RUSSIA

PART 1

 

“It sounds a lot like Danzig,” he says, “but only the first two records.”

 

He stumbles around my kitchen, in a brown leather jacket, with a hammer and sickle around his neck.

He walks into the corner of the stove. I hand him a bottle of vodka.

 

“I am Russian,” he says. He takes a long swig from the bottle. “I kill.”

 

I laugh, feeling nervous.

 

“No no no,” he says, “Listen to me. You--” putting his finger on my chest-- “You are not Russian.” He says very seriously, “I am Russian. I will kill you.”

“I am Russian.” I say quietly.

 

“No,” he says, “You’re not Russian. You don’t know Russians. You don’t even know.”

 

He drinks from the bottle, he looks at me. “Have you ever fucked a Russian?”

 

“I have,” he says, “I’ve fucked Russians. I’ve fucked a lot of Russians. Listen to me. I am Russian

He pulls his shirt off. “I’m not like anyone you will meet.” He says, he points at me, “I will fuck you.”

He puts one finger on my clit and one on my forehead. “Here.” he says. “I will fuck you.”

 

He presses his finger in the center of my forehead. “I’m going to fuck you for hours.”

 

“That scares me,” I say.

 

He takes my clothes off. “I know.” he says, “Let’s talk about it.”

 

“Well, I’m part Russian,” I say, reaching my arms over my head.

 

“You look Russian,” he says, grabbing my neck.

 

“That’s because I am Russian.”

 

“No you’re not,” he says, he kneels on the floor.

 

He pushes his tongue on my clit. It is violent.

 

He presses his finger inside me. It is Russian.

 

PART 2

 

In a blue room on a vast Russian tundra, he stands in the West, and I sit in the East.

 

He scratches his moustache with a hammer. His tongue, he holds in a tiny triangle, dangling from the center of his mouth.

He winks.

 

“Say it,” he says.

 

“No,” I turn from him, my back against the vertical blinds.

 

He pulls a blanket from the bed, and whips it to his side like a bullfighter.

 

He wears a small bolero, a peck of chest hair, and a blinking pager.

 

“Cold?” he asks.

 

I shiver.  He walks to my side and grabs my forearm in his fist.

 

“Say it,” he says.

 

His jaw is clenched, he pushes his thumb on my teeth, he tears the pager from his belt.

 

“I’ve never--” I start, my words muffled in his grip.

 

“Yes?” He pushes his hand under my chin.

 

“Seen--” I say, he pulls the back of my hair.

 

“A - Russian’s - dick - so-”

 

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