Thursday, August 24, 2006
Your Friends All Look Like Faggots
Yulia came over to my place at night and we sat around smoking cigarettes, drinking tea. In the kitchen, I tried to interest her in the view from the window of the stars and the moon. I showed her my map of the constellations and tried to point out in the sky some of those which were visible. But she didn’t seem too interested. I wasn’t too offended; my fascination with the stars and the night time sky was one that developed over never being able to see the stars over New York and then sitting many solitary nights in Tashkent.
Yulia preferred to sit in the living room and watch the Nickelodeon children’s programming dubbed into Russian. Like a typical Russian household, she liked to have the TV constantly on. We’d sit on Uzbek style cushions on the floor and drink tea, smoke, sometimes have sex on them, “just like Uzbeks,” she would joke.
“But you’re not Uzbek,” I’d point out. “You’re Russian.”
“Yes,” she would say coyly, “But I’m a citizen of Uzbekistan.”
Once after a round of sex on the floor, we lay on the cushions and she pulled over the photo album that lay on my coffee table. She leafed through the pages, asking for explanations of the photographs. I showed her my sisters who Yulia thought were beautiful, “for American girls,” she qualified that, very typical of the women here, as they generally didn’t think much of American girls -- they saw them as plain or fat. She said that my brother, who was dark, looked like an Uzbek. As she leafed through the pictures of my friends, most of which, coincidentally, were gay, she said, “all of your friends look like faggots.”
I was a little uncomfortable with the statement and didn’t really know how to react. It was true that almost all of them were gay. “That’s the way people look in New York,” I said, thinking how would she know? She had never been there. She had never even been to Europe.
I closed the photo album before we finished going through it in its entirety and put it back on the table. we lay there in silence for a moment on the floor, as I stroked her blonde hair from which the brown roots were beginning to show, and ran a hand down from her lips to her crotch, giving her a slight shiver, and starting to grind against her, my passion starting up again. She turned to me all her cold, hardness having melted away and said coyly, “some guys are frightened by the things that I do in bed.”
If most guys were afraid of the things she did in bed, then certainly I would be. I still had a lot to learn about sex with women, and couldn’t imagine myself doing some things, for example, performing cunnilingus. But then she began to suck me off slowly, gently. Too gently, actually -- my mind began to wander a bit and I thought of how they say that men suck better than women, and how there was some truth to it, thinking of some of my friends in the photographs from New York. So I pulled out my dick from her mouth picked her up from the floor, held her against the wall, lifted her up and entered her and fucked for as long as my strength would let me hold her up. Then, I carried her over to the bed, finally ending up in the way we always did, with her on top of me, without a condom, with me pulling out before I would come and then ejaculating all over us. It felt dangerous and exciting and wonderful when we finally came and it was nothing that frightened me at all. ¶ 4:11 AM
Yulia came over to my place at night and we sat around smoking cigarettes, drinking tea. In the kitchen, I tried to interest her in the view from the window of the stars and the moon. I showed her my map of the constellations and tried to point out in the sky some of those which were visible. But she didn’t seem too interested. I wasn’t too offended; my fascination with the stars and the night time sky was one that developed over never being able to see the stars over New York and then sitting many solitary nights in Tashkent.
Yulia preferred to sit in the living room and watch the Nickelodeon children’s programming dubbed into Russian. Like a typical Russian household, she liked to have the TV constantly on. We’d sit on Uzbek style cushions on the floor and drink tea, smoke, sometimes have sex on them, “just like Uzbeks,” she would joke.
“But you’re not Uzbek,” I’d point out. “You’re Russian.”
“Yes,” she would say coyly, “But I’m a citizen of Uzbekistan.”
Once after a round of sex on the floor, we lay on the cushions and she pulled over the photo album that lay on my coffee table. She leafed through the pages, asking for explanations of the photographs. I showed her my sisters who Yulia thought were beautiful, “for American girls,” she qualified that, very typical of the women here, as they generally didn’t think much of American girls -- they saw them as plain or fat. She said that my brother, who was dark, looked like an Uzbek. As she leafed through the pictures of my friends, most of which, coincidentally, were gay, she said, “all of your friends look like faggots.”
I was a little uncomfortable with the statement and didn’t really know how to react. It was true that almost all of them were gay. “That’s the way people look in New York,” I said, thinking how would she know? She had never been there. She had never even been to Europe.
I closed the photo album before we finished going through it in its entirety and put it back on the table. we lay there in silence for a moment on the floor, as I stroked her blonde hair from which the brown roots were beginning to show, and ran a hand down from her lips to her crotch, giving her a slight shiver, and starting to grind against her, my passion starting up again. She turned to me all her cold, hardness having melted away and said coyly, “some guys are frightened by the things that I do in bed.”
If most guys were afraid of the things she did in bed, then certainly I would be. I still had a lot to learn about sex with women, and couldn’t imagine myself doing some things, for example, performing cunnilingus. But then she began to suck me off slowly, gently. Too gently, actually -- my mind began to wander a bit and I thought of how they say that men suck better than women, and how there was some truth to it, thinking of some of my friends in the photographs from New York. So I pulled out my dick from her mouth picked her up from the floor, held her against the wall, lifted her up and entered her and fucked for as long as my strength would let me hold her up. Then, I carried her over to the bed, finally ending up in the way we always did, with her on top of me, without a condom, with me pulling out before I would come and then ejaculating all over us. It felt dangerous and exciting and wonderful when we finally came and it was nothing that frightened me at all. ¶ 4:11 AM
