Excerpts translated from Russian by Emil (Mika) Tubinshlak

Dedicated to A. V.
as well as to Mac the computer,
without whom I would have had neither
the time nor the patience to create this novel.

Boris to Sergei

Hi Serge!
How are things back in the good old Screw SSR? Not a letter, not a smidgeon of a word from you. As for me, I am talking to you as if nothing were wrong, trusting this letter to make its sluggish way to you somehow, even though I have run so far away from Russia that it is now in the West.
Tonight is my letter night Ð I love writing letters. No one can accuse me of selfish passion for receiving letters Ð I am always ready to reply a hundredfold. For me, there is no greater joy than to have a written conversation with you, as long as this is our only way of communicating.
Due to my present circumstances and age, women are becoming less easy to come by. At work, where the telephone and the men are my only company, there is no chance of my becoming a Don Juan; all I can do is be quiet like the Don* without any Juan. Or better yet, instead of Don Juan, a John (which is the same darn thing as Juan in English) Donne Ð the poet that is.
At night, all that remains is the public loneliness of the pubs, the theaters with nothing but sluts on the stage, the movies, the stores Ð have I left anything out? Ð oh yes, the visits I have no one to pay to. In the theater, everyone struts around in couples, and even if you do see a single girl, she is usually ugly as sin, and even if she is not so bad, the intermission is too short to get any action going. In the pubs, itÕs pitch dark. You pick up some broad, she seems all right as long as you canÕt see a thing, but as soon as you take the broad outside, into the broad daylight so to say, she will scare the living daylights out of you.
I am left facing the existential questions: ÒWhat should I do? And who should I do it with?Ó
And so I came up with the idea of placing what you might call a matrimonial ad in a Russian paper. Why a Russian one? For the simple reason that I felt like finding a Russian broad. One that speaks a normal language (normal for me, that is) for a change. Even if she starts to put on airs, I can always tell her to go screw herself in my beloved Russian tongue, without having to rummage for English cuss words in my hopelessly meager vocabulary until my anger has passed and I feel like laughing instead.
Everything else aside, the local chicks are totally fucked up. That is to say, they have a good fuck, and then spend the rest of their lives agonizing over the fact that men only want them for their bodies. Well, let them have it (and be had) their way.
I have looked through the personals in the newspaper, and all of them make much of Òserious intentionsÓ Ð and as we know, the road to hell is paved with serious (matrimonial) intentions. Besides those, there is a more frank version of the ad, which usually sums up an illiterate and unconscious plea for a fuck: ÒMy goal is marriageÓ.
To make a long story short, I wrote the following ad and sent if off with a check:

A male, slim, with a manly face, with smarts and money to spend, knowledgeable and sensitive, is dreaming of a young woman, slim without dieting, attractive without makeup, with an affectionate and intelligent disposition, who loves children and the Russian language.

Two weeks later, the check comes back with a letter:

ÒMr. So-and-so, unfortunately we are unable to run your ad. A personal ad must be simple.Ó Signed by an assistant editor. The signature, predictably, is illegible.
What does it mean, unable? I am the one who is paying. WhatÕs my ad going to do Ð break their printing press? And what is ÒsimpleÓ supposed to mean? Simplistic?
I call the editor. The secretary starts in with questions: Who? And what? And why? Finally I break through. An old manÕs voice materializes on the other end. I explain. The editor croaks in an otherworldly voice (he must have one foot in the grave already):
ÒOh yes, I remember your ad. See here, young man, we only publish simple ads. If, for example, you had written ÔAn attractive gentleman is seeking a charming lady, for the purpose of marriageÕ, we would have published it.Ó
I am about to tell him to go take a flying fuck Ð but then I have a change of heart. The senile old fool might just take me literally, and instead of having a bang, roll off the broad and bang himself on the head Ð and I will be held responsible. So all I say is, ÒI do not set myself such lofty matrimonial objectives! My goals are much simpler.Ó
To which he replies in this venomous tone of voice:
ÒWell, I do beg your pardon, but we only publish matrimonial ads. Have a good day.Ó
Then he hangs up.
What could I do from a distance; I couldnÕt even spit him in the eye. I ended up sending my ad to another newspaper, though one with a smaller circulation Ð and those guys published it in a flash, and didnÕt even choke. So now I am sitting and waiting for the fish to bite Ð I am sure you will appreciate the full significance of the fishing image. Come fishes large and small Ð and quickly too.
Well, take care of yourself. I will write again soon. What about you? Have you taken a vow of silence? No, I know you havenÕt, but maybe you should find a courier for your letters Ð this will serve the purpose of bypassing the Soviet postal service.
I am sad without you, and without your letters itÕs even worse.
Yours,
Boris.

ÉBoris to Sergei

É And now for a more serious reply, at least because the chick looks kind of cute in the attached mug-shot, despite the scowling expression:

Hello,
I have read your ad. So you are a person possessing exceptional and countless virtues, the most important of which is intelligence.
Well, I too wasnÕt born yesterday. Although I also have numerous virtues, I do not like to engage in self-publicity. I am a slim woman, pretty even with no makeup on. I am particularly charming in the morning, with my mop of hair all tousled from sleep.
My given name is Zoya, recently nicknamed Ginger by my dear friends.
I adore children, my own family which stayed behind in Russia. But most of all I adore myself Ð indeed, how can I help loving myself? I have done extremely well since I came, all alone, to this huge but at first alien country.
I have completed my post-graduate studies, and am currently teaching biology at a college.
If you feel like getting together, you are welcome to call me any time.
Respectfully,
Zoya.

