Ep.2 - Death to the Patriachy, I guess.

It was the worst of times. I keep hoping that the best of times would eventually come. Charles Dickens couldn’t have been that wrong. 

Before I reached Limbo—I mean Russia, I dreaded looking at my watch. I hated seeing minutes being wasted. Whole hours disappearing in the blink of an eye. Now, I will the hands on my watch to go faster. I stare at them and beg. Move, god damn it! 

A month has passed since I’ve landed. 

A tiny weeny itsy bitsy month.

Thirty one days. 

Seven hundred and forty four hours. 

A lifetime. 

The red sun is a sadist. The blistering heat makes me sweat profusely, consistently. There is no water left in me. I sit on my bed, the sheets soaked in my own fluids, desperately trying to keep myself occupied. There is nothing to do. No one to see. Nowhere to go. Just the bitter remorse of having left Ecuador behind. 

Then. One Saturday night, some workmates of mine invite me along for a night of dancing and drinking. Please. Yes. Yes. Yes! They are a couple of lesbians but I go nonetheless. 

We walk for an eternity through abandoned and deserted streets. Moscow is a film noir entirely made of dark alleyways and dodgy culs-de-sac. There are the usual grey tower blocks but as we advance through industrial complex after industrial complex, I grow weary. We slither under a bridge, slalom in between run-down factories, enter what I assume are past crime scenes and end up at the bottom of a concrete staircase. We climb. The girls are confident. I follow suit. They push a set of heavy, army-graded, double doors and I marvel at what lies behind. I am welcomed into a sea of lesbians dancing to house music. It isn’t Heaven but it isn’t Hell anymore. I order a vodka and gulp it down. The place is pumping. There is…joy in the air. 

Dancing directly to my left is the cutest twink I have ever seen. His eyes catch my attention, they are the cerulean blue I’ve been craving. He wears a dress-up shirt and some khakis. I assume he is dressed so conservatively because outside of these doors, it’s an armour you can’t do without. I try smiling at him. I envy the floppiness of his short blond locks. I’m in love. I daydream of kissing his pink lips. He has soft features and no facial hair. His skin is milky and delicious. I’m getting aroused. And then, all of a sudden, something shifts. He’s not a boy. He’s a girl. He’s a lesbian. 

These are definitely breasts. Small, cute breasts but breasts. Fuck!

This happens again and again through the night. I see a twink. I smile at the twink. I fall in love with the twink. I marry the twink. The twink is a lesbian. By the end of the night, I wonder if I haven’t turned straight. I try visualizing intercourse. Maybe if I close my eyes and concentrate real hard. The fantasy remains flaccid. 

I down my vodka and get back on the dance-floor, just in time to be told to take a seat. A show is about to start. In my gay imagination, I dream some gogos in revealing thongs. I’ve never been a fan of strippers but the sex deprivation and lack of internet connection at home has rendered me desperate for some flesh. The music announces the arrival of my salvation. I sit up. The gogo is a woman. I slouch back. 

The first one hits the stage and wriggles to Russian pop. The striptease is slow, burlesque, inviting. I yawn. When she reveals her boobs, the crowd erupts. I clap politely. Another one takes the stage and then another. This might be hell afterall. When the last one leaves, I stand up, ready to hit the bar for another shot of vodka. My friend grabs my t-shirt and pulls me down. 

The first gogo walks back onto the stage, her eyes fixated on me. I turn to look behind me. I look at my friends, they’re smug. I try to melt into my chair. Her eyes are not letting me escape. This is when I realize that I am the only man in the entire building. She points at me menacingly and then wiggles her finger. My friend pushes me out of my seat. 

I stand stupidly in the middle of the dancefloor while she Scheherazades around me. My arms are awkwardly by my sides and I keep looking at my friends for support. They’re making out. I’m on my own. 

Time goes by so slowly. 

The lap dance is on its second song. My torturer indicates that she wants me to remove my top. I shake my head like an idiot, my eyes round and frightened. Huh, huh! The crowd cheers her on and bullies me into taking off my t-shirt. I’m topless surrounded by a sea of lesbians all staring at my tits. The gogo rubs herself against me. Skin on skin. Boobs on boobs. I don’t usually mind boobs. Especially if I can make them bounce up and down by flicking my finger. It makes me giggle. It isn’t as hilarious when they’re being pushed in your face. Repeatedly. With force. Against my will. 

She takes a step back and rips apart her knickers. She points at her pussy and nods. The crowd goes berserk. I want out. I want to go back to my boring bedroom with nothing to do. Let me stare into despair. 

She still has a belt on somehow, she unbuckles it flirtatiously, her eyes impaling me. There is nowhere to run. She comes closer and forces me down to my knees. She wraps the belt around my neck. The crowd erupts again. Death to patriarchy, I guess. I am her dog and she is taking me for a walk. I obey and follow her off stage. It’s over. 

I throw my t-shirt back on and demand vodka. 

A few more vodkas later, we leave. The girls are all over each other and it makes me smile. The second we pass the double door, they separate and keep at least a good 6 feet distance between them. I file the trauma under “good fun” and walk tipsily towards the metro. I feel like myself again and start thinking that maybe, just maybe, I could survive the next nine months if Gloria gives me a hand. 

First I was afraid, I was petrified… I WILL SURVIVE!