This issue's Whore-R story is a bit different from the rest. First, I chose my whore from the Internet rather than from the Moscow Times.
I chose this issue's whore, Galina, through omen.ru (I prefer publichouse.ru for its picture-heavy convenience). She wasn't the best looking girl or the youngest, but she was the most voluptuous in my brief search. I've been on a steady diet of heavy pain killers and celibacy for over a week now. Pain killers cancel out celibacy and when you throw in age and general exhaustion, you get a flaccid unit.
The anketa claimed that Galina is "gypersexualnaya," and I was curious to find out what hypersexual means to a lying pimp.
I called the whore's number and ordered her for delivery as if she was a Pepperoni Supreme from Jack's. If you go to her apartment, the price is $50; for delivery, the minimum order is two hours for 2500 rubles.
I met Galina out in front of my podezd, took her upstairs, poured her some Montenegrin wine, and tried coaxing her into talking. She had one of those rough village accents, phrases lipped and words slurred, almost like a train horn or a wildebeest: "Nu chto-zhe!...Nu..." "Rooo! Mroooo!"
She came to Moscow from a village in southeastern Ukraine about six months ago.
"There's no money in Ukraine, nothing at all," she said. "Kuchma made a real mess of it. That's what we're stuck with. If I wanted money I had to get out."
"Couldn't you do anything there?"
"Do what? There's nothing. In the best case, if you run your own business, you can make up to 1000 rubles a month (about $33 dollars). That's if you're successful. There's nothing at all."
She wanted me to talk about California. Village whores want to hear that there's a happy place, a hope. So I told her all about the beaches, the Santa Cruz Mountains, the horses and apricot orchards.
"Have you been with an American before?" I asked her.
"Just yesterday," she laughed shyly. "But he hated Moscow and Russia. All he talked about was how he wanted to leave."
I moved the topic back to Ukraine. "You can't even get health care," she told me. "My brother got into a horrible car accident. Broke his legs in four places, had internal bleeding. One day I go to the hospital to visit him - we went every day - and he's doing worse. I ask the nurse what's wrong. She says, 'We ran out of syringes. We have the medicine but no syringes.' It was blackmail. I had to go buy them all myself downstairs in the hospital apteka. She was ready to let him suffer to make me buy them."
"What if you don't have money and you're in the hospital?"
"They put you aside in a separate ward and let you die."
She said that she hadn't had any bad experiences as a whore. A friend from her village helped bring Galina out and set her up. I asked her how much longer she'd do it.
"I don't know. No more than a few months ahead. But I'll stop. I know some girls who are married and they keep working as prostitutes. Their husbands even know. I have one friend, married. Her husband has his business, she has hers. I can't imagine that, working through the night, then coming home to your husband and getting in bed."
"Maybe he doesn't love her," I said.
"He does, he just doesn't care."
"Are you married?"
"No," she said.
"Are you really gypersexualnaya?"
"That's just an ad."
I gave her a towel and sent her into the shower. She entered my bedroom; I pulled the towel off. Her body was better than I'd expected: thin waist, thick bones built for the steppes. Her ass was meaty in a good way, her breasts were large, the nipples awkward. In a year, she'd be unfuckable.
She tried to put some weird village condom on me with her mouth, the first trick every whore learns. It wouldn't go. It was tight and I was as flaccid as, well, the condom. She tried blowing me again; I got to about a 30 degree angle, but lost it when she tried mouth-applicating the condom.