É Our conversation with Zoya was businesslike. Her voice sounded pompous and fake. As we talked, I kept looking at her photo, trying to imagine her moving her lips.
I dragged out the conversation, fighting the urge to fling the receiver down Ð instead of which I flung the sentence ÒWhy donÕt you come for a visitÓ, just to hear her beating around the bush, which would give me an excuse to say ÒWell, have it your way, goodbye.Ó What happened, though, is that as soon as she heard my invitation, she said in a serious tone of voice, ÒAll right, I can come.Ó Holy fuck, I thought to myself, the broad is really hard up for it, I guess she really has not had a fuck, holy or otherwise, for quite a while. She has not even laid eyes on me, and already she is eager to come flying on the wings of lust.
I thought that if she paid for the plane ticket, I might as well get a free ride. Still, I delicately hinted to the effect that she must be a brave woman to be willing to take the risk and fly out to meet a total stranger, someone who might turn out to be some kind of a midget, with a mug that would stop a clock. And then she comes out with the following words of wisdom: ÒIf a man is slightly more good-looking than an ape, he is handsome enough.Ó
Well now, I thought to myself, we certainly have a brainy one here. You may have mated to the top, little lady, but a rocket scientist you are not.
Still, as the saying goes, you donÕt look a gift whore in the mouth.
She said she would call back in a week to give me her arrival date. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that she is serious about coming and paying for her own ticket, without even seeing my photo. She will probably call back to cancel, or start making up excuses. I asked her if she was really as beautiful as she looks in the photo. As proof, she told me that men stop to look at her.
I will just have to take her word for it. Meanwhile, I was visited by the following thought. The fact that men, when they see a passing beauty, turn to look is a remarkable phenomenon. After all, this looking back holds no hope for reciprocity, for making contact or drawing the womanÕs attention. Then again, looking back means saying goodbye to your last opportunity to meet the woman, for she is about to melt in the crowd, and you will never see her again, missing the only chance life has sent your way with this woman. Looking back, see how beautiful she is, how desirable, quickly now, start up a conversation Ð but she is going, as you yourself keep moving away from your vanishing lucky break.
The woman is not aware of your eyes following here Ð unless she has noticed you and sensed your look with her back. In the ordinary run of things, however, she is totally oblivious to any and all of you, let alone your furtive look. And this urge to prolong the miraculous vision Ð for an alluring woman is a miracle Ð is tinged with infinite sorrow and futility.
Like the adage: ÒThe longer the goodbye, the more the tearsÓ. The longer you look at her, your receding miracle, the more desolate the farewell to charms. So it is better either to keep your dignity and stare straight ahead, or to follow her at once and try to get to know her. To stare at the womanÕs back while doing nothing is a demeaning weakness.
I think thatÕs it for today, Sergio. Otherwise all these women writers of mine will make you split your sides with laughter, and split the envelope with the desire to read on.

