The Russian Wife Ch. 02

He nodded. I was too embarrassed to talk about that in public, even if the restaurant was almost empty (not surprisingly) and we were speaking very low. So I dropped the issue, and for a while, we let it under the carpet.

We talked about that again only in his bed, after our first time together. After that time, many things had changed. First of all, me.

Maybe because I was definitely in love with him, maybe because ten years of chastity are very long (bad experiences have consequences), but now that I was sure I had found a good man and a good male, in a single package, I did not let them go. Neither "them" (him), nor the chances of enjoying them. I was a she-cat, always looking for caresses. Before, I stared at him to recall him our pact, and he smiled. Now, smiling, I invited him to take me. And it was easy. I looked at him, I feel him galloping inside of me, already, even if I was all dressed yet, and I smiled, at him. Not a word, but he understood. I was ready for him, at his disposal. My heart loved him, my sex wanted him. A man I could trust, and a male to be boned by. And to be boned by him was beautiful (I liked the Italian word for "bone" he used: "scopare", to sweep. To sweep inside of me...). And even if we were not married yet, I knew that man, that male, was mine. Forever.

In that period, for all I cared, I lived in Moscow as if I lived in Paris. I lived to meet him, and it was wonderful. We met, and we went to bed, as if we were dancing through the streets, or in the "mitrò". And while we "danced", I felt my heart beating, and my sex getting moist, without even touching it. We made love in his flat, and once even in my house, when my parents were not in. He did not want to violate their bed, so we did it in mine, better, OVER mine, because it was really too small for two persons. He sit on it, his back to the wall, I sit over him, astride his hips, his sex inside of me... We looked at each other while I went up and down over him, my belly full of him...

"Don't leave me," I begged, "never leave me..."

He smiled, caressed my hair...

"Why should I?"

He was more expert than me, of course. And he was a good teacher too, patient and reassuring. He showed me many ways to be taken, only in the "natural" way, his sex into mine... different, all the same. He liked to kiss my sex, and was very clever doing it, but never asked me to reciprocate. I would have felt ashame to do it. I though the place for his sex was inside of me, nothing more. And it was so beautiful, so strong...

The funny thing was, our first night together had been beautiful, but I had been really clumsy. At the point that he though I was in fact an absolute virgin, and I had invented some other male because I did not want to admit this fact. Virgin at 25 years, oh, shame! Oh, scorn on me!

Yes, I had not lost a drop of blood, but this meant not so much: something it happens, when the girl is relaxed and the male knows his trade. And he knews his trade all right, and I was very relaxed, after his kisses made me come, before he penetrated me. Not all the hymenes are as thick as the Chinese wall. So I had to insist: no, you are not the first, I'm sorry. The first was very worse than you...

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen." I said. He looked at me, perplexed. Understandably. "You see, even here, sometimes, you do because you want to feel you big, for not to be outdone... I know, it was not the right time, but..."

"Hm. And him?"

"Eighteen. First year at the technical university..."

"Well... When you're eighteen, you hardly are a good lover..."

"Even in Italy?" I asked. He looked at me with tenderness, almost laughing. "Devchònochka", little girl, little child...

"Hey, what do you think? You think that we are natural born lovers? That we can make a woman happy just after the primary school? Oh, no... Yes, we are the country of Casanova, "Italians do it better", but, Jesus, you need training, all the same... Even Casanova stroke out, the first times he tried with a woman, he wrote this in his Memoires... Do you know when I made love the first time? At twenty four!"

"Whith who?" I asked, just for curiosity. He turned his face away.

"With a whore..."

"Oh... I'm sorry!" I said. "She make you suffer, I had recalled it to you..."

"Well... "suffer" is not the right word, poor girl!" he said. "He was gentle, clean, patient with me... But she was a whore all the same..."

"Ah! you mean..."

"Oh, yes, I mean!"

What do you think should I have done? To jump away from the bed, to call him "male chauvinist pig", something alike? Well, no, I was almost laughing. A man like him, a male like him, so lonesome and hopeless and desperate to go to... I couldn't believe it...

"How could it be?"

"How... I was in Milan, for an interview... I had just graduated, with good marks... I had read an ad on a paper... You know, I had tried, normally, with the girls, but... And I couldn't take it anymore, you know, you think, if now something happens, I can die without even doing it... It seems weird, but you think this too... So I went, in a flat... I have said it, she was really good. And I was not less sinner than her, if it was a sin, we did it together, if I would not have done it with her, I would have done it with another one... I felt not ashamed or dirty, after that, I felt well... I felt his body over mine yet, and it was not nauseating at all, it was fine. She was tender, a good smell of perfumed soap, nothing too strong, or vulgar... But I decided: never more that way. With all the respect, and even the gratitude for the cathegory... never more..."

"The cathegory?"

"Oh, is Italian union jargon for "the trade"... the workers of a certain profession, something like that..."

"And after that? How many women have you had?"

"Uh... one, two, three... one here..."

"Only one?"

"Only one. Then you came...", he smiled at me, and I at him. "However, stories... just so... "pròsto tak"..."

"You don't have to swear to me that I am the first you have ever loved..."

"Well... You are the second. The first had... six years..."

Six years? I was shocked. "Bòje mòy", my God, I am in bed with a paedophile! I stared him down.

"And you?"

She looked at me tranquil, and shrugged.

"Six and a half... An unhappy love: she always said I was too old for her!"

The tension vanished in the thin air, and I laughed as I never did. He started assuming mute film layings, as to say "ah, cruel, cruel world!", just to make me laugh even more, and he got it...

"Six and a half!" I said, almost choking of laughters... "Poor, young lover!"

"Oh, yeah! But, seriously, after my first time I was more self-assured. I knew, I did not conquered any girl, just paid one, but now I knew how it was, what I could expect..."

"And you did not fear to die virgin anymore!"

"Yes, that too..." he snorted. "So I was more relaxed when I wanted to, say, approach another girl... And this made the difference. Imagine, I was in a seaside town, on holidays, with a sympathetic lady, casually known in my same hotel... We talked, we drank something, we joked a bit... And then, out of the blue, she told me what room she had and walked away. So, what do you think, if I had not gone there, it would have been bad manners, right?"

"Indeed...", I conceded, smiling. "And what have all those so... receptive ladies taught to you?"

"Somethinhg they liked... Tactical tricks, so to say..."

"And where did you learn strategy?" I asked. I could witness under oath, he had learnt it very well. And "tactical tricks" too...

"Reading... here and there..."

""Pornogràfia"? The Western kinky magazines?"

"Oh, no!" he said, horrified. "Silly boys read kinky journals! Smart boys, when they got off the teens, pass to the manuals!"

"Kamasutra?"

"Well... The Kamasutra is a bit overvalued..."

"Overvalued!" I laughed. He told it with such a serious tone, like a real literary critic...

"Yes! It doesn't tell you what you need to know! That is, it tells it, but you have to look for it in a heap of unessential things... Outdated tips... We are no more in the ancient India, are we?"

"And what do you need to know?"

"Physiology and facts of life. Just for starting, that a male must be really measured in minutes, not in centimeters. If you want to measure it instrumentally, of course..."

""Instrumentally"!" I laughed again. He had said so, virtually inventing a Russian word ("instrumentàlno"), to say "with the instruments". But, "with the instruments", in Russian" is not "instrumentàlno": it's "po pribòram", or maybe "s pribòrami". Sometimes he really invented such words, to be understood, beyond the limits of his Russian vocabulary...

But he was really a beautiful male. Both measured in centimeters and in minutes. "Instrumentally"...

And not only so...