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Letter from America September 7, 2001
Crouching Camel-Toe, Hidden Snapper
By Mark Ames Browse author Email

Her name was Wana. My first and only slope.

I boned her last night. I done-did her right here in Kentucky, in the heart of the Bible Belt.
Wana didn't say, "Me so hoh-nee, me love you long time!"
Instead, it went like this:
"You so hai-wee."
"You hai-wee. You hai-wee man."
"Oh yeah, I'm hairy. Like a bear."
"No-no-no. Beah need to be biggah, roundah. You hai-wee."
"So… how much?"
"Sixty dollah hand, hundred dollah kiss-kiss, hundred twenty dollah do it."
"'It'? Uh-huh-huh. Cool. How long do I get to do 'it' for a hundred twenty dollars?" hoping to hear her answer: "Me love you long time, long-nose!"
Instead, she rolled her eyes. "I hate when men ask that keshtun. Hate that keshtun 'how long.' Just say me which you want."
Sheepishly: "Hundred twenty."
"I be right back, hah-nee."
She called me "honey." Not "horny." It was the closest she came to saying "horny." Later, lying naked, she asked me, "Why you no har'? You need spanking?"
"No, no spanking, heh-heh."
"Maybe you need spanking. You no har'."
"It's just, it's been awhile. You've gotta work a little harder, Wana."
"No, you no har'! You drink, ah? Cuz you no har'."

It had been two mega-long months since I last fucked (time moves much more slowly in America than in Russia). The last was in Indianapolis, after the Cracker concert in late June. I wouldn't quite say I "got lucky" there. I got something, but it definitely wasn't lucky. Lucky is winning the lottery or finding a lost gram of tar in the fold of your couch. This was more like… a day in the office, a very long day, with overtime, an all-nighter, the only pleasure being that box of Krispy Kreme donuts for the overtime staff. After my experience in Indianapolis, I started thinking, "You know, maybe American men have a point, not being hung up on sex and all. Maybe there's a reason why they're so obsessive about their office jobs and their SUVs and collecting overpriced wine. Sex just isn't worth the effort, not in this country anyway."

It took me two long painful months and one really horrible sexual experience to reach that callous frame of mind.

When I first moved back here from Moscow, I went through three pained stages before reaching that final callous conclusion—they always come in threes, these life-stages. The first was like smack withdrawals. Dyev withdrawals. I like dyevs. Need dyevs. Crave dyevs. But here, no dyevs. Just Americans. Blech. Even that word, "Americans," with the flat "r" and the even-flatter "-cans" separated by a barely-audible "i," is like some kind of evil impotence-producing incantation, imported from the jungles of Gabon… witch doctors sneaking around the village chanting "Americans! Americans!" into the huts of any male horn-dog who tried seducing the Chief's wives. Next day, horn-dog's unit shrivels to a walnut, never functions again. That's where our country's name came from—an African impotence spell. Say the word "Americans" to me and my dick turns off; live among these "Americans" and it drops to the floor, petrified wood, heavy on the "petrified," light on the wood.

It had been seven years since I'd been exposed to the sexless tundra of American womanhood. It had been so long since I FELT this uniquely American sexual poverty that I didn't really KNOW what awaited me. In theory, sure, I knew, but I didn't, like, KNOW, you know?

I made sure I stocked up on cheap dyev sex before leaving Moscow last April, packing in as many corporeal memories as my aging, drug-pocked body would allow. One slut I met at Hippopotam last April literally peed all over my stomach. "Please don't think I urinated on you, Mark," she said. "That's all from coming."

"Yeah, and I'm a Chinese jet pilot."

Who cared. I was just packing a suitcase full o' memories, storing food for the long American winter.

But I tore through my food-pack of memories very quickly upon arrival. A week after moving here, I found myself holding an empty sack and an angry penis. Then I started going insane. In May, I hit up one girl in San Francisco—and got tagged after reaching second base. What the fuck was that all about?! Depressed, I reverted to frantically cruising the Net. My fantasies became unhealthy all over again, very unhealthy. So unhealthy that I'd rather not talk about them. I just read in the papers that some guy in Ohio was jailed this week after his mother turned his private journal over to the police—a journal filled with fantasies about sexually torturing children. 'Twas a time when I would have considered that a wee bit on the unwell side, too. But now that I've been in the United States for four long months, folks, I gotta tell ya, torturing children… it sounds perty doggone excitin' to me. He was onto something! Er, uh, I mean, thems is jokes, officer. Harmless jokes. Heh-heh.

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Save The eXile: The War Nerd Calls Mayday
The future of The eXile is in your hands! We're holding a fundraiser to save the paper, and your soul. Tune in to Gary Brecher's urgent request for reinforcements and donate as much as you can. If you don't, we'll be overrun and wiped off the face of the earth, forever.

Scanning Moscow’s Traffic Cops
Automotive Section
We’re happy to introduce a new column in which we publish Moscow’s raw radio communications, courtesy of a Russian amateur radio enthusiast. This issue, eXile readers are given a peek into the secret conversations of Moscow’s traffic police, the notorious "GAIshniki."

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Jared comes out with yet another roundup of upcoming bardak sessions.

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Everybody complains about celebrities, but nobody does anything about them. People, it’s time to stop fretting about whether we’re a celebrity-obsessed culture—we are, we have been, we’re going to be—and instead take practical steps to clean up the celebrity-obsessed culture we’ve got...


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