ÉBoris to Sergei

É And now for my latest amorous news: Zoya actually came! Here is how it happened.
When I spotted her coming out of the intestine leading off the airplane, I immediately said to myself, ÔA piece of shitÕ, as soon as I saw her petulant pinched face Ð and a faded one to boot. True, her body was long and slim. The photograph Ð where she is perky, brightly made-up and smiling Ð was taken from a top angle, to hide her heavy chin, and at half-smile, to conceal the upper gum which, as it turns out, is repulsively bared as soon as she starts grinning. She looks like a regular woman, but when she smiles, out comes a leering monster.
At first, she did not recognize me either. In the picture, I am younger, with a mustache and a mop of hair Ð am awfully playboyish photo. A chick by the name of Kim, who was madly in love with me once, took this picture on her sofa; she could feel that I was about to ditch her, so she wanted to have at least a snapshot of me to show to her friends afterwards Ð look what a hunk I was fucking once Ð and then to play with herself while perusing it. Once, I remember, Kim made a barbeque in her backyard Ð splurged on the most expensive steak and all. I did help her hang the curtains in the house Ð so that she must have been busy making plans about how we would live together, with me a regular man about the house, banging and nailing and sawing and what not. Not fucking likely! Yet she sucked me off with such enthusiasm and gusto, she hung on my every word with such docility, that this cozy setup kept me ensnared for close to a year. Another thing she liked to do was lick my anus Ð and that is extremely rare behavior among the females of the species. She would come best of all with a vibrator, sitting on top of me. Yet what she liked more than orgasms was cuddling, hugging, kissing, things of that sort. I like that too Ð but only with someone I really care for; Kim, however, may have been good for a fuck Ð but as to lengthy caresses, I would not stand for it Ð only my prick would. To be worthy of my love, she even agreed to accompany me to orgies Ð after I had kept pestering her, saying that I craved variety. In fact, I was using her as my ticket to orgies, where single men are not allowed unless accompanied by a broad. At least I never lied to her, never told her I loved her, even though she wanted me to say it Ð my tongue simply refused to obey me Ð once again, unlike my prick. I am fucking you Ð enjoy it; you get to parade me in society once in a while Ð be happy with that.
I talked her into agreeing to look for a couple to have a good time together. I placed an appropriate ad in a newspaper. First I received a photo of a cute bimbo who wished to meet us. She claimed to be married, but that the husband didnÕt mind, on the contrary, he liked her to go out and have a bit of fun. The problem, however, seemed to be that she was a mute, so that the husband had to talk on her behalf. I replied by general delivery (the letter had no return address), sensing a dirty trick. In a week there was another letter: the woman claimed to be all for it, but the husband needed to check us out, and so he proposed that we should meet in a porno movie theater, where he would join us during a showing and check us out right there and then. Of course we caught on right away that there was no mute wife Ð only some guy trying to get a freebie.
There was also another letter, this one with a phone number and a coherent text. Again, it was written by a woman. I called, and a pleasant and rather intelligent sounding voice suggested that the four of us should meet in a cafŽ. I dragged my sweetheart there, and we were joined by a woman in her thirties with a man who kept fidgeting and squirming in his chair, as if his ass was on fire. Lucy (that was the womanÕs name) had dark hair (unlike my Kim, whose hair was light-red), arranged in a somewhat old-fashioned, nun-like style around her head. We talked in a relaxed manner. After a cocktail, Lucy invited us to her house for a dip in the hot-pool. She gave us her address and directions. We followed her closely in our car, so as not get lost. The fidgety gentleman trailed us in his own car. LucyÕs place turned out to be a regular palace. Her basket-case friend was late. ÒMust have gotten lost,Ó was LucyÕs smiling explanation, even though back in the cafŽ she had told us he was an old friend and a frequent visitor.
We made ourselves comfortable. Lucy poured us all a drink. When she was young, she was going to enter a convent. One week before renouncing all earthly desires, Lucy ran into her husband-to-be, who not only relieved her of her virginity but led her by the hand Ð or rather by the leg Ð to an orgasm. The convent went to the devil, and Lucy promptly got hitched.
Her ten-year-old son was already asleep. As for her husband, with whom Lucy had become fed up after a year, they had an arrangement not to interfere with each otherÕs personal lives. They had set up a schedule, where one of them would disappear for the night, while the other was free to do whatever he or she felt like, and to entertain anyone he or she wished. This arrangement had been created for the sake of their son, at the sage advice of a shrink whom they had consulted in a last-ditch attempt to save their crumbling marriage, when they could no longer bear their monogamous lifestyle.
Meanwhile, the squirming friend failed to show up. Lucy proposed not to wait for him and to go into the pool, which was basically a large barrel filled with hot water. It had enough room to stand or sit, but not to lie down Ð but then, that was the whole idea. Lucy led the way by stripping naked, while I, having immediately forgotten my partner, was feasting my eyes on our hostessÕs body, which, though far from ideal, was nevertheless new. Walking down from the patio into the evening chill, we jumped into the steaming barrel, and the heat enveloped us, sheltering our bodies from the cold.
I put my arms around Lucy and kissed her, and she began to roll her tongue in my mouth. My partner (for whom I cared so little I donÕt even feel like mentioning her name) kissed my neck, while Lucy and I were savoring one another. Lucy took hold of my cock and, satisfied with its state of readiness, proposed to move on to her bed. Dripping wet, we rushed for the towels and began to rub each other dry. Feeling that I ought to be grateful to Kim for this adventure, I embraced her and played with her clitoris. Unfortunately, Lucy was either devoid of lesbian tendencies or considered Kim unattractive Ð whatever the case, she was interested only in me. Eventually, Lucy got down on all fours, while I naturally entered her from behind, and felt Kim spreading my buttocks and inserting her tongue into my anus, moving her face back and forth in rhythm with my hips. She knew, though, that when I felt the tidal wave of orgasm coming, I liked to stop moving, to keep still, pressing my cock into the cavity and relishing the contractions, which now flow automatically and require no further movement. Kim had been a good learner, and now she wanted to feel my spasms with her tongue while keeping still, without being pushed by my hips. In that sense at least, she was a good girl, amply making up for all she was lacking with licking.
So much for Kim, the one who had taken the photo that Zoya had pictured me by. Forgive me for all these Òemissions recollected in tranquilityÓ. I hate the sound of the name Zoya. A buzzing, noisy, annoying name, and one that fits her like a glove.
