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Whore-R Stories May 29, 2003
The Reluctant John
By Mark Ames Browse author Email

Three summers ago I conspired with my ex-girlfriend's parents to have her whisked out of Russia for good. It was the only way I could get rid of her.

In the weeks immediately before and after she was tricked into leaving, I embarked on my worst whoring binge ever. It became an unhealthy obsession, to the point where I'd take two whores in a single day and still end up unsatisfied. I did all of them in their apartments since I could never be sure if or when my girlfriend or one of her spies would be casing my place. Also there was the fact that it was much cheaper to do a whore in her apartment -- called "apartamenty" -- rather than having her delivered to your door -- "viyezd." For the price of one "viyezd" whore you could do two whores "apartamenty," or, say, one anal and change, so you'd have enough left over for a plate of nachos and a jumbo margarita at Starlite.

Most of the whores I rented worked in apartments in the Taganskaya or Serpukhovskaya Metro areas. Unremodeled one- or two-bedroom apartments with low ceilings, faded beige or dull gold wallpapering, dirty gold curtains inevitably drawn, and scuffed parquet floors. Sometimes a garish Turkish-style carpet would be nailed to the wall in the living room. The bed was always a double-Soviet with either a cheap gold bedcover or an elaborate deep Oriental-patterned red.

During this spree I got crabs from a Collie-faced Moldovan. She worked in a "salon," the term given to a larger apartment that will hold anywhere from five to fifteen working girls at a time. The crabs helped me get my whoring under control. You really feel like you've come to understand Schopenhauer's version of Planet Earth a little too intimately when you see your body turned into a feeding cow for freckle-shaped arachnids. I plucked them out of my pubic hairs one by one and stuck them to exposed Scotch tape that I pinned to the wall above my desk. After that, I became a reluctant john, with only brief interludes of enthusiastic whoring -- no more than once a month.

In the interests of diversifying this column, and in order to placate the budget-conscious shareholders of the eXile, I chose a "viyezd" whore this week for fifty dollars. Her "dispatcher" had asked me if I wanted anal, which would be $70. I said I didn't. First of all I don't want to endure that fart cloud that always appears after you pull out. Secondly, I prefer wet holes to dry. And thirdly (hey, I'm starting to write like Michael McFaul here!), what's the point of doing a whore in the ass? The best way to punish a whore is to take her for a night, chew some Viagra and fuck her for hours. Even then you have to ask yourself who's really getting punished, unless she's some raving beauty from Night Flight.

One reader suggested that I should try "seagulling" a whore this issue. I gave it a shot, so to speak, last Friday. But since I live 20 floors up and don't really have a balcony, it didn't work out quite as I'd hoped. While the whore was bouncing around the exterior of my massive building looking for the podyezd (I'd given her a non-existent podyezd number), I managed to fire off a load out my kitchen window in her general direction. It missed the whore by a long shot, splattering instead on the head of a Stalin-era statue representing a worker marching into the glorious future. The netting had just come off the statue two weeks ago after more than a year of remont. I bet this was something Stalin had not foreseen when he ordered this skyscraper built: a rootless cosmopolitan chaikovating out of the northwest tower.

Next day I went onto the net to find my whore. I narrowed it down to two dyed-red-heads, each allegedly 18 and each with massive thingies. I don't know why but lately I've been drawn to voluptuous whores. The one I chose lives/works at what was once among the most prestigious addresses in Moscow, where two General Secretaries had lived. She gave me the address and told me to call again when I got to the building, whereupon she would give me instructions as to which podyezd, code, and apartment to enter.

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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."

Eleven Years of Threats: The eXile's Incredible Journey
Feature Story By The eXile
Good Night, and Bad Luck: In a nation terrorized by its own government, one newspaper dared to fart in its face. Get out your hankies, cuz we’re taking a look back at the impossible crises we overcame.

Your Letters
Russia's freedom-loving free market martyr Mikhail Khodorkovsky answers some of this week's letters, and he's got nothing but praise for President Medvedev.

Clubbing Adventures Through Time
Club Review By Dmitriy Babooshka
eXile club reviewer Babooshka takes a trip through time with the ghost of Moscow clubbing past, present and future, and true to form, gets laid in the process.

The Fortnight Spin
Bardak Calendar By Jared Lindquist
Jared comes out with yet another roundup of upcoming bardak sessions.

Your Letters
Richard Gere tackles this week's letters. Now reformed, he fights for gerbil rights all around the world.

13 Toxic Talents: Hollywood’s Worst Polluters
America By Eileen Jones
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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