How do Russian women live here, with their men resembling brontosauruses? Of course, with such a limited selection of males, men could carry themselves around any way they pleased, which, in fact, they did. Handsome, with money and a great job, young, slender and fit, speaking five languages, proud holder of three degrees from reputable universities, owning the latest Porsche model and designer suits – perfect! He surely has no equal in this dense patriarchal state, where men of all ages smell of sweat and fumes. Certainly not. Coming across this kind of well-groomed individual of Russian origin here and there is possible, of course, but they are either gay or some egoists. Oh, and most importantly, they lack the all-too-magical Italian charm. Italian charm is the foreign touch that, with its sweet accent, makes girls from all walks of life squeal with excitement. Yes, Marco was a fully content man.
With a light heart, Marco looked at the passers-by in the waiting room. The girls were all in tight jeans, and almost all of them were in high heels. Loitering near them were potbellied men of all ages, who were pestering them, all too keen to get into their pants.
Quite a strange phenomenon. How, with such an abundance of gyms and beauty salons, can Russia produce such ugly men? Something is amiss here. Good thing I’m not gay. These old, haggard men have now fallen way behind in terms of fashion and the idea of self-grooming. Makes me sick even to look at them.
Marco buried himself into his phone, vigorously browsing through all sorts of dating sites, pornographic pictures and other things that might delight his soul and eye.
While Marco was busy looking for new hot dates, Christy was corresponding with a young German pilot who had sent her a stunning picture of his well-groomed Aryan body that was ready to embark on any mission that its owner would so desire to engage in.
Wow, why is it that women in Russia are denied the sensual and visual aspects of the love of the opposite sex. This comes with the seemingly shallow reality that men always tend to look at a female’s body a priori, carefully considering the minute details of each curve and contour, and only then, if everything was as perfectly aligned as they expected, could they look at her soul, or at least consider the substance of her brain. Why it is necessary to love old, pot-bellied or young, pot-bellied males in stupid T-shirts, or even worse, smell their scruffy bodies, talk about matters of the heart, then surrender to the clumsy hands of an egoist and say that sex was good, even if their penises were ten centimeters long and their filthy bodies smelled of a mixture of alcohol, cigarettes and a month-old sweat or, at best, selfishness? No!
Christy did not fancy this kind of arrangement. She chose her men herself: thoroughbred and ungenerous, but all the same stallions, men she adored. Only then would she look into their souls, if they had any.
The bed is the old age litmus test of a person’s sexuality. Here, the snot and the miser behave accordingly, and so does the noble, respectful of women and knowing how to please them. But then, the whole world is built on chemistry. Hardly in the animal kingdom do the females choose unattractive males simply because they have male sexual organs.
The male population is virtually absent from the Russian society, having been completely obliterated by historical cataclysms. In such an emotionally empty society, the patriarchal view that a woman is expected to possess super-exotic attractiveness, love and kindness, just as she is expected to be a well-refined sexual animal, is dominant. At the same time, even if it is worthwhile for a woman to be an excellent mistress, she is still despised for that. A decent woman cannot be experienced in bed. She should be a beautiful self-sacrificed virgin, living only to please her male companion and feed his ego. Russian men do not find female orgasms to be that much of a deal. They believe that if a woman fails to orgasm in the first two minutes that they spend in their awkward encounter, she must be almost frigid.
Following her endless rendezvous in which she constantly burnt her fingers on such simple and mediocre Russian men, Christy started preferring foreign males, with all their baggage. As for this instance, she knew fully well that although the connection with the German would be enchanting, no serious relationship would come out of it. And she did not need it.
What is a serious relationship? Seeing each other unwashed every morning, arguing about childish things like who will go to the store, or take out the garbage?
If two people were destined to meet in an ideal union, then this will certainly happen. All other unions are flawed a priori. With a grin of excitement pasted on her face, Christy gleefully enjoyed the explicit photos that the German had sent her, anticipating the sweetness of the minutes and hours of their planned meeting, which was to happen in a few days. Gosh, it just says “Das ist fantastish” … What’s the use for a 35 year old Italian, if there is a 25 year old German here?
Christy bit her lip, carefully analyzing the smooth skin and musculature of this Aryan lad. If my former classmates knew the flavor and fullness of my sex life, they would die of envy, kill their fat husbands and rush to the endless mating fields of the Amazonians. Let’s see his name … Marcel…
Mmm, that “L” at the end of his name… almost like in Nabokov’s Lolita. What a language! The main thing now is for him to be an expert lover. After all, a twenty five year old boy has no time for training. The handsome lad will just land his plane and fly away…
Just like how Muse plays its music: with emotion, professionalism, the mind, feelings, everything real. This is my music. With the pulse beating that way, my heart and lips yearn for kisses, and my body for love and sex. Simply geniuses! … Perfect! I’m going to be meeting this Marcel under the sweet rhythm of Muse.
I should get prepared. After all, there is a 10 year age difference between us…
So let’s see… manicure, pedicure, massage, swimming pool, Thai massage, facial masks, body masks, anything. I haven’t forgotten about my ten kilometer jog. Only by running like a wolf every morning in any weather can I develop such luscious breasts, thin waist and tight ass. All my peers have already fattened up sitting on their chairs all day long while I’m easily mingle with the young and beautiful. But that’s not all. I can go out with anyone I want; we can do whatever I want and how much I want until I get bored.
No, Christy had not always been such an Amazon. Raised in a strict home, she had long hoped to someday meet a worthy-enough person who would become her duly-wedded husband, the father of her child, and thus fit into the traditional model of family and women’s happiness. However, the males who came across her way, whether from the higher echelons of power and business or the clerical layer of ordinary Russian boys, all failed to meet any of her high expectations. The lost illusions forged a Superamazon, tender, passionate, woman who loved with all her heart for one night, a day or years; an Amazon who controlled her own body, priorities and desires herself.
As for now, she was looking forward to some passionate sex with the young and handsome German. She wanted his body, his muscular arms, and wanted to see these pilot’s volitional eyes close, and nothing could stop her. She methodically put on her white tracksuit and went on for the ten-kilometer jog, tearing through the admiring glances of passers-by. While running, her movements were perfect; her smoothly combed pigtail, tight leggings and sprint of a panther were highly visually appealing, even for misogynists, females, gays or just ordinary men.
Why do many women not use their body, their feminine qualities, or consider that their grimaces and jumps are resources for the female. They pretend to be weak and stupid, or move like male tanks or just unsophisticated females. Maybe it is because we are all hounded by everyday life, pseudo-morals, and bad sex or lack of it. Only the sensation of the female sensuality, the chemistry of bodies, sex and passion make a woman truly feminine. A lady who has at least once experienced the
