MOSCOW, February 1, 2004 -- Remember at Misha’s farewell party when I met the three beautiful Seryozhes, and one of them was sending out particularly receptive vibes, and I thought about maybe pursuing him, but concluded that it was “out of the question” because I had my hands – and my bed – full already with Yegor, Shurik, and Sasha?”
I wasn’t wrong about the vibes; and he is adorable; and he’s no longer “out of the question,” because Zhenya no longer fills my life and my bed.
In fact, Seryozh and I slept together and had sex last night – and today.
He looks 18, but turns out he’s really 24, but his body is that of an 18-year-old. Like Shurik’s, it is completely hairless except for the pubes, and is ivory white and soft as silk. He’s physically smaller (not his cock) than Shurik, and his body is actually more beautiful, if that’s possible, although the patch of pubes is a bit lusher.
Unlike Shurik – or anybody else I’ve had sex with in the last five years -- he was more interested in my orgasm than his own. In fact, he didn’t come last night, but he saw that I did. And then he led me to the shower and gently soaped and bathed me. When’s the last time that happened?
When we got back in bed together – naked still – we slept intertwined. He finally came only this afternoon as we were lying on the couch/bed watching TV. I started caressing his beautiful stomach and, as my “ex” Jim used to say, one thing led to another.
Since he’s Jewish, he’s circumcised, unfortunately. But his tool is bigger than anybody else’s that I’m sleeping with now. Vanya’s may be a bit longer, but Seryozh’s is thicker.
The question is how long will this relationship last and how deep will it go? Both Yegor and Sasha are cool with it. In fact, Yegor slept – but didn’t have sex -- with one of the other Seryozhes – my Seryozh’s ex-boyfriend, the one he cut his wrist over.
When I last saw Seryozh in November, he still had the cast on. But it’s gone now, and the scar is quite noticeable. Maybe it will serve as a reminder never to do such a thing again.
In fact, I discovered that Misha played a crucial role in the drama. Seems Misha had fallen in love with Seryozh II – I’ll call him Serge – and made a big play for him. They had sex at least once, and Misha offered to buy him a TV, to give him money, etc. Maybe that’s where my $ 150 – and other little thefts – went?
So it was when Serge dropped Seryozh for Misha that Seryozh took the only avenue that seemed open to him. My world gets ever smaller and more incestuous.
Seryozh has moved out of Serge’s apartment, and is living in rather fragile circumstances in a friend’s garage. I discussed with him perhaps staying here, but he said he’d rather make it on his own!
Some BIG plusses: He is comfortable sleeping with me and loves to cuddle. He’s as unselfish and thoughtful and considerate as Yegor, and not pushy in getting his way or demanding money like Shurik was.
His goal is to become an architect, and he’s interning at an architectural firm now.
Towing cars in Moscow that are illegally parked or that belong to drivers arrested for being drunk or who don’t have a proper driver’s license is being resurrected after being suspended a couple of years ago because of the bribery and corruption it had spawned.
The ostensible reason for reviving the practice is to improve the flow of traffic, which would be truly commendable if it worked. However, traffic analysts estimate that downtown Moscow needs 15,000 more parking spaces than it has, so towing a few hundred illegally parked cars isn’t going to speed up traffic flow much.
The existing state of Russia’s daily traffic is deplorable. Much of the problem could be solved by the most primitively educated traffic engineer – timed lights, one-way streets, and traffic meters. There is no evidence that Moscow knows what a traffic engineer is. “Lord Mayor” Luzhkov arrogates unto himself such problems, which he solves by proposing more beltways.
Where I live, at the intersection of Gruzinski Val and 2nd Brestskaya St. at Belarusskaya Metro Station, is in gridlock about 14 hours a day. I have had private students who were a half hour late because that’s how long it took them to get the last two blocks. They can’t park and walk, because there are 15,000 too few parking spaces.
Gridlock is one of three reasons I wouldn’t drive a car in Moscow if you gave me an armor-plated Mercedez 600. Second is the maniacal, belligerent drivers. The other one is the cops.
And whatever the rationale for arresting and towing, the real effect will be to hand back to the notoriously corrupt traffic police their license to steal – or at least extract exorbitant bribes.
“It’s not stealing,” explained one of my students, “because you know it’s happening. If they take something from my car, then that’s stealing, because I don’t know it.”
But everybody knows what the cops are doing, so it’s not stealing.
My Saturday morning student, Valera, explained the mechanics of the process.
The cops look for a moderately expensive car: not a Russian Lada, which would indicate a poor Russian who wouldn’t have the ready cash to pay a bribe. Nor a Mercedez, BMW, or Jaguar, whose driver would be rich enough to have powerful connections. So they pick something like a late model Mitsubishi, which is what Valera was driving on Victory Day – May 9– last year.
It’s Russian tradition to get drunk on holidays, so the cops figure there’s a 75% chance that anybody they stop is going to have tossed down a few shots of vodka.
And if they haven’t? Well, here’s what happens:
“On the afternoon of Victory Day I was driving along Moscow’s Ring Road. I was switching lanes, not exceeding the 100 kph speed limit, when I was suddenly pulled over by a traffic police officer standing in the dividing lane.”
It was rather risky fighting his way through the high-speed fifth lane to get to the berm, “but not as risky as ignoring the officer.”
After checking his driver’s license, the cop told Valera to accompany him to the police post a hundred meters away.
“After entering the post, I was told to exhale a few times into an electronic gadget with a tube and two lamps on it. One of the lamps lighted green. The officer carrying out the test announced with glee that the level of alcohol on my breath had exceeded the limit.”
Valera hadn’t had any alcohol for at least two days, “but he ignored my arguments and said that because of the possibility of the gadget’s having made a mistake, only a doctor could decide if I was drunk or sober. He asked another officer – there were three in the room – to fill in the detention form and take me to a laboratory.
“He also called the laboratory and informed me that there was a substantial waiting line and that possibly I would have to wait there for quite a while. After hearing these words, the other officer and I proceeded to another room to fill in the form.”
Valera’s mother was ill and he was in a hurry to get to her apartment. Faced with the alternative of having to wait for an interminable period followed by a – wink, wink – medical examination by a conspiratorial doctor “confirming” that he was indeed drunk, Valera took the course of prudence which most helpless motorists in such a position take:
“I suggested to the officer that we settle the problem ourselves. After some bargaining, I bought my freedom for $ 30, said goodby to the officer, and left the post.”
This typical day in the life of Russian justice explains why, on a pitiful salary of a couple hundred bucksi a month, cops can drive Mercedez and live in expensive houses in restricted suburban compounds.
It also explains why nobody expects real justice to ever come to Russia.
See also related pages:
Chapt. #40 - Knocking the U.S. legal system into a cocked hat
