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I went to two parties and two nightclubs over the weekend, and the whole time I don't think I talked to a single woman. Or if I did, I don't remember it. That's because I had about as much lust in me as a box of fax paper.  As Sunday night wore on and I was supposed to get started on this issue, I started to feel the first little jolts of lust shocking my loins. It always happens this way when I have a lot of work to do, and I've let that work fester without treating it. So rather than write, I hooked onto www.vipdosug.ru and found myself a whore. Her name was listed as "Lara," and she appeared to have a thin, taut young body, long red hair and nice small breasts that I could cup in my hands. She claimed that she was 20 years old, though by her picture she appeared to be 18. And she charged $100 for a two hour visit. When I called and gave her my address, it was clear she was an out-of-towner. I had to explain where I live a few times. She promised to be over in an hour, but since she "lived" (to the extent that a whore lives somewhere) only two metro stops away, she was at my podezd within 40 minutes. The dezhurnaya downstairs called my home phone. "Mark! A dyevushka's here to see you!" she barked, disapprovingly as always. It's strange, you pay those old babushka a quarterly stipend to "protect" you, and all they do is make you feel self-conscious every time you order a whore delivered to your door. Where's the logic in that, I ask. When she arrived at the door, I could see why the dezhurnaya was a little more gruff than normal. My whore was accompanied by a thug who looked like something right out of a Dorozhny Patrul jail line-up: he was thick, about six feet tall, in a black leather coat, black pants, and one of those black leather ski caps with the black cloth rim, and thick flat-toed shoes. I caught it all in one glance because I've seen these "collectors" join their whores about 20% of the time, and they all look and dress alike.
As per their orders, I paid the "courier," the guy whose job it was to collect the cash. I closed the door and he left. Lara didn't look a whole lot like her photo, but as I've said many times, we're talking about used cars here, folks. They always look a lot cleaner and shinier in the photo than they do in person. Lara had dyed her hair black, and that made her face seem much harsher than in the photo. The features were more chiseled and broad and square rather than soft and angled and young. Her teeth had large gaps. She wore a black t-shirt with the word "Love" written in pink and gold sparkles, and black pants laced on the calf. She entered my kitchen then stared out of the window down onto the Moscow river. "Klass," she said. "This is the nicest view of any apartment I've been to in Moscow, and I've been to a lot. Oh, I could really imagine spending time here. Yes. Just sitting here in the summer, watching the barges go up the river. That would be so nice. Yeah, I could live here." "Where are you from?" I asked. "From Ukraine," she said. Thank God for Ukraine, I thought. Some day, I'm going to have to give something back to that country for all it's given me. Buy Ukrainian Savings Bonds or something. "Where in Ukraine?" "You know Ukraine?" she asked in disbelief. "Some of it, yeah. I've been there a few times." "I'm from the Donbass region. The coal mines near Donetsk. I'm from Lugansk myself." "I know Lugansk, but I haven't been there." "There's nothing in Lugansk," she said. "It's dead. We have miners. They don't get paid. They work. They die. The state steals everything from them. But they keep working and keep dying. It's an awful place. Everything in Ukraine is awful. It's the worst governed state in the world."
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