ÒWhy, I almost did not recognize you,Ó she said.
ÒDonÕt be so coy,Ó said I.
And we headed for the parking lot, stopping by the washrooms on the way Ð each one, alas, entering his own: she could not wait. A line of men by the urinals. Suddenly a womanÕs voice came from the loudspeaker in the ceiling, announcing changes in some flight or other. An unexpected and outrageous female invasion into male territory. I yearned for more than just the disembodied voice.
ZoyaÕs luggage consisted of a carry-on bag, so that there was no need to hang around the baggage carousel, watching its revolutions until it began to spew out bags and suitcases.
Zizi spoke in the rasping, contrived voice of a half-witted schoolmarm. I had to fight an overwhelming urge to stuff my cock into her mouth, just to shut her up. I had booked her a room in a motel: I had no wish to have her stay at my place. For all I knew, she could become a nuisance or start playing hard to get Ð and then there would be no getting rid of her. This way at least, if she got too finicky, I could leave her at the motel to wait for the return flight and take a taxi to the airport all on her own.
We came to the motel, and left the bag in the room. Zoya paid another visit to the washroom, while I visualized her baring her cunt, the flowing trickle, tearing off the toilet paper and dabbing, pulling the pantyhose back on, examining herself in the mirror.
I recall how back in Leningrad, I drilled a tiny hole in the bathroom door of my apartment, a hole just big enough to peek inside. I used it to observe my lovers going to the bathroom. There was one who especially turned me on as she washed herself prior to sleeping with me. Having finished her ablutions, she would stick her finger as deep as it went into her vagina, and then smell it with a thoughtful air. I kept wondering why she did that: did she get excited by her own smell, or was it for health reasons, to make sure there were no bad odors indicative of some kind of an inflammation? It was also a trill to observe their washing habits: one washed her pussy with her hand from the front, while another brought her hand from around the backside. At those moments, their faces had such an unaffected expression, quite unlike the mask they put on as they came out, and kept on until the approach of the orgasm, when all masks were naturally dropped, as they interfered with the quickening breath.
Zoya came out of the bathroom. ÒWell, I am ready.Ó
As we left the room, I gave a parting look of regret at the bed, wondering whether I would manage to nail Zoya down with my prick later on.
I took my guest to an Arab restaurant. Not so much because of the belly dancing, but because of its food, which was inexpensive and fairly good. As for the belly dancing, it was a pathetic spectacle. Especially when the dancer shuffled up, gyrating her hips, to your table, expecting you to explode in a fountain of sperm and cough up a large tip. The men jumped at the chance to slip their bills in her panties Ð not too deep, of course, just as far as the elastic. I wondered: what if, in a quick motion, I were to grab her cunt with my hand. She would probably smack me one and start a row. So why the fuck are you wiggling your cunt stark-naked? Still, moral lines must not be crossed, like the Soviet border. I therefore decided to put the money in her hand instead of the panties, so as not to be a part of this eunuchsÕ game. She took the bill and slid it into her panties herself, so the others would see it in its proper place.
Zoya, having satisfied her initial hunger, relaxed into a contented smile, whereupon I produced my favorite question: ÒWell now, what can you tell me about your love life?Ó
Amazing how different chicks react to this question. Some back away, some meet me halfway, while others stay in their numbered seats, Òas per ticketsÓ.
This particular halfwit backed away: ÒI never share things of his nature with people I hardly know.Ó
I pointed out that the best way of getting to know someone is by recounting oneÕs love experiences.
ÒNo,Ó she said, ÒletÕs talk about something else.Ó
ÒAnd what would you like to talk about?Ó
A thoughtful pause, followed by a smile, as if she had hit on brilliant idea. ÒI know: letÕs talk about your love life!Ó
A smart-ass. All right, I told her this and that, the usual things prepared for such occasions.
Afterwards we took a stroll through downtown. She perked up, all smiles and jokes, clasping my arm. Tightly. Telling me what fun she was having. In the car, I clasped her lips in mine. So far so good: her tongue was darting in and out like a snake. By then, it was getting quite late. Back at the motel, she put up a little show Ð goodnight, see you tomorrow, and so on Ð while I fervently protested that the night was still young. In the end, she graciously conceded, adding that it would only be for a little while. ÒI am not ready yet,Ó was the way she phrased her resistance as my hands traveled toward her breast.
ÒShould I keep you in the oven a little longer?Ó I asked. She giggled.
The reason she was not ready, it turned out, was that besides sexual attraction, she had to know that, in addition to my cock, she would be able to obtain other benefits Ð from psychological to financial. A real whore. As a result, I began calling her Zizi Ð and she answered.
The motel room was tiny Ð a bed and a TV set Ð so we sat down, and then reclined, and then lay down, ostensibly to gaze at the TV screen. Sure enough, there was kissing. She languidly suggested we went our different ways until tomorrow morning. Yet all the while her mouth was too busy with mine for convincing speeches. As we know, the key thing is to take the chick before she recovers from the surge of lust. Or, to out it in another way, you must strike while pussy is hot.
Suddenly she got up and announced, ÒI canÕt sleep with my clothes on, I am going to change into my nightie.Ó ÔAbout time,Õ I thought to myself. ÔWomen cannot be blamed for docility, for it is an ingrained feature of their anatomy.Õ While out loud I said that I too was not in the habit of sleeping fully dressed. While she was pottering around in the bathroom, I disrobed and snuggled under the blanket. Zizi emerged wearing a long nightshirt, lay down, and made like she did not notice I was naked, turning her back to me, as if about to go to sleep. I clasped her with my bare hands. I could feel she had kept her bras and panties on Ð why sure, the Maginot Line. If she had taken everything off, she would have had pangs of conscience about being too easy. But now she could tell herself, well, what can a girl do, I had fought to the last, but he just wouldnÕt take no for an answer.
I slipped my hand under the nightie and undid the bra. As I was toying with her nipples, she mustered her last strength to mutter, without turning around, ÒCome on, canÕt we just go to sleep, I am so tired.Ó Sure, I thought, tired of playing hard to get, as I slid my hand up the leg, into her panties, slipping under her buttocks into her sopping wet pussy. Impregnable heights gave way to pregnable depths.
The instant dipped my finger into this narrow well and scooped up the elixir of life, Zoya whirled around and pounced on me, pulling off her panties and nightshirt. Thus it was that I stripped away her clothes to unearth the treasure of her pussy, or putting it in geographic terms, discovered her treasure island of clitoris, vagina and anusÉÓ

