MOSCOW, July 7, 2008 -- July 6, 2008, my 75th birthday; and Zhorik is here – at last!
When I SMS’d him a week ago Tuesday he was already at the passport office with his father. That afternoon he announced that he would have his domestic passport and would leave Stavropol on Monday and arrive here last Tuesday.
But sometime early on Sunday I had another one of my spells – TIAs – mini-strokes – whatever they are. This one, I thought, was bad. I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t walk. I got up at 6:30 or some ungodly hour on Sunday to take Missy for her morning walk and discovered that my left eye was off into space somewhere and I was bouncing off the walls.
I woke up Igor beside me, who had come in at some even more ungodly hour – 2 a.m., I think. I had been pissed and had told him that I had to have more sleep, etc., etc., and when I awoke the next morning, it was proof positive. But too late.
I went immediately back to sleep and woke up at 2 or 3 in the afternoon. I still couldn’t navigate and spent a lot of the time in bed.
By evening I was feeling better and set my alarm for 6 a.m. to try to make it to my 7:45 a.m. class with Andrei.
I was still feeling a little woozy, and my eye was still crossed, but I made it to his place on time with the aid of my handy-dandy steer’s dick cane, which I had bought at the second hand shop on 18th St. in Wash. D.C. back in the mid-’80s. I had never had to use it before now, though I had kept it as an oddity and “just in case.”
And now “just in case” was a reality.
I went by Potemkin U. after Andrei’s lesson to pick up some more DVD’s for the summer, afraid to spill the beans that I might have to go back to the States for fear the keeper of the DVD’s might decide I was as bad a risk as I really was.
But I have felt better each day, though my correspondents picked up on my bad typing, and my friend BB in Seattle, who himself has suffered a TIA, observed, “Jesus, Dane. Sounds like you may have had a ‘minor’ stroke. I'm really worried, your typing is never bad. Please let me know what's going on as soon as you find out.”
He had just sent me an update on his life, and his attempt to rewrite for the umpteenth time his “Sailing to Utah”:
“I sold a couple of paintings back in March, and of course I'm flat broke again -- moths flutter from my pocket rather than coins….
”I've just finished the 25th, or maybe the 45th rewrite of UTAH. So I went to the Seattle Library's data base and logged on to Publisher's Weekly and got the names of agents closing deals. You want somebody who can dance, you go to the dance hall. In any case, the first agent I queried answered within 5 minutes. So I emailed Esmond Harmsworth a copy.
”Esmond Harmsworth! Sounds like an Evelyn Waugh character, right? Well, guess what? Esmond turns out to be either the son or brother of the current 2nd Viscount Rothmere, not to mention a grad of Harvard Law School. I gather he agents fiction as a passion. I guess it's in the blue blood because evidently his family still has a majority interest in The Daily Mirror (founded 1845). One of the noble ancestors sat at the table when the Treaty of V was jammed down Germany's throat after WWI, etc, etc.
”I'm a big fan of irony, of course, but can you image a Peer of the Fucking realm working for me? Of such stuff dreams are made. Now all he's got to do is like my novel. We shall find out shortly! You see Dane, I can take yes for an answer. Getting kicked in the teeth is getting very old.”
So I didn’t have control of the typewriter anymore, which I’ve been jockeying since I was 12 years old!
Did this mean I would have to go back to the States for free treatment, since I’m both a pensioner and an Army veteran? What about Zhorik? Where would this leave him, assuming he deserves my help. And where would I go? To my nephew outside of Orlando for now? Would I be able to get my paintings out of Russia? The three by Robert LaVigne have certainly increased in value since I bought then nearly 20 years ago at prices up to $ 2500 each.
At the urging of BB and Basil, I finally made it to the heart doc at the American Medical Center Friday. After forking over 12,000 rubles – about $ 500 – I find there’s no reason to go back to the States, That maybe it wasn’t a mini-stroke after all, but something else, since I don’t seem to have any lasting effects.
But in the meantime, Zhorik found out that he would be leaving Friday instead of Tuesday -- if he was lucky. That would still be time enough to celebrate my birthday. If we weren’t lucky, he wouldn’t spend my birthday with me.
He was lucky and so was I. I spent my birthday with him.
So it looks like Zhorik and I are finally going to have a life together after our “bench” session Saturday afternoon.
I told him that Igor has the same relationship to me as he does, and that I had told him about us, but that he is the only one – except for Sergei – who knows. Zhorik said he is satisfied with our sexual arrangement and wants to continue it.
Igor called and he’d had another argument with his nympho, and would be a little late getting back home. That would give Zhorik and me time to have quick sex before he got here. But the quick sex turned out not to be. Zhorik kept saying, “I’ve got to have a woman.” After 45 minutes of sucking and jerking him – during which time I came myself – he didn’t come.
Solution? After Igor came home about 12:45, they spent 10-15 minutes on the computer looking for poumintang for Zhorik. Allegedly they found it. In the meantime I told Zhorik that I had to be asleep by midnight, but that Sunday night was an exception because my only class Sunday was at 12:30 with beautiful Artyom.
My bite from Zhorik came earlier than expected -- Sunday night, in fact. “Can I have 3,000 rubles ($ 125) to fuck a woman?”
“I can let you have $ 125 a month. But not more. You want it now?”
Yes, he wanted it now. So he and Igor (Igor is staying away from his nympho girlfriend after she apparently fucked him over) went out to find a prostitute they could pay 3,000 rubles to for a night of sex for Zhorik. I told Zhorik that he had to be here and in bed by 12:00 because tomorrow (today) was a working day for me and I had to have 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep.
When I woke up at 1:30 a.m., neither of them was here. I called both of them. Both their phones rang, but neither answered. Sergei came into my room asking where they were.
