My Women

Masha and I were on a train toward Zagorsk, heading to the forest to collect tree burls; Mashka used them to make all sorts of crafts. I noticed the carriage was black with nuns. Zagorsk, of course — but surely all the nuns don’t live in Moscow and just travel to Zagorsk to pray? We got off in Zagorsk and, good Lord, there was a sea of people.

Now I know that on June 2, 1971, there was a Local Council, and on June 3, the Enthronement of Patriarch Pimen. Back then, I knew none of this and stumbled upon such a rare event completely by chance.

In Zagorsk, foreign cars stood in the square; the crowd was huge, enormous. I asked when the service would start; they said in about two hours, so we went to explore the miracle that is the Trinity-St. Sergius Lavra. I walked around with my mouth hanging open, looking at the largest monastery in Russia.

Out of the corner of my ear, I heard that access to the Rublev icons was open. And we found them! We saw the splendor that was hidden from everyone by propaganda back then and, in the literal sense of the word, kept under lock and key. Suddenly a little man approached us — tiny, thin, white-haired like holy relics, in a black robe with very kind eyes. He asked if I was from the theological seminary or perhaps a free artist, because of my long hair.

Of course, I said I was an artist and had come specifically for the icons, as I dreamed of seeing Rublev’s work in the original. And then this monk offered to tell us about them!

How I regret now that I was so young and didn’t think to write down or memorize what that man told us. When we finally went outside, his words wouldn’t let go of me for a long time. I knew about Rublev, of course, but here they were — close enough to touch — and you weren’t just looking; someone was explaining the story of each one. It was staggering. I couldn’t believe I had set out for an ordinary forest and ended up in a hall of miracles. Two hours passed, and we headed to the church, which was already packed.

— Hold onto the bag; I’ll try to push forward, — I told Masha.

People around were whispering — Pimen, Pimen.

My bag was large and sporty, since we were headed for the woods, not a church. I moved like an icebreaker through the crowd, and the old women clinging to Mashka followed us like pilot fish to a shark until we were right at the altar. There was a low, steady hum, the smell of incense, and a sea of white headscarves worn by the devout old women. Suddenly, there was movement. Clergymen dressed in gold-embroidered robes emerged and began parting the crowd, forming a corridor from the altar to the entrance. We were lucky; we ended up in the front row on the left side of the corridor. One old woman kept trying to squeeze me out, poking my back with her fist and muttering, “Oh, you Herod!” Making sure Masha was close, I turned, plucked the old woman from behind my back, and placed her in front of me. She barely reached my chest, so she didn’t block the view, but the joy and happiness on her face were immense; she kept apologizing for the “Herod” comment and chanting that Masha was a “queen.”

Suddenly, from the choir loft or somewhere above, singing began. The fabulous, heavenly sound of high voices was so melodic that no word other than “divine” could describe it.

A procession began to emerge from behind the altar. First came four men in gold-embroidered vestments — among them was Patriarch Pimen — followed by four in black vestments. On the flanks were young men, likely seminarians, holding thick candles. They walked to the middle of the cleared corridor and turned to face the altar; everyone around was praying.

Bear in mind, this was the heart of the USSR in 1971 — a time when police raids were carried out on churches during Easter (I mean in Georgia). What I saw in Zagorsk was like a touch of the forbidden, allowed on that specific day for reasons unknown.

I didn’t know which church holiday it was, but it seemed to be the Patriarch’s first service in that rank. First, the choir sang in honor of the Patriarch, then they fell silent, and Pimen began to sing as if in response. The service was long, but it was worth it — it was peerless! I was so moved by what I saw and heard that I simply couldn’t speak. The old woman, whose shoulders I had apparently been holding the whole time, kept repeating, “Thank you, son, thank you, son,” while praying. Masha was lamenting that she lived so close but had never seen anything like it.

We rode home in near silence. When we arrived, as if by agreement, we told no one anything. We didn’t want to.

The next day in Moscow, I bought a set of twelve records of church chants performed by the Bulgarian Opera “under the counter” (as was the custom then). They were wonderful records.

9. For the Girl — As Always

Time flew by. In the evening, before my flight home, everyone gathered. It was cheerful; toasts were made, and the sisters hinted at the next summer — the battle for potatoes, the bathhouse, the firewood, and the mushrooms. It was painful to look at Masha; although she appeared cheerful, her eyes gave everything away. Masha was on edge.

For perhaps the first time in my life, I felt a strange sensation — something between awkwardness and a kind of guilt, though I wasn’t sure what for. Only the sisters’ husbands didn’t know about the “bathhouse” and the “wood-chopping,” so everything there seemed normal and there was no talk of embarrassment; on the contrary, a certain bravado was present. But regarding Masha, I felt very anxious. I remembered our agreement well, but her chastity weighed on my confidence. I wondered if I should go through with it. It was all so delicate; I didn’t know from which side to approach it so as not to demean or offend her, and I had no certainty that everything would turn out as expected.

I went out onto the veranda for a smoke. Masha came up to me and looked at me with an expression that was far too serious. Then, lowering her eyes, she said softly:

— Yura, you haven’t forgotten your promise? I want you, and this night must be ours. