Uzbekistan Blues
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 0 Comments
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 0 Comments
Some interesting points about expatriates and what they think about foreigners dating local women:
- most foreigners see the local women as very likely looking at you as a ticket out of the country
- foreign women can’t compete with the local women for the American men. And most of them were too old for the local men, who were almost all married by age 23. So, most of them wound up without any prospects for romance or sex in the country and they were pretty bitter about it.
- one rather optimistic foreign woman I met once told me – yes, the foreign men love the local girls, find them attractive, but they come back to us (meaning the foreign women) when they want someone who really understands them.
- unattractive foreign men, are able to meet women here who likely back home woudn’t give them the time of day. They knew this, and were very willing to take advantage of the situation.
As for what gay men did in the country, there was no legend or lore or rules. There had been one gay man who had been murdered in his apartment, apparently not a gay-related murder, but a robbery. And there was an older American man known to have paid for sex and taken young Uzbek men on holiday to Thailand and elsewhere. But, apparently, neither had left much of a legacy in the country, as their goings on were mostly done surreptitiously and kept hush-hush. Certainly, there was never anything in the history about a gay man turning straight in the country, though there were often cases of a foreign guy who everyone suspected was gay, but who went on very chaste dates with Uzbek women. ¶ 4:10 AM 5 Comments
- most foreigners see the local women as very likely looking at you as a ticket out of the country
- foreign women can’t compete with the local women for the American men. And most of them were too old for the local men, who were almost all married by age 23. So, most of them wound up without any prospects for romance or sex in the country and they were pretty bitter about it.
- one rather optimistic foreign woman I met once told me – yes, the foreign men love the local girls, find them attractive, but they come back to us (meaning the foreign women) when they want someone who really understands them.
- unattractive foreign men, are able to meet women here who likely back home woudn’t give them the time of day. They knew this, and were very willing to take advantage of the situation.
As for what gay men did in the country, there was no legend or lore or rules. There had been one gay man who had been murdered in his apartment, apparently not a gay-related murder, but a robbery. And there was an older American man known to have paid for sex and taken young Uzbek men on holiday to Thailand and elsewhere. But, apparently, neither had left much of a legacy in the country, as their goings on were mostly done surreptitiously and kept hush-hush. Certainly, there was never anything in the history about a gay man turning straight in the country, though there were often cases of a foreign guy who everyone suspected was gay, but who went on very chaste dates with Uzbek women. ¶ 4:10 AM 5 Comments
None of that Gay Talk!
Steve offered to drive me home from brunch; he lived not far from where I lived. “We were just kind of shocked,” he said in his heavy Brooklyn accent. “I, for one, always thought you were really gay…I mean, not that you look it, but it seemed that you made it clear that, you know, you knew what you wanted. But I think I know who this girl is – she’s the one with the blonde hair and the great tits…she’s totally hot. And, if she’s like all the other Russian girls, she’s amazing in bed. They’re like monkeys, every night’s like fucking starring in your own porn movie.”
I was a little taken aback with the different way that Steve and later, other expatriate men would relate to me, now that I was embraced by the heterosexual brotherhood. Conversations, I supposed, would be taking on something of a locker-room character. “Also, I love the way they shave their pussies, sometimes in different shapes down there, you know, one girl I know used to do hers in a the shape of a question mark.”
I didn’t know what to say. I said the first thing that came to mind. “Everyone seems to shave here, no? Uzbek men shave their balls.”
Steve had a pained look on his face with that. “No man, please!” He interjected, “can we not talk about balls …we were talking about pussies, I’m not into ball talk. Plus, I’m sure Yulia’s not too thrilled about that.”
“I’m sure Yulia knows about me,” I said. “You know the first time we ever talked, which was at Lucky Strikes, she thought that the guy I was talking with was my boyfriend. And even the night we slept together, earlier that evening, she kept asking me if I liked boys.”
“Well what did you tell her?” Steve asked.
“I dunno Nothing…I just told her that I wanted to be with her.”
“Listen here,” Steve said in a deadpan earnest tone. “I know the local girls here pretty well. They like a gay best friend for girl talk and all, but that’s not who they want to be fucked by – do you understand me?”
“Yeah…”
“You sure?” He stopped the car and looked at me very seriously. Steve wasn’t the smartest guy I knew. Not terribly ambitious, content teaching third grade at the International school for the past five years and getting drunk the rest of the time. But it seemed to me that he had a good point here. I hadn’t been terribly up front with Yulia with the fact that I was a gay man who happened to be sleeping with a woman; she had skirted around that question early on in the beginning, and I had never given her a straight answer. ¶ 4:10 AM 0 Comments
Steve offered to drive me home from brunch; he lived not far from where I lived. “We were just kind of shocked,” he said in his heavy Brooklyn accent. “I, for one, always thought you were really gay…I mean, not that you look it, but it seemed that you made it clear that, you know, you knew what you wanted. But I think I know who this girl is – she’s the one with the blonde hair and the great tits…she’s totally hot. And, if she’s like all the other Russian girls, she’s amazing in bed. They’re like monkeys, every night’s like fucking starring in your own porn movie.”
I was a little taken aback with the different way that Steve and later, other expatriate men would relate to me, now that I was embraced by the heterosexual brotherhood. Conversations, I supposed, would be taking on something of a locker-room character. “Also, I love the way they shave their pussies, sometimes in different shapes down there, you know, one girl I know used to do hers in a the shape of a question mark.”
I didn’t know what to say. I said the first thing that came to mind. “Everyone seems to shave here, no? Uzbek men shave their balls.”
Steve had a pained look on his face with that. “No man, please!” He interjected, “can we not talk about balls …we were talking about pussies, I’m not into ball talk. Plus, I’m sure Yulia’s not too thrilled about that.”
“I’m sure Yulia knows about me,” I said. “You know the first time we ever talked, which was at Lucky Strikes, she thought that the guy I was talking with was my boyfriend. And even the night we slept together, earlier that evening, she kept asking me if I liked boys.”
“Well what did you tell her?” Steve asked.
“I dunno Nothing…I just told her that I wanted to be with her.”
“Listen here,” Steve said in a deadpan earnest tone. “I know the local girls here pretty well. They like a gay best friend for girl talk and all, but that’s not who they want to be fucked by – do you understand me?”
“Yeah…”
“You sure?” He stopped the car and looked at me very seriously. Steve wasn’t the smartest guy I knew. Not terribly ambitious, content teaching third grade at the International school for the past five years and getting drunk the rest of the time. But it seemed to me that he had a good point here. I hadn’t been terribly up front with Yulia with the fact that I was a gay man who happened to be sleeping with a woman; she had skirted around that question early on in the beginning, and I had never given her a straight answer. ¶ 4:10 AM 0 Comments
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Expat Tribunal
That Sunday, I arrived at brunch at the Intercontinental Hotel to meet up with Henrietta without her husband, and a group of other expatriates that we were friendly with. Henrietta just returned from three weeks of home leave in the United States. I was running a bit late, having been up late into the night with Yulia, who was still sleeping in my apartment. Everyone had ordered already and I saw Henrietta nodding her head slowly and incredulously, “it just ain’t right,” she clucked, “it ain’t right.”
It was not my lateness; but that Alan had been blabbing – to some Americans at church that morning and to some folks at an embassy party the night before to which I was invited, but did not show up to. The rumor seemed to have caused a minor sensation among the Tashkent expatriate community, but I hadn’t been aware of it – enjoying my time with Yulia. Finally, in the company of expatriates, I felt like I was facing a tribunal, one albeit, well fueled with mimosas and bloody marys.
“I go away for a few weeks and what happens?” Henrietta said addressing me with mock amusement. “Has all of Tashkent gone mad? What is this that they’re saying about you, dear? Please tell me that it’s not true and just a nasty rumor.”
I squirmed in my seat. “Have you all ordered already?”
“Come on,” chimed in Mary, a lawyer in her mid-30’s who didn’t think much of Uzbekistan or the people or the culture, or the women. “Fess up! It’s true, isn’t it?”
Steve interjected. He was a teacher at the International school who seemed to be in Uzbekistan purely because he was able to score with gorgeous women here -- women who, if they were back in the US, probably wouldn’t even give him the time of day. “It’s cool – come on, cut him some slack. It’s cool,” he patted me on the back. “I just never heard of a guy going from gay to straight.”
“Unless,” Rick said, “that’s your modus operandi, where you play the gay guy -- because the chicks seem to really dig that and use that to get in with them. That’s a pretty smart tactic..”
“You know that she probably sees you as a ticket to ride,” Mary said. “She’s just after a green card.”
Even Henrietta sadly agreed, “or your money.”
“Guys, you don’t even know her, before you start saying things about her.” I said. “And there’s no justice for me on this bloody planet – if I’m gay here, then I have problems…If I’m straight, then I get other problems. There’s no way I can win.”
“We just didn’t think you were bisexual. We thought you were just plain gay.” Mary said. “Very gay.”
“Can we change the subject now?” Steve asked.
“Thank you. Enough of the tribunal” I said. The waiter arrived with everyone’s food and we ate pretty much in silence, making small talk about the quality of the bacon and the omelettes and that the coffee wasn’t very good and how there wasn’t any good coffee in Tashkent. And then at the end of the meal, Henrietta cheekily asked, “so, when are you going to dump her?” ¶ 8:11 AM 0 Comments
That Sunday, I arrived at brunch at the Intercontinental Hotel to meet up with Henrietta without her husband, and a group of other expatriates that we were friendly with. Henrietta just returned from three weeks of home leave in the United States. I was running a bit late, having been up late into the night with Yulia, who was still sleeping in my apartment. Everyone had ordered already and I saw Henrietta nodding her head slowly and incredulously, “it just ain’t right,” she clucked, “it ain’t right.”
It was not my lateness; but that Alan had been blabbing – to some Americans at church that morning and to some folks at an embassy party the night before to which I was invited, but did not show up to. The rumor seemed to have caused a minor sensation among the Tashkent expatriate community, but I hadn’t been aware of it – enjoying my time with Yulia. Finally, in the company of expatriates, I felt like I was facing a tribunal, one albeit, well fueled with mimosas and bloody marys.
“I go away for a few weeks and what happens?” Henrietta said addressing me with mock amusement. “Has all of Tashkent gone mad? What is this that they’re saying about you, dear? Please tell me that it’s not true and just a nasty rumor.”
I squirmed in my seat. “Have you all ordered already?”
“Come on,” chimed in Mary, a lawyer in her mid-30’s who didn’t think much of Uzbekistan or the people or the culture, or the women. “Fess up! It’s true, isn’t it?”
Steve interjected. He was a teacher at the International school who seemed to be in Uzbekistan purely because he was able to score with gorgeous women here -- women who, if they were back in the US, probably wouldn’t even give him the time of day. “It’s cool – come on, cut him some slack. It’s cool,” he patted me on the back. “I just never heard of a guy going from gay to straight.”
“Unless,” Rick said, “that’s your modus operandi, where you play the gay guy -- because the chicks seem to really dig that and use that to get in with them. That’s a pretty smart tactic..”
“You know that she probably sees you as a ticket to ride,” Mary said. “She’s just after a green card.”
Even Henrietta sadly agreed, “or your money.”
“Guys, you don’t even know her, before you start saying things about her.” I said. “And there’s no justice for me on this bloody planet – if I’m gay here, then I have problems…If I’m straight, then I get other problems. There’s no way I can win.”
“We just didn’t think you were bisexual. We thought you were just plain gay.” Mary said. “Very gay.”
“Can we change the subject now?” Steve asked.
