I'm getting really sick of letters calling me a slut. I know, I know, what should I expect from a bunch of small peckered Ames wannabes? The same pigs who think it's totally fine to read about guys paying for sex in the eXile write me saying that a girl that wants a little lovin' is dirty. Whatever! As if I'm going to let some aging cubical workers who haven't been laid since college get to me. My advice to my critics is, get used to it! 'Cuz you're more likely to get some booty than get rid of me. I'm not going anywhere.
Why is it that so many Americans totally freak out as soon as a grrl starts talking about her sexuality? The really weird thing is that I think they'd almost be ok with it if I was some anorexic bimbo with silicone tits. What really bothers them is that I'm a real flesh-n-blood chick who burps, farts and drinks beer. They don't like what they see because it reminds them of themselves... except that people want to have sex with me, not them.
Those stupid double standards are why I hate Americans. It's strictly Euro-boys for me from now on. Believe me, it's better to deal with European hang-ups than American prudes any day. Compared to them, the obsession of my German sometimes-boyfriend of having me spank him and call him a little bitch seems totally normal. Oops, does reading that make you uncomfortable? So sorry!
I'm so sick of Americans' crap that as of last weekend I've decided to dump my American beaus. I made the mistake of taking an American potential boy-toy to the opening of DUMA, up the street from Silvers. What thanks did I get for getting him into the invite-only party? He shined me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
When we first got there, it was a good scene -- your usual mix of girls getting paid to be there (models, not prostitutes), old guys with hot girlfriends, and a decent group of singles -- but he was clearly out of his element. The crowd was a little old for my taste -- mostly over 30 -- but it was still a pretty cool vibe.
The place itself is something like a cross between a small Krizis Zhanra and an OGI, with a bit more pafus in the mix. They've walls of books, live ironic-pop music, and DJs spinning retro tunes. One of the nicer touches is that they were handing out fake 'fros to the ladies, so I got to sport an Angela Davis 'do for the night. I think it kinda freaked out my little Amerikanets.
But he really started getting nervous after I'd downed my fourth glass of the free sangria. Nothing like sangria to work as a little love potion, and I started rubbing up against him ghetto-style. I thought it'd turn him on, but then I'm always misjudging Americans. He totally flipped, made some lame excuse about having to go meet a friend somewhere, and split about 5 minutes later. No thanks or anything.
The party got old soon after that, but luckily Silvers was just around the corner. They might not be the most attractive specimens in the world, but finding a willing Brit there is like shooting fish in a basket. I was sitting on a set of crooked teeth faster than you can say "God Save the Queen!" Think that makes me a slut? Well, then you're probably American and wouldn't have a chance with me anyway.
M: Okhotnyi Ryad
Mokhovaya 11, str. 3V (Entrance from Nikitsky per.)
12:00 -- 06:00