About 2 a.m. I heard the front door. Zhorik. The cops got Igor. It’s nice without him, Zhorik said. I agreed. I started playing with Zhorik’s stomach. He pushed my hand down to his dick. I started sucking and it got hard. Again, couldn’t come.
He went to the computer, where he finally found brainless girl from two years ago. While I was sucking and he was watching, he came. I came. Then about 3 a.m., for the first time since Sasha left, I hugged him and he and I slept in the spoons position.
I got up at 6:00 to go to Andrei’s, then home to give Veronika and Ekaterina their lesson in the kitchen. Igor arrived. After lesson, I gave Zhorik 1,000 rubles for keys and new phone card, and they left. I went to sleep.
When they came in at 7:30 – Zhorik, Igor, and Katya – Igor had a red eye that will be black tomorrow. From what I could gather, he got it defending Katya. He immediately wanted 1,000 rubles to buy a month’s conversation on his phone. I told him I was busy (writing this column), but I would be through soon and would go with him to put 1000 rubles on his phone to last for a month.
In the meantime, the American clinic called to tell me that I had an appointment for Wednesday afternoon for a scan of my carotid arteries, at $ 300. I will discuss the findings with Dr. Rosaria by phone. It won’t cost me anything.
Zhorik and I had a long discussion. Depending on my treatment from Zhorik, I will go or stay. He wanted to go with Igor and his girlfriend and Katya’s brother to somewhere – without me.
I told him okay, but he had to be in bed by 12 midnight. We’ll see.
It’s not too late for me to go back to America. I had birthday wishes from sisters Evelyn and Nadine, from brother Arnold, sister-in-law Joyce, and nephew Dennis, whom I would probably live with. He’s hoping the economy will hold together for another three years to enable him to sell the house in Castleberry near Orlando for enough to get to the Virginia countryside. I hope so, but I’m not very hopeful. But he bought the house long enough ago so that he will almost certainly come out a winner, though maybe not as big as he has hoped.
In the meantime, I’m debating whether to stay here and have regular sex with Zhorik and Igor or go back to a sexless, but more comfortable, life with Dennis.
Last Monday Igor asked to “borrow” 500 rubles ($ 20). He had “borrowed” 1000 just the day before and had borrowed 150 to 250 rubles every day for a week or more to go visit his nympho in suburbia.
So I gave him a lecture on the money he was spending. He said the $ 20 was to go to someplace in the suburbs to talk to the boss at a construction site to try to find a job.
He didn’t return Monday or Tuesday. At noon Wednesday he still had not returned or call. His mobile phone was either “disconnected or out of the service area.”
Since he found out he had knocked up his nympho, Ira, he had mumbled the word suicide. “What is there to live for?” he had asked rhetorically.
In all honesty, I couldn’t provide a positive answer. He’s the father of two unborn children; he has a 5th grade education; he has no job and no skills beyond carpentry; his brother Dennis is in prison in Moscow for shoplifting and needs money; his mother needs hospital treatment in Moldova and needs money (I gave him $ 100 to send her); he owes me a lot of money from chasing past rainbows; Zhorik was about to claim his spot in my bed. Where was the ray of sunshine and hope that I could offer, except to say “don’t do it ‘cause I love you?
That apparently was enough. He did show up Wednesday. He said the cops had nabbed him and kept him for two days. He went to his nympho’s in the afternoon and didn’t get home till 2 a.m. But he was more compliant that usual, and didn’t immediately roll over onto his stomach after he kissed me goodnight.
“Did you have sex today?” I asked.
“No.”
Must have been on the rag.
“Maybe I can play?”
“If you want to.” So he had another orgasm and I prevented the first prostate cancer since Sasha left two weeks earlier (Chapt. 285, Plans for Spain threatened in quadruple whammy).
We “played” again Thursday night.
Somebody named Vince Diehl predicted in 1990 that in 2008, the entire North American planet was going to be blown sky high because failing water pressure that keeps an underground reservoir of natural gas from collapsing is going to permit oxygen-charged air to mix with the natural gas, creating the conditions for a gigantic bomb that will wipe much of your country from the face of the earth.
Maybe that explains the recent spate of UFO sitings in New Mexico. They’re trying to protect you. Well, not you, but your environment :-)
Why did you choose to be homosexual? It’s a question I’ve often been asked – usually by hard-core, right-wing, holier-than-thou suspects like my high school pal and first-semester-in-college-room-mate Al Smith, who once asked me to join him in mutual masturbation.
I’m convinced that at least some of us had no choice. Some of us tried as hard as we could to be straight, to the point of marriage and other disasters.
Still, I say to those who ask, “God (that’s the only omniscient being they know) made me this way, and I don’t think he makes mistakes.”
It convinces some, but some it doesn’t.
Anyway, Student Valera brought last week a piece of research from the Stockholm Caroline Institute, considered the top research university in Sweden and among the top 11 of Europe, stating that the brain structures of gays and lesbians more resembled those of the opposite sex than their own.
The Institute, which grants the Nobel prizes in physiology and medicine, studied brain structures of 90 men and women, 40 of whom were gays and lesbians. The study confirmed that brain hemispheres of heterosexual women and gays were of the same size, while in lesbians and heterosexual men the right brain hemisphere, responsible for skills, is bigger than the left one.
It seems to suggest that whether men are gay – and women are lesbians – is hard wired from the very beginning. If this is correct, then I am correct. God – or whatever you want to call her – does not make mistakes.
I am gay because “god” – or whatever he/she/it may be known as in the great panoply of time -- made me that way.
See also related pages:
Chapt. #288 - Solzhenitsyn Bites the Dust; was he great?
Chapt. #286 - Corruption victims: Keep what we’ve got
Chapt. #285 - Plans for Spain threatened in quadruple whammy