“Thank you. Enough of the tribunal” I said. The waiter arrived with everyone’s food and we ate pretty much in silence, making small talk about the quality of the bacon and the omelettes and that the coffee wasn’t very good and how there wasn’t any good coffee in Tashkent. And then at the end of the meal, Henrietta cheekily asked, “so, when are you going to dump her?” ¶ 8:11 AM 0 Comments
Cat’s out of the Bag
I ran into Alan at a press conference the following week. Around us, were a group of US Embassy employees, many of them much older than both of us, and he winked at me knowingly, and nodded his head saying, “Russian girls…there’s really nothing that they can’t do. They never cease to amaze me.” I didn’t know how to respond to the comment that came pretty much apropos of nothing and after which he quickly disappeared. Alan was the gossip hotline to Tashkent’s small community of expatriates, within which, regardless, there was no point in trying to keep a secret. ¶ 8:10 AM 0 Comments
I ran into Alan at a press conference the following week. Around us, were a group of US Embassy employees, many of them much older than both of us, and he winked at me knowingly, and nodded his head saying, “Russian girls…there’s really nothing that they can’t do. They never cease to amaze me.” I didn’t know how to respond to the comment that came pretty much apropos of nothing and after which he quickly disappeared. Alan was the gossip hotline to Tashkent’s small community of expatriates, within which, regardless, there was no point in trying to keep a secret. ¶ 8:10 AM 0 Comments
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
A Real Date
We agreed to meet the next day at the MirBurger, the big Turkish hamburger joint on the main promenade of the city, which was as good a place as any to meet since there wasn’t a large selection of decent eateries in Tashkent. I ran directly from the office, finding her sitting in the back alone at a table deeply into a trashy detective called “My Favorite Bitch.” As always, she was dressed in a pair of jeans and a tight jacket. She looked smart; she had just come from her computer classes at the institute. She didn’t notice as I walked up to her from behind, put my hand on her shoulder, but she did not react with a start. I sat beside her and kissed her on the mouth, excited to be close to her again, and for the first time, out of the context of a bar or of alcohol, without loud music blaring or me intoxicated. Instead, in this most civilized of environment we talked quietly over coffee and cigarettes.
She was taking computer classes several days a week at the institute, studying to become a computer programmer. For now, she told me, she had a little business of her own – the nature of which both amused me and also concerned me slightly -- it was an online dating service helping local girls find foreign husbands; Yulia would translate correspondences for them, assist them with Internet usage, since many of the local girls were not computer literate and would help the men with logistics such as booking flights, coordinating visas, arranging meetings, excursions and even wedding arrangements at the local marriage registry. Russian brides were still a pretty hot commodity on the world market, and Yulia had hooked into a profitable market. Not once or twice, did I witness one of these first face-to-face meetings in the various restaurants, clubs, bars and hotels in Tashkent, where an often not remarkable American man from some provincial town would be with his lovely, barely-English-speaking Natasha trying to make conversation. Sometimes there were men on a mission who would come to meet with several girls while in Tashkent, picking one from the selection to be his bride. Yulia didn’t think much of foreign men. Or of foreign women, for that matter -- which were not like the svelte, beautiful and demure local girls, simply looking for a way to get out of this country with no prospects and into a better life. Marriage was one of the ways out. And each party emerged the winner. But in the back of my head, I wondered what prospects Yulia imagined for herself and I couldn’t help but wonder if she might see me as a ticket out. But I was still too entranced by Yulia to let it worry me too much. Even in public, I couldn’t help but reach across the table to kiss her, hold her small hands, and ask her if she ever thought to set herself up into a foreign marriage.
She had been married once –unofficially, she said. Her parents were killed in an automobile accident when she was 16 and she began seeing an older Azerbaijani man. I said that I was sorry to hear about her parents, but she looked sad for a moment and continued speaking, without much expression of emotion. It was hard for me after that to get this fact out of my head, but I didn’t know how to bring it up again, to ask all the questions I had about her parents’ death and growing up without parents at age 16. I understood a little better why she was so hardened, so tough.