ÉZoya to Maria

Hello, my precious! How are you?
I have tried calling you a few times, but you are never home. Nor does Sveta have any idea when youÕll be back. Are you in love or something? Well, today I am off to seeÉ Wait, let me start from the beginning. Once again, I replied to an ad in a Russian newspaper Ð and well, you remember how it was before, they all turned out to be fatheads or old farts. This guy, however, is the best: his name is Boris, he is smart, stimulating, and most importantly, a wonderful lover. I will give you all the details by phone. I have already visited him once, and everything was just prefect. He is so persistent that I did not even manage to put up much of a resistance. I think I am falling in love. He is also a writer, the things he writes are very arousing sexually, too dangerous to read before bed. He gave me all of his books. He is a terrible womanizer, always going on about his sexual exploits. With me, however, itÕs different: he likes me so much he is losing his head, or so he says. He bought me flowers, booked a hotel suit, took me to all kinds of museums and restaurants Ð and frankly, I would have much rather stayed in bed all that time. You know how lonely I have been this whole year.
I need your help. I was reading this crappy newspaper, and noticed a personal ad. The way it sounded, I could swear it was by Boris. While making love to me, he is on the lookout for new broads. I called him up and asked him, ÒDid you write this?Ó No way, he says. Well, I would bet my life that it was him! So here is what I would like you to do: write a letter to the newspaper, as if replying to the ad, and when he writes you back, I will shove the letter in his face. I am enclosing both of his ads Ð the new and the old. See for yourself, the style is identical. Please, donÕt put this off for too long. I would really appreciate it. LetÕs teach this Casanova a lesson he wonÕt forget!
I send you my kisses. LetÕs have a nice long talk real soon.
Yours,
Ginger.

