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Dating Russian Men

It’s a party night in Los Angeles, and the last thing on my mind is dating Russian men or a Russian lover. It’s international and integrated, as many Los Angeles parties are. And there’s my Chinese American friend and some Siberian couchsurfer and a Mexican and then two space scientists from Austria and Russia. The Russian is long and lean and keeps flirting smart with me.

Telling me all the details about the part of space that is near earth. Trying to wow me with his retention. It kind of works. We’re in some shoddy LA apartment with thin plaster walls, the table full of stupid liquor and bright red Solo cups.

I have been doing lots of yoga and I show off. Pop up into a headstand and walk my feet down the wall leaving dirty footprints that aren’t my problem as soon as we pack into someone’s car being driven by someone else slightly less drunk. 

Eventually a crew of us ends up at my place, my most beautiful place. A loft guest house in Topanga with travertine counters and a six mile view that shows us the Pacific ocean on days when the smog quits to go home early.

And there we are eating something that someone brought and people straggle away. Some down the crazy hills of Tuna Canyon, some out to my deck. Soon the space scientists and my Chinese American friend and his girlfriend are all that are left and no one has a car but me so it’s time to bunk down for the day. 

Dating Russian Men

And I just take his hand, Dima, and lead him up the wrought iron stairway to my loft with the California king-sized bed dressed in satin sheets. And he smiles and strips and he is bone thin with skin so taut it pulls across his shallow muscles. I love skinny men. I have been wasting my time not dating Russian men.

He pushes me back onto the bed and it looks like he’ll kiss my mouth but instead he wrenches off my pants and panties and kisses my other lips. 

His tongue slides around my clit, dips into my cunt, then back out. He’s eating me not for me, but for him, he’s thirsty for me. Such eagerness, so much abandon, he’s won me already for starting where he does.

And we are quiet because there are no doors and no walls between us and the folks that have bedded down on the floor below in sleeping bags and extra blankets and all my camping and Burning Man supplies. There’s already soft snores, the sound of people drunk and asleep and I don’t much care about being heard.

But Dima does, a little, and he pulls away from eating my pussy voraciously and shushes me with a finger over his lips, giving me that look that I know means he won’t continue until I’m quiet.  I shhhhhhhush.

He laps me like he’s in a competitive eating contest or trying to finish an ice cream cone before it melts. Sweet, soft, deep. I love how much he wants it. He is my first Russian lover. (But not my last.) My first taste of dating Russian men.

He presents cold but breaks hot and there I am with my hands in his shoulder length, dirty blonde hair, pulling his head where I need it to give me release. His tongue darts and slips over my clit and though I’m drunknumb I still come and see him grinning through my spins.

And he doesn’t stop. He plunges in again and wrings a second and a third orgasm out of me until I am covered in a sheen of sweat and grinning and oh so satisfied.

We have no condoms. I didn’t plan this. A brief conversation ensues:

He gets out of the bed and tiptoes down that spiral staircase with the slats that are so easy to catch one’s toe in. But no missteps and I hear him whispering to the other space scientist.

Then up he comes, triumphantly, with a condom in his hand.

“He’s gay. He always has them.” he says, by way of prejudiced and joyous explanation.

And this is when I find out that my Russian lover is half Jewish, and cut, with a dick that matches his body in turgid, stretched beauty. He’s not bony, he’s just small and I love the cleft in his chest where his skin pulls around his sternum and keep trying to lick it no matter what position we’re in.

He’s rolling it on and then on top of me, with measured, identical strokes. I grab his tiny ass and wrap my legs around his calves and he quietly fucks me until he gives up, he cannot come. That’s one thing about dating Russian men: they’re almost sure to drink too much.

Months later we’re at Burning Man and he’s mostly lost interest until one day I’m dressed as Lucifer in all white and he is dressed in black skinny jeans and a t-shirt and a black hat and sunglasses. Somehow the contrast gets him horny and I take his hand and inside my RV we awkwardly strip naked, yelling at my player RVmate Tito to close his curtain or gtfo out the RV.

Tito stays in the RV until the spanking starts when he is like

“Bye guys, have fun!” and exits leaving us alone.

Up in the bunk my Russian lover smacks my ass and then doesn’t stop, whacking me with abandon until his dick is hard and oozing precum and he is shaking and can barely get the condom on. 

And then he claws into my hips and pulls me back into him doggy style but the bunk is too short for him to be upright so he bends over me, using my hips and the sight of my pussy to slam him to a shuddering orgasm.

The next day another Russian friend of mine, dressed elaborately as Marie Antoinette, comes by and sees me smack Dima’s ass. She is from St. Petersburg, and my Russian lover is from Moscow. There’s rivalry. 

“Don’t you like guys with muscles?” she says to me, in front of him. 

“He has muscles, they’re just small.” I reply. “I like skinny guys.” she makes a disapproving sound.

“Well. How’s his dick???” she asks, as though that’s all that really matters in dating Russian men.

“It’s good, it’s very good.” I say. At this she shrugs.

“Mother Russia.” she explains, smiling proud and maniacal.

And now I am visiting my Russian lover in Moscow and he is patient with me, it’s -40 degrees, convenient because that is where celsius and fahrenheit meet and I don’t have to do any calculations. 

I drag him around outside for days to see the city, me in arctic gear and those things you shake and they warm up solidly placed inside my shoes and gloves. Him in a fall jacket and a pair of sneakers, with a bottle of cognac in his pocket. 

I fall in love with Moscow, it’s brutal and icy and just as I imagined Russia. But locals dash my Cold War memories and fantasies.

“What Cold War? We had better things to worry about.”

We take the train to St. Petersburg overnight, but the way back we are on the high speed train, the one that was just bombed by Chechens not a month prior. We’re facing backwards on a bullet train and I feel ill and my Russian lover tells me the only thing for this is vodka.

And so it’s trip after trip to the restaurant/bar car to pick up small bottles of Russian Standard which we drink by hooking arms with one another. And on the last hook, even though we are not lovers anymore and both taken, the passion overtakes and it’s wet, slobbery kisses in front of everyone that he just shushed me to save face to. 

A train car full of Russian strangers ignore us.

This is the same man that has been shushing me all week, because I am too loud for Moscow, too loud for the danger that still lurks. Every explanation I ask him for begins with:

“Well, in Soviet times….” and I just love the sound of him saying this in his accent.

But now we are kissing and he roughly sticks his hand through the neck of my shirt and grabs my breast, kneading it while his tongue is inside me so deep. And then, just as abruptly, he pulls away.

“You made me cheat on my girlfriend!” he exclaims.

“No, you made ME cheat on my boyfriend!” I throw the blame back onto him.

We both shrug and keep kissing.

Another tale of hot Russian-speaking men


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