Snapper Season
(editor@exile.ru)
Spring has arrived, meaning Moscow’s dyevs are just starting to air out their snappers. The layers of winter clothing are already coming off. Ankle-length synthetic wool overcoats are giving way to thigh-length canine-leather jackets, allowing the first drafts of outdoor air to filter through the weaves. The legendary labia-length mini-skirts—nicknamed “snapper flaps”—will have to wait a few more days before making their annual ritual appearance on Moscow’s sidewalks. For as everyone knows, it would be downright dungy to expose a snapper to the elements after eight vacuum-packed winter months. Rapid exposure to sunlight and fresh air could awaken all sorts of dormant yeasts, fungi and microbes, creating a citywide stench that might spread undo panic, sending dogs into a howling frenzy. To this day, many believe that the burning of Moscow in 1812 was ignited by a combination of careless springtime snapper exposure with a sexually-deviant French occupation force. It was a tinderbox that literally exploded in a combustible cloud of yeasts, gas, and gunpowder, leaving Russia’s capital a smoldering ruin.
No, as every dyev’s mother has taught her, this must be done in a careful, gradual manner. But the good news is that the budding has already begun. Dyevs are fastidiously airing out their snappers, grooming their stripes and pomading their groins, and boy oh boy is Jake Rudnitsky psyched.
One unavoidable consequence of the upcoming Snapper Season is that your Russian girlfriend will now become as unreliable and disobedient as your dog Rex was every May.
Last Monday, we were invited to Star Travel’s Big Doo at the Afisha Kafe (thankfully unrelated to that nauseating bible for wannabe dorkadents). Boxed wine flowed freely. It even began to taste okay after the tenth glass or so. I arrived oddly horned up, in spite of being, as Krazy Kevin would say, “post-sexual”. It was that special something in the air, the first whiff of airing snappers.
Since the invitees were more or less professional types, there was a disturbing lack of drunken sluts. What the hell are we doing here if we’re not in the company of drunken sluts, we asked. One girl in red pants and a see-through lace blouse bucked the trend. She tried dancing on the stage, and fell on her face half a dozen times before disappearing. Some lucky date-rapist had fun with her.
There was a squatty little blond girl whom we nick-named “Chalky”, and who seemed to respond positively to the nickname, beaming a smile every time we barked it out. But she didn’t stop for us. Nope, the only ones interested in us were the girlfriend girls. Whose boyfriends were there with them. I mean literally right there beside them.
One I met on the dance floor. She was cute, in spite of her grayish complexion. A journalist for an oil magazine of some kind. We started talking. She got close to me. Then she said, “Shall I introduce you to my boyfriend?”
She pointed to the hapless fool. He was about my height, but dressed, well, like a faggot. I don’t know how else to describe a 6 foot 3 guy in a wide-collared white shirt, dark blue vest and dark blue disco guy bellbottoms. Dancing, no less, by himself, right beside us, trying to pretend that he was having the time of his life. Ah, the humiliation.
She tried to keep the conversation between us going, but she wasn’t worth the trouble. Although she was thin and slutty, she had this really weird bubble-shaped pouch that made her look like she had a tumor the size of a grapefruit growing in her ovaries. What if my dick got that far up? What would it feel like? I have my little deviancies just like the rest of you, but Mamleyev-style vaginal-tumor-piercing ain’t one of ‘em.
As she was leaving the party, she approached me one last time. “My boyfriend’s over by the coat check. I’m leaving now,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Well, bye. It was nice meeting you.”
“Bye.”
Near the end of the evening, a short little dyev started getting a little too friendly with us. She was no catch, but her humiliated dirthead boyfriend made the courtship almost fun. Like most men in his position, he tried to “play along”, laughing with us, trying to repeat our flirtatious jokes and her flirtatious responses while unsuccessfully pulling her away from us (she kept stumbling back). At one point he threatened to fight me, and when I laughed, he dropped it. There was no winning for him. He was like Michael Wines, horse sperm pie dripping from his face. If you lash out, you’re more of a fool; if you sit there while a trio of assholes snap photos and snicker at you, you’re spineless.