ÉBoris to Sergei

Serge!
In my letters to the broads, I practice the art of persuasion and precision Ð a useful exercise. Letters are wonderful. I write identical words of love, yet receive different pussies.
Zizi has finally realized that I am not going to marry her, and undergone an instant transformation Ð or rather, she has become herself, a domestic servant with a university diploma. She swears like a truck driver, with no inhibitions whatsoever, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She cynically discusses her plans for ensnaring more na•ve males Ð in short, a halfwit if I ever saw one.
There was another letter, from some non-virgin Mary, who sounds a little more intelligent at least. We have talked on the phone a couple of times. She has this breathless kind of voice. Compared to Zizi, she is a regular Einstein Ð though still not AlbertÉ
É God bless the prostitute, who removes quickly and skillfully the sordid barrier erected between man and woman! Once that is done, you can extend and deepen your relationship in the time-honored fashion. With a prostitute, it is love at first sight (only for money), and from then on if you treat her decently, she will give you everything, just like any ÒdecentÓ woman whose seduction may have taken you a week or even a month to accomplish.
The opposite to a woman of Òeasy virtueÓ can only be one of Òhard virtueÓ. The phrase Òeasy virtueÓ suggests a butterfly. The phrase Òhard virtueÓ makes you think of a prison sentence. And doesnÕt the phrase Òhard virtueÓ collapse upon itself by virtue of its own implied sense?
The only thing I want to say to a woman on our first date is ÒGet undressedÓ Ð and then to ram my prick in up to the waist. All a woman is, after all, is a cunt with a human face. Any other topics of conversation can be explored after the first few orgasms.
Poor prostitutes (even the rich ones)! They are persecuted by the unnatural society for their natural behavior. Models who flaunt their flesh are paid for arousing sexual desire, and this is condoned and encouraged by society. Yet prostitutes, who are paid for satisfying sexual desire, are persecuted for doing so. Society encourages the arousal of desire, and thwarts its satisfaction. Unsatisfied members of society are easy to control, for they are slaves to their urges. A satisfied man is free, and thus uncontrollable. SocietyÕs goal is to inhibit the satisfaction of desires, since fucking is a way of escaping societyÕs power, a way of keeping oneÕs private and public lives separate. Society only serves a three-course meal (love, family, children) Ð ignoring the multitude of starving people whose only wish is for a piece of plain bread (a cunt). And if a hungry man grabs this piece and wolves it down, he is upbraided and stigmatized by society: why didnÕt you wait for your dinner? The dinner, meanwhile, is not even cooked but merely painted in garish colors on billboards.
One way of grappling with desires is by ignoring them rather than satisfying them Ð and that is called stoicism; or, conversely, by fervently satisfying them, dedicating oneÕs entire life to this Ð and that is hedonism. Yet society does not tolerate extremes, and is only prepared, from time to time, to satisfy certain desires, to be paid for with life. And when society is exposed at this vile game, it gets off by means of sexual demagoguery. The buying of a prostitute is a way of using money to protest societyÕs intervention in your freedom of love. Indulging in mutual lust is the same protest through the use of honesty. Love, by the way, is a means of fornicating free of charge Ð at least in the beginning.
The older I get, the more I love prostitutes. What is an aging man supposed to do when he wants to have a young woman, other than buy her? So that prostitution is loveÕs final mercy where old men are concerned. Prostitutes are a means of ensuring the basic standard of loving in society.
Many men, when they are with a prostitute, try to go beyond the limits of sex, to become a parody of adoring lovers. This is quite natural, since men view intercourse as the true start of a relationship, coming as it does after an artificially dragged out introduction, without which a Òdecent womanÓ will not get down to fucking.
On the other hand, a woman who has sold this crucial introduction for money is certainly not expected to feel any emotions. While she is getting laid, she is busy looking around for the next client, one with a fat wallet rather than dick.
The same way I disapprove of those women who turn to prostitution under the pressure of a pimp rather than of their own free will, I also disapprove of women who become virtuous wives only under the pressure of society. On further though, however, I check this initial reaction, telling myself that my disapproval should be turned against the pimps and the society, for the weak cannot be blamed for being ordered around by the strong.
The other day I watched this old movie, though one that is ever popular with the American viewers, called ÒGentlemen Prefer BlondesÓ. The plot is quite remarkable. A pair of girlfriends demonstrate two opposite approaches to life: the brunette is looking for true love and cares nothing for money, while the blonde is only after money, preferably in the form of diamonds. Throughout the movie, the blonde goes after any wealthy moron or old man willing to be relieved of his money. In the movie, she gets what she wants in exchange for innocent flirting, or at most a dry kiss. The blondeÕs men- and money-hunting schemes eventually pay off, as she triumphantly marries a rich imbecile.
The dangerous power of suggestion wielded by art lies in its ability to seduce people into accepting the reality of what is taking place in the non-real realm of art. People believe that it is possible to make men part with their diamonds, exploiting their inborn stupidity while keeping your innocence completely intact, like the movieÕs heroine. They believe that a beautiful fortune-hunter can attain her fortune without spreading her legs. In reality, the movie is all about a hooker that is never called by her real name, but rather made fun of, and in this way the prostitute become socially acceptable and even indulgently encouraged.
Leaving the movie theater, the still chuckling members of the audience stare in outrage at the women standing at the street corner, for lingering deep in their heart is the secret dream of ÒinnocentÓ, money-less prostitution, which is legitimately realized in landing a rich husband.
The blonde is played by Marilyn Monroe (remember her?), who, according to the recollections of someone or other, was frigid. In other words, AmericaÕs sex symbol was a frigid woman who is remembered from this movie as an image of a latent prostitute. And a sex symbol is a woman who causes every man to want her, in other words, the ideal super-prostitute capable of pleasuring, on the level of make-believe, the countryÕs entire male population.
Interestingly enough, Marilyn MonroeÕs sexy blondness was also a fiction, since her real hair was a different color. So the current American obsession with blondes is also based on a lie. Blondes, as opposed to women with dark hair, have long stood for innocence and purity. It is quite instructive, therefore, that nowadays ÒblondenessÓ has actually become the object of increased sexual demand.
Speaking of hair Ð which, being insensitive itself, covers the most sensitive areas on the womanÕs body Ð the battle women wage against their hair is fascinating. Could it be that women take such care to shave their armpits Ð and in America, legs as well Ð to make their pubic hair stand out more prominently on the hairless body? Or perhaps, by destroying the visible body hair, women wish to erase any reminder of the hidden pubic hair. After all, if women were at war with hair as such, they would shave their pubis as well. Yet they only shave off the hair that is visible to others. In womenÕs thinking, the hair on their heads is so far removed from the pubis that men do not associate it with pubic hair.
I have to tell you that all this is very typical of the status assigned to sex in the US. America is a young county with a young culture borrowed from the rest of the world, whose key element is the culture of love. Prostitution is an organic part of any culture, with its own traditions, customs and art. Here, this part has been ruthlessly severed from the main body of culture, since America has the strictest laws against pornography and prostitution, with prostitutes officially barred from entering the country. As a result, it prevents the inflow of competent, professional women well versed in the art of lovemaking. The local experts, on the other hand, are forced to reinvent the wheel, since urges cannot be denied. This is all done in an amateurish, crude, vulgar manner, covering ground that other countries have left behind thousands of years ago. We only have to compare the sex-shops in America and in Europe. In America, they are filthy both in the literal and the figurative senses. The customers are exclusively males with a depraved expression on their faces, while the salesmen look like scumbags, or in the best case like cheap hoodlums. In Europe, a pornographic shop is a feast for the fantasy of men and women alike, where you see lovely women standing at the counter side by side with respectable looking menÉ

ÉZoya to Maria

Maria, you are a real bitch!
Borya has told me everything. He tells me everything about his bimbos and pokes fun at them. So instead of forwarding his letter to me, you have taken up with him, all the while lying to me about having your letter answered by someone else. What a whore! I want nothing to do with you, do you hear? Some friend. A first-class whore, thatÕs what you are. Did you think he was going to marry you? DonÕt make me laugh. Borya is about to marry an American chick, I am getting married as well, and all you are going to be left with is an empty cunt.
Farewell.
Zoya.

