Russians always insist on how Russian I look. In fact, it’s often a first point of conversation, since most assume I’m just another Westernized dyev until I open my mouth revealing my accent. Their shock always surpises me: Are attractive American women really that rare? Or do I really dress like a prostitute?

I have, they tell me, a prekracnoe russkoe letzo-a heart-shaped face, blowjob eyes. All features are pleasantly proportioned on my pale, china complexion, and I’m young, too-barely legal, perfectly eligible young. My hair is thick and long, girlish but sexy. I have delicately thin arms attached at petite shoulders. My gently protruding collarbones frame firm breasts with large nipples perked to attention, my figure curves into a thin waist then rounds into shapely hips and my curvy ass. I keep the clump of curly hair trimmed in a neatly shaped triangle that narrows to a point ending right above my full, smooth-shaven lips. Hiding beneath delicate folds of flesh is my clit, so sensitive that just the thought of touching it causes a tingling sensation, leaving a sweet secretion that readies my tight slit of a cunt.

Which is why Moscow is such an interesting place for me. In New York, where I’m from, I am my resume, quantified with a GPA, qualified with anonymous, classless, raceless, sexless titles-employee, student, volunteer. But in Russia, I’m pussy. And that’s pretty much all-a warm, tight twat, dripping with sticky wetness.

No matter how I’d like to imagine myself, my gender is something I can’t escape. There’s the dyev discount: potentially serious infractions softened by feigned ignorance and naiveté. On the other hand, in a mock military state where inalienable rights are bought with 50 ruble notes, the single American female is just as often harassed because of her vulnerability as her wallet. The point is neither manipulation nor exploitation-those are part of every civilized society. It’s not even sexism. It’s that when you have a vagina here, that’s the first and often only thing people notice.

A more refined, self-respecting Western female might take offense to this cultural climate-to being dismissed explicitly because of her gender but more often just plain ignored. And it hurts when a mediocre American man chooses a leggy, barely pubescent Russian girl over an engaging conversation about your liberal, carefully tempered opinions. I understand your dilemma; it’s hard living in a place where people don’t respect and conform to your expectations. You’re sensitive and sophisticated, I know. And feelings of envy, inadequacy, and impotence are difficult to cope with. But it’s your own goddamned fault if you think that your feelings translate into anything more than that.

Did I mention that I was a misogynist? (That’s the real reason I fit right in at the eXile.) Men: at least chicks feign interest in you-even if it’s only for your passport or a glamorous dinner at Patio Pizza. Because they usually just resent me, insecure, competitive cunts.

So how do I feel about the gender thing? Well, I don’t feel much of anything about it. It’s mostly just there. And it’s interesting to me because it isn’t there in my whitewashed, sterile hometown. Of course, there are X and Y chromosomes in the States, but we like to ignore the differences as much as possible. Besides, women can be analytical, men sensitive.

Russian chicks ooze sex, flaunting their bony figures in barely-there clothing, batting their eyes furiously to steal attention, and pushing away just enough to maintain interest and fall on the sensual rather than slutty side of perception. The men-Russian or not-respond with equally ravenous fervor. How these dynamics actually play out is a different story, but for me, it’s like watching a drama and laughing at the death scene.

Except I do more than just watch. I’m pushed into the picture, forced into the roles. Whether I like it or not, I’m a passive participant, fighting back and hopelessly struggling against something I’ve always known as terribly taboo. It’s scary and painful at first, and your hesitant submission makes you question yourself. At some point, though, you stop resisting and actively let yourself go. You accept the situation, and finally, you even realize you might like it.

Living in Russia, that is. Like my last trip to Moscow in November, the night when my friend, Billy, took me to meet a few Russian friends of his-Ilya, Dima, and maybe a Vasiliev or another Dima for all I remember. Billy and I, of course, bought the vodka. We drank at Ilya’s until his mother kicked us out of his apartment, finally returning to Billy’s place.

Ilya had taken a liking to me from almost the beginning, and as we all got drunker, his love and devotion grew stronger and stronger. As tender and well intentioned as Ilya was, his affection turned to aggression, and his many unreciprocated advances escalated into frustrated, sentimental violence as he grabbed my wrists, and jerked me up, forcing me to dance with him.

I admit, I was the cold, hypersensitive, don’t-you-dare-dominate-me American. I am subject, not object, my upbringing chanted. But my resistance wasn’t a progressive assertion, it was me trying to escape. It was me running in fear from my own qualms about being the desired, the hunted, the conquered, and hiding myself in.... well, actually, in a filthy, cramped Soviet toilet room.

In truth, the situation was a lot less dramatic than that. I was hazily drunk along with the others, all discreteness of the situation blurred, when Ilya grabbed me to dance. My awkward resistance was accompanied with giggling, and I don’t remember how the confused situation got out of hand-just everyone standing up, the music stopping, and me getting pried away from Ilya’s clenched fists. Then I finally stumbled into the bathroom. I sat on that piece of shit flimsy, blue plastic toilet seat for more than 20 minutes, listening to them calm, persuade, demand, convince, and finally force Ilya to leave the apartment, and for some reason, I couldn’t stop smiling.

No one had ever fought over me before. And there was something flattering about it. When Ilya finally left, we went back to drinking. At about 5, we ran out of vodka, so Billy and one of the Russians ran out to restock.

I was left with soft-spoken Dima, who looked 15 years older than he probably was. We talked a little, and he watched me comfortably while we waited for the others to return. (In March, four months later, I received an e-mail from him:

Hi. This is me. Dmitry from Russia. Remember me. I decided to write 2U. Will you in Moscow soon. Write me. I’d be glad to see you. So write anything. It is interesting to me to know averything about you. And write what you’d like to know about me. Waiting passionately, Dima.

P.S. Ilya will not be with us again. Remember this big guy who hada very not good behaviour according to you. So if you afraid him. Now everything is o.k. I want to communicate with you very much.)

While Dima and I were alone and Billy was still gone, someone knocked at the door, which had been left unlocked. I glared out the peephole, saw Ilya looking agitated, and as fast as my dulled reflexes could react, struggled to slam shut and lock inner door. He knocked and moaned and banged, and when it seemed like he had left, he broke down the door, riping off the frame and the wall with the deadbolt, then lumbered into the living room.

He was obviously wounded, and I was scared, but everyone had been too drunk for too long for the alcohol to act as but a depressant. I tried to call the police, never sure that they had understood the address since Ilya kept grabbing the phone out of my hand. After three or four attempts, he finally left the room and cut the phone line.

Billy and I somehow escaped into the hall and stood against the door, locking our guests inside. The militzia officers who arrived 20 minutes later around 6AM were the very same ones who had visited Billy more than 16 hours earlier the day before to investigate a housing violation.

After the militzia had taken our Russian guests away, Billy explained to me: “you have too many virtues not to get in trouble in Moscow.” He’s right: here my virtues get me into all sorts of trouble that never happens at home, and here it’s stuff the one-eyed serpent never gets to see.