Issue #14/95, July 20 - August 3, 2000 
Playing With Plebes
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President Putin may be positioning himself to be the pleonastic punisher of pillages-past, but meanwhile, Moscow post-dark is prying open its priapic potential. For the plenipotentiary plebe, there is the new club Tochka, a huge warehouse-like nightclub positioned far enough outside of the Garden ring to make it attractive to Moscow's own provincial plebes, yet not too far for eXile readers to present themselves for an evening of poaching.
I'm not sure why, but the okhrana at the door of Tochka were a little bit difficult to pass. It's not like I don't get through face control at Moscow's coolest and most exclusive clubs: Tsirk, Tseppelin, Park, Club XIII. Maybe they were a little bit put off by my hypnotic charm. Many model-level babes have told me that my gaze is hypnotic. They often tell me that they can't understand why it is that they wind up making out with me or letting me feel them up.
I had to explain to the okhrana (the security guard for you on-line fans of Vijay Maheshwari) who I am, and all of the clubs that I regularly go to, and that I only came here to see how the plebes live. He seemed impressed by that because he took his duba, or nightstick, out of his pocket and raised it above my head as if to bless me. Then the manager or something moved his hand out of the way and abruptly let me through. I think I hypnotized both of them with my eyes which, as I once wrote in my novel-in-progress, "burn like very flaming coals."
Once inside, I was not let down. The drinks were cheap enough to appease the democratic crowd. There was both a mondo sound system pumping in Moscow's top dance club hits, and a stage to accommodate the coolest Moscow bands. Last Sunday, they even had a Scottish bagpipe ensemble!
From there, I moved up the ladder of coolness to the hippest new tusovka in Moscow, Mix. Licentiously located less than a league from the American Embassy, Mix mixes the beau monde with the Merc-motored elite, packed tightly into a heated hall of hipness. It reminds me of the hardest-to-get-into places in Paris, London, and Rome—places where I'm a well known personage. For example, I went to this place in Paris recently, I'd rather not tell you the name because they want to keep it exclusive, and I met with the editors of Paris Match and Granta. We talked about our projects, and they seemed very interested in excerpting my book. Like them, Mix is the kind of cozy bar jammed with state of the art televisions, and a resident DJ mixing ultra-modern sounds right there in front of you!
Because it was so crowded, I was asked by the okhrana there if I could leave. I was a bit miffed that they let some vulgar flathead in a BMW go past me, but I also had some lascivious eye contact with a babe behind the bar, so I'll go back and make my presence known there.
From there I ended up back with the teenie-plebes at Park Avenua Disco, a club located in a park just down from Taganskaya Ploshchad. It was amazing, filled to the rim with teetering teenies teeming the two-level dance club. I macked no fewer than four of them up, and even felt up a certain Olga's breasts in the corner of the upstairs bar. She pretended that she was asleep while I was feeling her up. Her friends took her away and carried her out, all part of an act. I got her phone number, so I think I'll go for that action again. I don't usually go for common Russians, but after so much time with model-level babes, I find that variety keeps me fresh.
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