ÉBoris to Sergei

Serge, you better sit down before you read the rest.
I am divorcing Karen.
Things accumulated bit by bit, until finally it all became too much to bear. ItÕs hard to explain in words, long-distance, and in a brief letter. In a nutshell, here is what happened. The beaming smiles she displays in her photos are only an insignificant part of what she really is, a pose she assumes for the camera, for the outside observer. In reality, she is a deeply unhappy and unfulfilled personÉ
You must be wondering how I could have been so blind. The facts were plain to see, but my love-befuddled mind interpreted them in a pathologically positive light. Love not only made me blind, it made me believe in the impossible. When I am sober, I see and speak the truth, I have a clear vision of my dream. As soon as I fall in love, I make the vilest compromises, doing my best to rationalize or ignore them. If love means betrayal of dreams, lovelessness is the only honorable state of beingÉ
By the way, the day after Karen and I separated, I began to call up my old chicks. One of them, Maria (remember that one?), was available. Yet the very first lay after my fast with Karen was the sweetest piece of all. I picked her up in the library, and she turned out to be as hungry as I wasÉ. ÒGod, I missed you so much,Ó I muttered as a kissed her pussy.
ÒHow can you miss me what we have only met today?Ó came the voice from above.
ÒI am not talking to you, I am talking to the pussy you own,Ó I replied, raising my head.
The chick was naturally offended Ð like the majority of pussy-owners, she was a dope.
Still, the experience made me realize down to the very core of my being that only a lover can be a great fuck Ð all you get with a wife is little fucklings.
What glorious freedom lies hidden in the profusion of pussy!
É Boris to Sergei
You write that the words ÒprickÓ and ÒcuntÓ are obscene, and that consequently any attempt to put them to use is supposedly doomed to failure. Moreover, you suggest coining new words to label these concepts, offering the example of Nabokov with his ÒscepterÓ.
Essentially, ÒcuntÓ sounds just as abstract as Òwild roseÓ. Neither of these words is capable of describing anything; it merely nudges the imagination in a certain direction, one with greater, the other with lesser force.
There is a joke. These inmates have been sitting in prison for years; they have told and retold all the jokes, which they now know by heart. So instead of telling the same stale jokes all over again, the inmates have numbered them, and all one has to do is call out the number, and the others start laughing.
The same with the word ÒcuntÓ. It is like a number referring to a widely known concept, and by naming this word you immediately call up the desired image.
What distinguishes the word ÒcuntÓ from Òwild roseÓ is that ÒcuntÓ has no pretension to some secondary meaning, to being something it is not, but points at the cunt pointblank. The ÒdecentÓ society forbids the use of such explicit words. Ambiguity always leaves a path of retreat, while explicitness forces one to take direct action that may prove inappropriate at the moment.
All this resembles diplomatic negotiations between enemies, conducted through intermediaries. Here the enemies are manÕs mind and his genitals. The mind is prepared to publicly acknowledge the existence of the genitals and their demands, but only through intermediaries Ð to wit, words, and the kind of words that make no direct reference to the other side. Humans do their best to play down the existence of the conflict. Thus the negotiations, which are always conducted in ambivalent terms, can always be presented as having nothing to do with the genitals.
If, however, the intermediaries are removed, the enemies must either make peace through sexual intercourse Ð thereby offending Christian morality Ð or the mind and the genitals must declare war on each other, to ChristianityÕs joy.
The mind gains control over the various body parts, but there comes a moment when they betray the mind and go over to the side of the genitals. The hands defy the genitals, writing articles against pornography, and yet those same hands secretly engage in masturbation. The mouth screams blue murder about the evils of pornography, and immediately thereafter proceeds to give a blowjobÉ
É Pornography represents the most graphic manifestation of the universal human yearning for the availability and variety of beautiful partners, the never-ending potency for men, and endless orgasms for women. Moreover, pornography makes you realize the dream of being free of shame, free of guilt, as well as free of venereal diseases. Yet when the dream is gone, reality ceases to exist. Thus the struggle against the dream is ultimately the struggle against reality.
What it all boils down to is that the enemies of pornography are largely sexually frustrated human beings, who are trying to ÒimproveÓ their sex life by totally denying it, not only for themselves but for others as well, because it is only when it is unavailable to others that their denial of their own sex life becomes complete. Unhappy people plant their unhappiness among the happy, under the pretext of saving them from sin, which the ÒsaviorsÓ themselves would love to commit if only they could. The unhappy ones strive to make their unhappiness the norm, and thereby to become normal.
The things alleged to be normal by morality Ð namely honesty, loyalty, kindness, tolerance towards others Ð all of these are so rare that they cannot be viewed as normal by any stretch of imagination. The demands of morality are abnormal, and that is what makes them so hard to meet. To be moral is tantamount to having no arms and legs, and certainly no genitals, while insisting that this is a natural human condition. We believe that a healthy state is normal, whereas a diseased state is abnormal. In fact, the opposite is true. The state of health means keeping the human dimensions within rigid limits, while the state of sickness is any escape beyond these limits, and being outside these limits is infinitely more diverse in quantity and quality than being confined to the cell of the imperative. Hence disease is a natural state, whereas health is unnatural.
