestyle of excessive consumption is built on the ready availability of cheap oil. When cheap oil goes, so do all the luxuries we’ve so long taken for granted, and without which we think we can’t live.
But maybe there’s hope: News reports say that bicycle and camel sales are soaring – though not in the same country.
But none of the presidential candidates – not even my favorite Obama – is addressing this issue. It’s political dynamite that is going to blow up in our faces – well, your faces, because I plan to keep my face out of there!
See also related pages:
Chapt. #283 - Gaining Zhorik, but losing Sasha? Igor?
Chapt. #281 - Why women cover their heads in the Russian Church
This day years ago:
2007-5-11: Chapt. #247 - Russian bear roars again on Victory Day