We’ve all been there, every guy, suffering the humiliation of being with a girl who’s trying to trade up right in front of your eyes. For girls, it’s a no-lose situation. If they succeed in trading up, great; if not, they’ve mind-fucked their boyfriend, and forced him to beat her, thereby instilling a little drama into the relationship. Most girls I’ve met in my life are so eternally bored and aimless that the drama of getting beaten far outweighs the prospect of another predictable day with their passionless lover, who, after all, only fucked her passionately the first month or two. My revenge has been to never beat them. And I recommend that to all hooked-up males: don’t beat your girlfriends! You’ll only be playing into their hands, so to speak. Trust me, you’ll be shackled for life if you do.
One girl I dated and who lived with me briefly met a close friend who pulled up in a White Merc and came out in Valentino threads. While we sat at a bar chatting, she took his gin and tonic and started sucking on his straw, imitating the kind of uber-blowjob he’d get if only he’d rescue her from Ames-ian poverty.
To have a girlfriend in this country is to be humiliated. But to have a girlfriend in America is to be broken. The problem with American girls, besides the Ass Factor, is that they all have Selves. Overhyped, overpriced “I”s.
Which is a problem for me.
I’ve spent an alarmingly high number of weeks in America this year, and plan on returning soon in a doomed mission to lay the foundations for class warfare. Sure, it’s a long-shot, the idea of igniting a Casual Day Uprising from Sunnyvale to Route 495. My plan goes something like this: move to Louisville, Kentucky; rent miserable apartment; load up on clean pharmaceuticals; grow flowing beard; sign up to local Internet connection; and start Marxing. Stupid plan you say? There’s where you’re wrong, sir. As Walter Sobchak put it, “The beauty is in the simplicity.”
‘Twas a time when trying to incite pointless nationwide violence got you laid by confused, starry-eyed middle-class girls. Hell it got Charlie an entire harem. Today, it gets you... a lot of time whacking off to porn sites, and an unhealthy attraction to illegal sexual fantasies. Anticipating that, I plan on loading up on a crate of Russian hand lotion called “Ya Sam”. Not sure how it works with cut units like mine, but I guess I’ll find out.
My recent tour of Kentucky was a bit of a shocker, from my spoiled-by-Russia point of view. The women there look like fast-food-bingeing sorority girls. Even the teenagers. Even the pre-adolescents for that matter. One memory that sticks is passing through a Kentucky Fried Chicken (yes, they actually eat that in Kentucky; every fast food franchise in America is represented on every Louisville metropolitan block) at the corner of Baker and Bardstown, observing a polite line of grim customers methodically piling their plates high with greasy hunks of fried fat at the all-you-can-eat buffet. The men had waists that looked like KaMaZ tires, while the women’s asses nearly blocked out the sun.
The closest I got to getting laid, if you call it that, was at a Guided By Voices concert at Headliners. GBV was epic, the closest rival to Mark E. Smith that America has produced. During their encore cover of “Baba O’Reilly” I felt something press against my hand at the bar counter. I turned and saw... a sorority girl type, clearly drunk and giving me a “Please don’t use me” look.
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Knowing that I was on my way back to the land of milk and honey in a few days, I snagglepussed without a word.
But soon I won’t have that option. In fact, soon, I’ll be downright grateful for such an opportunity with a man-girl. Unless I import a dyev to America with me. I’m having my lawyer, Moe Snideman, look into import duties on dyevs. He says he’s found some loopholes, and he knows whose palms to grease at JFK. “Just load her in with the luggage, give her a box of Rice Krispies, and you’ll be fine,” he advised. “I’ll handle the rest.”
I’m going to stick it out long enough until Snapper Season is in full swing, just to suck one last bead of yeast juice from Mother Russia’s sweaty hood. Thank god it’s arrived a little early this year. Memories of plenty will keep me going as I burn the candle at both ends in my Louisville hovel, mapping out the next great dialectic struggle. And memories will draw me back, begging for forgiveness, and someone beautiful to humiliate me all over again.