One of the numerous good deeds performed by pornography is teaching sexual technique, which would proceed at a dismally slow pace without it. Yet here too one has to use his head. Can pornography be blamed for being misused? Can the hammer be blamed if you miss the nail and hit your finger instead?
Some pea-brained woman researcher interviewed several women to find out whether their men had ever made them engage in unusual sexual behavior after watching a pornographic movie. True enough, some guy had made his girlfriend suck his dick, which she had found very unappealing. Another one had turned his chick around and tormented her anus, fantasizing about the action on the screen. All those women denounced pornography for giving their partners these lewd, disgusting ideas. From all this, the researcher draws the meaningful conclusion that pornography has a bad influence on people. However, all this conclusion demonstrates is the brainlessness of the researcher and the ignorance of her subjects. What caused the misunderstanding is that the men did not know how to perform oral and anal sex in a way that would give pleasure to their partners. The lovers of the women interviewed simply had no lovemaking skills; they had no idea how to handle their woman in a way that would gratify her as well. The men, aroused by the movie, attempted to selfishly recreate things that are actually the opposite of selfishness.
If this kind of study leads to the conclusion that pornography corrupts the mind, then we should feel equally outraged by the Òcorrupting influenceÓ of the lives of the rich and famous shown on our TV screens. A man, after watching these opulent lifestyles, is bound to go out and rob a bank so he could have the same. Does this mean that films about the rich should be banned, and that being rich is immoral? Not at all Ð the viewer must be taught that in order to get rich, he should get off his ass and use his god-given brains. That is why along with TV shows about wealth, there are also programs that tell you how to go about obtaining this wealth. The same with pornography: its images not only depict scenes of sexual gratification, but also show the ways to bring it about.
There is no doubt that pornography is rife with poor taste and mediocrity to the same extent as any other literary or artistic genre. Yet pornography is a truly pure art, unblemished by social, moral or political concerns. Its sole subject matter is supreme enjoyment, and it bars reality from invading the land of dreams.
Pornography, the same as tragedy, culminates in catharsis. There were experiments in which jailed rapists were shown films depicting copulation by consent. It was discovered that these films diverted their thoughts away from violence, channeling them towards sex based on love; in other words, their anger at society dissipated!
Other studies reveal that many women use pornography as an aid to reaching orgasm.
Could it be that the reason women object to pornography is that it excites them against their will, that it contains an element of violence, in other words, that they feel manipulated, and no flirting or resistance will be of any help.
Images of lovemaking can have a damaging effect only when they are used in a provocative, teasing manner.
If hungry people were brought to a movie theater and shown a film depicting the preparation of dainty dishes, there would be a riot. This should justify placing a ban on culinary movies, instead of feeding the hungry.
So if pornography drives starving people to crime, the fault lies not with pornography but with the society that is starving those people.
All the fears about the danger of pornography, which allegedly prompts people to commit rape, will vanish as soon as this constant hunger is assuaged. But that is precisely what society does not want to happen. In the labor camps, according to Solzhenitsyn, the only way to assure obedience was by feeding the men just enough to keep them barely alive. If a guard gave in to pity and issued more food, the convicts would cease to obey.
The convicts, on their part, had a protective mechanism forbidding any mention of food, which would only sap their remaining strength and drive people to acts of despair.
Something similar happens in society when it bans pornography: instead of feeding people by means of coition, they are kept hungry, or at best issued a marriage ÒrationÓ. This way, society can manipulate its members. Pornography, however, is capable of causing the desperate people to erupt in a riot of violent rape.
The state tries to suppress desire instead of satisfying it, the way the inmates of Nazi camps were issued hunger-suppressing chewing gum instead of food.
Millions of people throughout the world are starving and dying of starvation. Millions are starving for the joy of sexual intercourse, and their hunger eventually kills their healthy attitude to sexÉ
É And here is my prescription for restoring pornography to its rightful place. The opponents of pornography are sick people who should be treated through sexual intercourse. Each patient should be publicly brought to an orgasm, with the audience reacting with cheers and gifts. Those who have just experienced on orgasm will choose a permanent partner, who will ensure the regular recurrence of sexual climax. Like is used to treat like; fire is fought with fire. It is then that the Christian motto of Òlove they enemyÓ will finally find it ideal realization, in punishing those who oppose lovemaking by forcing them to experience sexual pleasure with young, beautiful and skilled partners, so that they would no longer have any reason to fight against sex, but rather strive to experience it over and over again. Thus, by making love with those who oppose copulation, the ÒexecutionerÓ will literally ÒloveÓ his ÒenemyÓÉ

* The reference is to Mikhail SholokhovÕs novel And Quietly Flows the Don (Tikhiy Don).