Issue #15/96, August 3 - 17, 2000 
THE LIVING VIJAYLIGHTS
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It’s August now, and I’m in awe of this august era of dyevushka auroras. Of course, no new clubs for me to use my pen like an auger, as August is one of the two slowest months of the party-year (the other being January). So I’ll have to augment this issue’s August nightlife review with my usual seductive flair of rhyme and rhapsody, something that the editor for Details magazine recently commented on when I sent him an article spec, as well as Granta’s editor (with whom I have a continuing relationship).
At the PYRAMID over the past weekend, my friend The Shah and I were lusciously licking the gleaming glinting helpings of sashimi when a table of two dyevushki nodded in our direction. It augured well for an august August evening.
We moved tables to the one next to them, out on the terrace.
“Look this way,” The Shah said. “If you bend over, angle this way, you can see her pussy.”
I didn’t even have to move my chair. The girl, who was a slightly older chick but a model-level babe nonetheless, had her legs secreted widely open, and she wasn’t wearing underwear. The Pyramid is priapic paradise indeed.
We looked at the girl, then the Shah got up to talk to her. I rose too, but the Shah objected, noting that I always steal his girls.
Just then, a pair of perfidious MVD policemen perambled up to us and asked to see our documents. This is all part of the crackdown on expats that some people have been talking about on the expat list. It was very uncomfortable.
“Look man,” I told the cop, “we’re trying to pick up on these girls here. Why don’t you just go away?”
The girls said something in Russian that I didn’t quite understand (I do speak fluently but not everything, as the tongue is rich in idiopathic idioms). The policemen made us follow them to their car, from where they drove us to a police station. There, they examined our documents again, then led us into a CELL where we waited with three drunken bomzhi and two prostitutes.
I protested that if journalists could be treated this way, then Putin was going to earn the reputation of a Kim Il-Jong. My pen could convince the West’s leading businessmen to stay away, for as Michael McFaul rightly pointed out, investors are attracted to democratic freedoms, not to truculent tyrants. The Shah, however, had other things on his mind. He leaned against the bars, looking towards the prostitutes.
“Look, Vijay, at that prostitute,” The Shah said, rubbing his chin. “You can see her pussy.”
“No you can’t, man. You’re just fantasizing.”
“No I’m serious. Let’s ask that drunk guy to move to the other corner, then you’ll see her pussy.”
We dragged a very smelly bum to the corner of the cell, then stared at the prostitute’s pussy.
“You’re right, man,” I told him in all fairness. “You can see her pussy.”
I talked her up, and I could tell that she was attracted to me. She offered to let me feel her up for 300 rubles. I told her that I’d give her the rubles after we were freed. Then I felt her breasts, which were rich and firm. I felt her ass and her thighs too. She was trembling and excited.
Just then the police decided to free us. Since we left first, I didn’t have a chance to pay the whore. But I don’t think she wanted to be paid; she wanted to have sex with me.
It was still only 1am, so we headed to the JAMES BOND SPY CLUB at the Orlyonok Hotel. The club is under new management, focusing rightly on its disco without the strange Vegas-like dance act and flying girls. The music is solid house and dance-techno, appropriately loud, yet not overbearing. Although still lacking in a large crowd, the people who were there were definitely BP. I counted at least eleven babes, not including the wait staff. Several French tourists were also on-hand. I macked up two girls on the dance floor, but they were confused and didn’t stick around.
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