Author: Dane Lowell
Submitted by: redadmin

Chapt. 47 - 2061 words
Columns :: Women’s Day with Dima, Volodya, Serge

MOSCOW, March 15, 2004 –- Comments:   Ratings:
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Women’s day
To Nizhny with Vanya
Sucking Big Seryozh’s big dick



MOSCOW, March 15, 2004 – It’s the middle of March, the day after Vladimir Putin was – surprise, surprise! – reelected president of Russia for another four years.

Spring has sprung. We’ve had days and days of sunshine, and people are upbeat and smiling. It’s now broad daylight when I leave at 7:30 for my 8 a.m. class at Dinamo Metro Station and for my 6 p.m. class at Russian Snack Company 20 minutes from my apartment.

Last Monday, International Women’s Day, probably marked the advent of spring in most people’s minds, although real spring – the vernal equinox -- is still more than a week away.

For Russians, Women’s Day is probably second only to Christmas/New Year’s as the biggest family holiday of the year. It’s a day for families to re-unite, kind of like American Thanksgiving. It’s also the day when macho Russian men buy flowers and gifts for their wives and pretend they don’t believe women are inferior beings.

The value of the gifts is in direct proportion to the thickness of your wallet, remarked student Andrei, who represents the new thinking of the enlightened middle class Russian. He considers his bride of less than a year completely equal with him. They share housework and important decisions. It gives one hope for the future of Russia.

It’s also one of a dozen three-day weekends of the year that everyone looks forward to because it gives them a day off.


Vanya from Nizhny Novgorod came on Sunday to spend a couple of days and to discuss “an important matter.” I know that “important matters” involve money. About 3:00 Sunday afternoon, he said, “why don’t you come to Nizhny Novgorod with me? We could catch the train tonight, get there in the morning, and you could catch the train back tomorrow night in time for classes Tuesday morning.”

Why not? I had been promising Vanya for years I would go visit him, see where he was living, where his university is, and re-acquaint myself with the city – Russia’s third largest. I had visited there five-and-a-half years ago to spend the night with my 18-year-old boyfriend Maxim, through whom I had later met Vanya – and recalled pleasant times there.

Yegor was again at his aunt’s in Sandova. Seems he had failed to get two signatures on his registration papers notarized and when cops had stopped him on the streets for an ID check on the Friday before, they had caught the omission and warned him to immediately rectify the problem. So he had again made the day-long trek to Sandova in hopes he could get there in time to get the papers signed on Saturday and come back Sunday. But he didn’t make it, and had to stay until the next working day, Tuesday. So in leaving for Nizhny, I wouldn’t be abandoning him.

I was looking forward to spending some intimate and quality time with Vanya. We really had spent very little time with just each other over the past five years in the circus atmosphere of my Moscow flat. While we were waiting for our 11:30 p.m. train, we walked to the center, drank a couple of G&Ts, and strolled. Vanya loves the bright lights ot Tverskaya Street, Moscow’s main drag, at night.


So by the time we boarded the train, we were about as well lit as Tverskaya. We hadn’t been able to get a sleeping compartment on the train, so we had settled for “platzkart” accommodations – upper and lower berths but without closed compartments. There was a very cute 18-year-old in our four-person open cell as well as a 20-something woman to whom Vanya took an immediate liking.

Vanya has some strange sexual pulls. He seems to like having sex with women, but would never have a permanent relationship with one. Although he prefers the love of guys, he’s afraid of exposure in Nizhny Novgorod. Besides, he likes the adoration and subservience showered on him by women, who fall in love at first sight with this sexy, charming, and handsome 24-year-old.

So the sparks were there. We had brought a 2-liter bottle of Ochakovo beer and a couple of glasses, and the more Vanya drank, the more sociable, then argumentive, he became. I was sleeping – or attempting to – on my upper bunk, and at 1 or 2 a.m. became aware that cops were ordering him to go to bed because he was disturbing other passengers. He became very smart-ass, and I heard one of the cops slap him. I added my voice to the chorus telling him to go to bed, and the adorable little 18-year-old helped him climb to his upper bunk. I was uncomfortable and pissed.

The next morning, he laughed about it, though he couldn’t remember all the details – for instance, that the 18-year-old had helped put him to bed.

After arriving in Nizhny at about 6:30 a.m., we caught a cab to his apartment, a one-room-and-kitchen affair quite adequate for him, and located within 10 minutes of both the pedestrianized main drag and the university from which he will graduate this June. The rent, at 0 a month, is a bargain. We took a quick walk to the center and back, then went to bed till about noon.

He said he wanted to go shopping and fix some “plov” for me. Our word for “plov” is pilav, which for us usually involves chicken. But Russians prefer beef, so I was curious to get the recipe from him.


I finally broached the subject of the “important matter.” It seems that Vanya has been exploring the money market – Foreign Exchange (For-Ex) -- for some time, and was confident that he could survive and maybe even get rich trading currency, which in this day of lead-weight dollar against soaring Euro seems pretty solid.