At that point, I saw Alan Lincoln, an American diplomat, walking past the large windows in the MirBurger and doing a double take at us. He was a pleasant enough guy, who I was on familiar terms with, but he was notorious for his big mouth among the expatriate community. He waved at me slowly with a confused look on his face.
“Who was that?” Yulia asked me.
“Just an American guy I know,” I said. I really did have the sense that she didn’t care much for foreigners, but then again, I also sensed that she didn’t care much for anyone, for humanity as a whole. In fact, I was even amazed that she liked me at all, at least enough to be with me, sleep with me, spend time with me. ¶ 12:13 AM 0 Comments
We agreed to meet the next day at the MirBurger, the big Turkish hamburger joint on the main promenade of the city, which was as good a place as any to meet since there wasn’t a large selection of decent eateries in Tashkent. I ran directly from the office, finding her sitting in the back alone at a table deeply into a trashy detective called “My Favorite Bitch.” As always, she was dressed in a pair of jeans and a tight jacket. She looked smart; she had just come from her computer classes at the institute. She didn’t notice as I walked up to her from behind, put my hand on her shoulder, but she did not react with a start. I sat beside her and kissed her on the mouth, excited to be close to her again, and for the first time, out of the context of a bar or of alcohol, without loud music blaring or me intoxicated. Instead, in this most civilized of environment we talked quietly over coffee and cigarettes.
She was taking computer classes several days a week at the institute, studying to become a computer programmer. For now, she told me, she had a little business of her own – the nature of which both amused me and also concerned me slightly -- it was an online dating service helping local girls find foreign husbands; Yulia would translate correspondences for them, assist them with Internet usage, since many of the local girls were not computer literate and would help the men with logistics such as booking flights, coordinating visas, arranging meetings, excursions and even wedding arrangements at the local marriage registry. Russian brides were still a pretty hot commodity on the world market, and Yulia had hooked into a profitable market. Not once or twice, did I witness one of these first face-to-face meetings in the various restaurants, clubs, bars and hotels in Tashkent, where an often not remarkable American man from some provincial town would be with his lovely, barely-English-speaking Natasha trying to make conversation. Sometimes there were men on a mission who would come to meet with several girls while in Tashkent, picking one from the selection to be his bride. Yulia didn’t think much of foreign men. Or of foreign women, for that matter -- which were not like the svelte, beautiful and demure local girls, simply looking for a way to get out of this country with no prospects and into a better life. Marriage was one of the ways out. And each party emerged the winner. But in the back of my head, I wondered what prospects Yulia imagined for herself and I couldn’t help but wonder if she might see me as a ticket out. But I was still too entranced by Yulia to let it worry me too much. Even in public, I couldn’t help but reach across the table to kiss her, hold her small hands, and ask her if she ever thought to set herself up into a foreign marriage.
She had been married once –unofficially, she said. Her parents were killed in an automobile accident when she was 16 and she began seeing an older Azerbaijani man. I said that I was sorry to hear about her parents, but she looked sad for a moment and continued speaking, without much expression of emotion. It was hard for me after that to get this fact out of my head, but I didn’t know how to bring it up again, to ask all the questions I had about her parents’ death and growing up without parents at age 16. I understood a little better why she was so hardened, so tough.
At that point, I saw Alan Lincoln, an American diplomat, walking past the large windows in the MirBurger and doing a double take at us. He was a pleasant enough guy, who I was on familiar terms with, but he was notorious for his big mouth among the expatriate community. He waved at me slowly with a confused look on his face.
“Who was that?” Yulia asked me.
“Just an American guy I know,” I said. I really did have the sense that she didn’t care much for foreigners, but then again, I also sensed that she didn’t care much for anyone, for humanity as a whole. In fact, I was even amazed that she liked me at all, at least enough to be with me, sleep with me, spend time with me. ¶ 12:13 AM 0 Comments
