International Women's Day (IWD), originally called International Working Women’s Day, is marked on March 8 every year. In different regions the focus of the celebrations ranges from general celebration of respect, appreciation and love towards women to a celebration for women's economic, political and social achievements. Started as a Socialist political event, the holiday blended in the culture of many countries, primarily Eastern Europe, Russia, and the former Soviet bloc. (quoted from Wikipedia)
In honor of Woman's Day, I got to thinking about which Russian girl I know was the most Russian of all the Russian girls that I knew back then.
That would have to be J.
She didn't look like a typical Russian girl; she wasn't blonde, for one. She didn't slather herself in makeup. She didn't really have a beautiful face, although it was pleasant and friendly. She looked a little like the Mona Lisa, actually. She didn't dress like a fifty dollar hoooker.
She wasn't tall or skinny either. She had these breasts.
They were big in a subtle way; they weren't necessarily the first thing you'd notice about her. She didn't keep them on display with plunging necklines or tight tops.
But if she liked a guy, they had a way of becoming the center of the room. And when they were revealed . . . whew.
She was in one of my first classes in Vodkaberg, though she didn't show up for many of the lessons. (I found out later that she'd gotten free enrollment from one of the doofus owners of the school, who was trying to get into her pants.) This was back in like 2001 or something. I think she was about 19 at that time, although from her level of composure and maturity you probably would have judged her about 25 or so.
Her English was pretty good already; she'd studied it in school and university and practiced it frequently on the many foreign holidays that she went on. (Her parents were pretty rich.)
I ran into her one night at a nighclub -- one of the two nightclubs in town, at that time -- and she'd just gotten back from Cuba and was tanned and rosy looking, hair sun-streaked, very appealing indeed in the middle of a Russian winter. She came up to me and started talking and I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen from the look in her eye.
She unleashed her breasts on me. I couldn't seem to find anywhere to stand where they weren't pressing against me. Although of course I didn't want to.
Soon we were making out in a corner, and then we were at my place.
I remember, as we maade out and undressed, her saying something about how she'd been having dreams about me and couldn't believe she'd finally gotten her dream man. I thought that was laying it on a bit thick. . .
I think it was about ten minutes into it I realized I was seriously outclassed. Everything I could imagine, she seemed to be an expert at. Things that I'd fantasized about seemed to be yesterday's news to her.
Not to say she didn't enjoy it.
Afterwards -- I felt like people who've been attacked by a vampire must feel. Not one of those wussy TWILIGHT vampires either, a real old-fashioned hardcore Nosferatu. Simultaneously drained, defeated, and contaminated.
At the time I confused this feeling for guilt. Taking advantage of innocent students! Shame on you, English Teacher X!
She started inviting me out all the time, and introduced me to some of her English and foreigner- loving acquaintances. I introduced her to some of my English groupies, and they all got along famously.
At that time there was only one other male English teacher in town; we had started hanging out with an African student who was a really fun guy, also, so I can probably say we were having the best parties in town.
She kept throwing herself at me, but I wasn't having it.
"Why don't you like me?" she would say, attempting to smash me with her breasts.
"You were a student," I would say helplessly.
"I'm not your student now!"
"You only like me because I'm a foreigner," I said, equally helplessly.
But she kept at it, over the course of a couple of weeks, and had almost won me over -- when the following happened.
We were at the a crowded club, dancing and having a good time, she and I and one of her female friends. I didn't quite understand what was going on when this short, fat guy in a suit appeared, and J left with him.
"Was that her father?" I asked J's friend.
The friend laughed. She considered what she was going to say. "That was her sponsor."
She explained to me that the idea of a rich, married older man, who supported a younger girl financially, while fucking her, was so common that the word "sponsor" had been co-opted to refer to it.
That was the first time I'd been exposed to this.
"Jesus Christ," I said. "What the fuck, her parents are rich!"
"That's why her parents want her to find a rich guy," she said.
This logic took me a little while to absorb, but I can now see that perspective clearly. Parents in the 90's knew that survival equalled money, and given the lack of opportunities for women, drummed that message into their little girls. Her mother had grown up in the far north in Arcangelsk, where the average life expectancy was bout 40 and people tended to lose their teeth from vitamin deficiency.
