It occurs to me that I posted
THESE PICTURES without telling the story behind them.
So English Teacher M and I were cruising around the cafes on the riverside embankment; there were a pair of slightly-gnarly looking blonde identical twins, in their mid-twenties perhaps but as usual with Russian chicks looking much older, and particularly so in this case as their skin was sun-damaged beyond belief or repair. They were sitting with a couple of fat even older women.
They were attractive in that beer-goggle, dolled-up Russian girl way, however, and had well-displayed breasts, and we'd had five or six beers already, so English Teacher M made his move and joined their table, and I was also invited to join.
We sat with them for a few hours, buying them copious amounts of beer. I can't remember what we talked about, the usual nonsense. They worked at an auto dealership and weren't married, but I suspected some bad-ass "sponsors" existed somewhere. They looked like real old-school gangster molls.
There was some dancing, but not nearly enough groping to make it very worthwhile; in fact when I asked for one of the blonde girl's phone number, she said she would take mine instead and call me.
Now fun is fun, and we certainly don't begrudge the local trollops the price of a beer or six.
But then they -- all four of them -- ordered shashleek. That's Russian barbecue, and is not cheap at 250 rubles per plate. (About $7 at the current exchange rate.)
English Teacher M balked, ostensibly because of the poor quality of the shashleek at the cafes; he warned them of the dangers of undercooked pork. "Fuck, I don't wanna pay for these bitches to stuff themselves with pig," he muttered in English to me out of the corner of his mouth.
I could see that he'd also received a text message from one of his fuck buddies and was formulating an escape plan.
I decided to be the bold man of action that I am, and got up without saying goodbye and left.
A few hundred yards down the embankment, my phone rang. "Where the fuck did you go! They already ordered the foood." I could tell he was putting it on for the girls.
"Yeah, I did a runner. If you're wise you'll do the same."
"Uh. . ."
"Yeah, just say you're going to the toilet or something and split. What, are they going to chase you?"
"Good idea," he said and hung up.
As it happened I ran into another girl I knew, down the embankment a ways, and the night even had a more-or-less happy ending, although such happy endings after 12 beers or so are never quite THAT happy, at least not in a guy recently turned forty.
