Hello! Here in Smolensk butcher shop, we hail keynote speech from Nick Clegg to Lib Dem Conference. Lovely Nicky plenty big hero here. But sadly he associate in my mind with unfortunate condition I suffer.
Please to understand. I hate infidelity. To anyone, anything, any principle. And I love wife Irina. But you know marital magic dwindled when you tweet about football during intercourse. And I weak. So sometimes…Well. But I get what you call comeuppance (though godownance better word). My Ivan now is permanent floppy. Problem start with Olga and Katya.
Sexy Olga is Smolensk bombshell. Endlessly undulating, like Altai Mountains, with quantum particle skirts (they are there and they are not there), Olga captivate men who hang out in local bar The Happy Kalashnikov. She always been keen on me, but we never, you know. Then last year…
It was UK Election Campaign. How I know? Well your first Leaders’ Debate make big impact in Smolensk. We do poll in my butcher shop day after. Assistant Yuri record findings. 95% of people not know Debate happen or that there General Election in UK. But of remaining 5%, 73% adore Nick Clegg. Incredible statistics! (Especially as I think we only have seven customers that day.)
Nicky! Look like handsome local milkman Evgeny. Talk like geography teacher. Russian origins. Plenty smooth. Big hit! Presenter of Smolensk Is Have Talents, singer, dancer, and post-op transsexual Binka claim she “have affair with him”, before and after procedure. She change this to “saw him” following injunction. Sexy Olga excite too. Soon after first Debate she get Nick Clegg face tattoo on her ass. (Later, following Election, when Coalition form, she change it: half Clegg face, half Cameron. This unfortunate. Tattoo look like famous Kazan icon of Satan. Orthodox Church excommunicate her buttocks.)
Anyway, few weeks before General Election, I go bar. “You miss it Pavel,” say Yuri. “Olga unveil Clegg tattoo.” I shrug, but Olga come over and smile. “Maybe you get private show, Pavel,” she say. Then she ignore me for rest of night, disappear, and though my loins vault like Bubka, I unsure if she is just be tease.
Late in evening another HK legend, Quite Sexy But Very Serious Katya, come over. Katya is Trotskyite graduate student. She always flirt with me in brutal, dialectical manner.
“So Pavel,” Katya declare. “If I suffered from idiot paternal dependency and Electra Complex, you are exactly kind of ageing brute I’d exploit sexually for self-medication.” Once I stop cough, she say, “But I not have Complex. Nevertheless, I have no other option for Ivan in my Ushanka tonight. Usual sexual partner has influenza. Auto-eroticism is defeatism. Anyway, I lack battery. So. You will serve.” With Olga apparently gone, in pathetic, grateful, expectant weakness, I follow Katya out of Bar.
At her place she kiss me with force and thoroughness. Then say, “You don’t mind Pavel Maximovich if I talk throughout the act? It relax me. And it also help you understand true nature of sexuality.” I shrug, nod, we undress, and I commence my customary manoeuvres. “You see Pavel – oh, yes that is acceptable – sex is dialectic, in and out dynamic. Hm. Very good. And sex is politics. Males think they dominate, aggress, invade. Anatomically it appears so. Lower. Up a bit. No! Do you even know what you’re looking for? There! Better. Goooood. And there is stupid liberal idea of sex as equal partnership. Both visions are delusional. At best sex is coalition. And there is senior partner. Woman. Me. Ooooooooaaaaah! The Ivan is subordinate, imprisoned in the Ushanka. It becomes slave, does my bidding, serves my pleasure. And I seek – what are you doing now, go back to what you did before, good – I seek greater victory still. How? I imagine my Ushanka has teeth and bites the Ivan off. Why have you stopped?”
Katya plenty sympathies, though accuse me of bourgeois sentimentalism. But all way home I have vision of machine Yuri use to slice yak sausage.
Then, as I pass HK Bar, I see Sexy Olga. “Pavel! Where did you -” “But I thought -” She rush over, grab my hand, and in a moment we running to her place, as warm rain fall and wash away thoughts of emasculating Ushankas. Inside there are no words, only kisses, then gasps and cries and tearing sounds, then smashes and crashes as we upset tables, chairs, lamps, fridge, vases, her tasteful stuffed snow leopard and exquisite life-size alabaster Hasselhoff, then a thud and cascading clunks and clatter as we bring down supporting wall. On bed it is ecstasy of sweat, until she decide she want do it in, well, in manner of canine. She turn over, go on all fours, maximise rear elevation. I paw down her pant. Then freeze. “Come on you big bastard,” she shout. But I transfix.
Looking up at me from her ass is Nick Clegg.
Soon I’m in the rain again. “Clegg’s face on her ass,” I think as walk home. “If only it was a rose.”
Since that night my Ivan been floppy. And though I love Nick Clegg, he make me think of impotence and humiliation.
Which plenty unfair.