So my attempts at cynicism turned out to be correct!
Soon after that, we had a party at J's place -- it hit about a 7 on the debauchery scale, with a lot of drunken making out and dirty dancing. J was a competition ballroom dancer and knew a lot of hot chicks, although a lot of them didn't speak any English and were (sensibly) more interested in the local rich guys than the foreigners.
(Just for reference -- 8 on the debauchery scales equals girls dancing in their underwear, 9 equals orgy, and 10 equals a Satanic ritual sacrifice.)
J's rich guy arrived, and I found out she'd told him that she was out of town that weekend. But he'd come by to make sure she wasn't lying. She (and the African student) went into the kitchen to mollify him while he cried like a lovesick 14-year-old.
As I began to understand more about the situation, the more I pitied this rich guy. He wasn't rich in the sense of private planes and Bentleys -- he was rich in the sense that he owned his own apartment, owned a car, and could afford foreign holidays, which in Russia at that time made you pretty fucking rich. He had a wife and three kids and wasn't even forty yet, though he looked older. (I was 32 at that time.)
In bed that night with J -- the car we were driving had failed to start because of the cold, so we all slept there -- we had a long discussion about life and the rich guy. She said that she'd tried to break up with him but he wouldn't hear of it; she was his only friend in the lonely and violent world of rich guys. (I gathered that the guy's business was mostly laundering money for gangsters and corrupt politicians, but I don't know in any great detail.)
So here something unusual happened; I found I easily became friends with girls in the lonely world of sponsored, foreigner-hungry Russian chicks, largely because I allowed them a space to talk about these forbidden topics. More than once I was told by Russian girls (of this type) that it was practically impossible to have real friends, as all other girls were just competition.
She was a fixture of the group over the years, as we hit the clubs and had our little international parties. Her sociopathic greed shone through in many of the things she said and did but in fact she was one of the kindest and most reliable of people. She was always sunny, pleasant, friendly, didn't smoke or use bad language. If I needed something, I knew I could ask her and she would help me out with it, and if she said she was going to show up somewhere, she showed up.
(One reason I had so many girlfriends in general was that they were all so fucking unrealiable -- to get two girls to show up somewhere, you had to invite six.)
She continued to try to find an easy way out of Russa in the form of a properly wealthy foreigner; she came back engaged, practically every time she went on holiday. There was some Irish guy she met in Cyprus.
"The ring he bought me was nice, but I'm not sure . . .he just works in a factory, he makes a good salary but he's not ambitious."
She dated the son of one of the richest guys in town for a while; but quickly determined with her horse-trader's eye that he was drunk all the time and not very serious.
She had this little dork of a student kid she was going out with for a while. We were all mystified by it until she explained it to us.
"He's a medical student but his parents are living in Sweden now. When he finishes school he could go over there and work, and I think his standard of living will be very high. I'll have to fix him up a little first, his teeth need to be fixed for example."
"That's the most shockingly cynical thing I think I've ever heard anyone say," I said mildly. I'd become pretty innured to comments that would have driven me insane a few years previously.
Finally, however, she realized that Russia was changing for good; being a sponsored girl wasn't going to cut it anymore, especially as she got older. And she realized that she was much smarter than most of these assholes she was trying to make a living off of. In 2005, she took off to Moscow and started working in the field of -- what else? -- event management, throwing glitzy weddings and corporate parties.
I saw her once before I left Vodkaberg in 2009. She'd had a steady boyfriend for most of the last few years, she said, and she lived with him and was faithful to him.
"But he's not rich. . . what's the catch?"
"There's no catch! Why do you always think such horrible things about me. . ."
I smiled. "You're not horrible, exactly, it's just your nature. . ."
Eventually she revealed he was a graphic designer and thus when she took event management gigs, she could hire him to do the advertising and thus maximize the income of their little household.
And they all lived happily ever after!
(More stories about Russian girls, with 75 percent more tits, coming in the memoir VODKABERG. Which should be available before the summer.)