What happened next was awful, confusing, and I wanted it to stop.
But I’m not going to lie: Part of me was turned on. ”Suddenly, I wished my women’s studies professor from Sarah Lawrence were there.
All that could be heard in the darkness was my friends and I shouting his name, and the thuds and grunts of Anton wrestling with another guy.
Petersburg in 1988, moved to New York when I was five, and then moved back into a different crumbling communal building in St.In Russia, most of the guys I met were engaged in some sort of dubious import/export business in electronics; the rest were involved in “business” (if you ask what kind of business, and there is a marked pause followed by the word “business,” you should refrain from asking any more questions).A great many of them confessed to dreaming of moving to a beach in Bali, roasting barbecue all day, and copulating furiously with island women.I had female friends who had no idea they were apparently someone’s girlfriend.The American teachers at my language school had a phrase to describe dating Russian men.
And in that strange and romantic moment I thought, “One day I’m going to put this in a story to explain my convoluted relationship with Russian men.”I should preface this story by saying that I am Russian.