He said he had already made enough to pay his rent this month, with just one contract; and if he had several contracts at 0 each, he reasoned, he could make lots more.

Commodities markets scare me to death. I too was going to get rich off of them and dropped ,000 faster than I could say “wheat futures.” But he probably already knew more than I did about trading, and there was no point in spending more time pointing out the perils.

He wanted to borrow between 0 and 0 so he could get into it in a big way – enough, he said, to make a living.

“I don’t loan money I can’t afford to lose, and I can’t afford to lose 0,” I told him. “But, I could advance you your 0 a month for the last three months of your university education – April, May, and June – which would give you 0 now to do what you want with. But this is the last money I will be able to give you,” I stressed.

He agreed. I gave him the 0 I had on me and we strolled to an ATM to get the other 0. To celebrate, I had a couple of G&Ts and he had a couple of beers as we rode the tram to the market across town to buy what we needed for the “plov.”

While Vanya fixed the beef pilav, I took notes so I could reproduce the recipe. In the meantime, we sipped what was left of the liter-and-a-half bottle of G&T that Vanya had left from sometime earlier.

I was disappointed with the pilaf – too dry. Besides, beef is fattier than chicken. As we were sitting at the table around 6:30, he got a couple of calls from his lesbian friend Sasha. It was obvious that she was sitting in a bar demanding that he join her – maybe to celebrate Women’s Day. After all, lesbians are women too.

As he got up to leave, I reminded him that my train left at 9:45 and the train station was a long ways away. “I’m responsible,” he answered defensively. “I’ll be back in an hour.”


7:30 came and went, no Vanya. Then 8; still no Vanya. 8:30. Finally, at 8:45, an hour before the train was to pull out of the station, Vanya bounded in with a bruise on his face. Another fist fight? He was too drunk to walk without bouncing off the walls. He words were barely intelligible. “Can we take a tram?” I asked. “Too late, he slurred.” “Can we catch a taxi on the street?” “Not here.” He picked up the phone and managed to form words to the effect that he needed a taxi in a hurry at his address.

I put on my coat and grabbed the brief case I had brought. He went to take a pee as I opened the door to leave. “Wait,” he demanded.

“I’ll wait outside,” I said, but as I descended the steps I could already hear the horn of the taxi. I climbed in and that’s the last I saw of Vanya.

He called the next day. “Did you get home okay? I’ll send you an e-mail,” he promised.

“I will too.”


With Yegor’s help I’ve written and translated an e-mail warning him that he is an alcoholic. It’s long been evident that he has a drinking problem. He’s been beaten up too many times, had too many arguments, had too many things stolen, lost too many things, had too many blackouts. None of my other friends have these problems. Only Vanya. And only when he’s drunk.

“You’re about to try to make a career of one of the riskiest businesses in the world,” I wrote. “Even if you quit drinking, you might fail; and if you don’t, I can guarantee it. And I have no more money to give you, nor does anyone else. You’ll be on the streets.”

It’s very harsh, and I haven’t sent it yet. But he needs to be warned that he’s kidding himself. I’ve told him several times before this episode that he’s got a problem with alcohol. “No, I don’t,” he declares in typical denial. But he clearly does. When he starts drinking, he can’t quit till he passes out. In the meantime, he becomes arrogant and belligerent and pisses people off, as he did on the train; and, as the bruise on his cheek suggested, he had done that evening. Not a good sign.

I want him to be successful. He’s a dear, good, honest, and kind person. I don’t want to see my ,000 investment go down the drain. I was very angry when I wrote the letter, and it’s so shrill it might do more harm than good. Maybe I’ll re-write it and change the tone. But these things have to be said.


The day before Vanya came to Moscow, the tall Seryozh spent the day here, and he and I played blackjack most of the day. We had a delightful time and by the end of the day we had grown very close. I felt myself actually falling in love with this tall, handsome, 22-year-old with a big dick and a childlike sense of humor. Volodya and Ivan came over that evening and I confided to them what I felt developing. We had kissed deeply many times that day.

So after everyone had left, we bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate our new romance. He got pretty out of it and before I knew it he was doing a strip tease for me in the kitchen, the grand finale of which was my sucking his enormous schlang in time with the music.

Volodya called two or three nights later and asked how the evening had gone. “Great. We had a wonderful time.”

“How big is his dick?” Volodya asked.

This, from a straight boy?

“Big,” I replied.

“Long or thick?”

“Both. So the next time I come over, I want to compare it with yours.”

“Okay,” he said quickly.

Wait a minute. That’s not what I expected. Surely he’s kidding. But maybe not. The last few times he’s been here, he’s played a lot of grab-dick with Yegor, and made some pretty suggestive remarks. And he’s proudly announced that his dick is 20 cm long – about 8 inches, about the same as Serge’s. Will I really have an opportunity to make the taste test with this 6 ft. 4 in., blond, blue-eyed super-stud that I’ve been dreaming about since I first met him in Turkey nearly five years ago?

Anything’s possible. Look what has happened with the two Seryozhes!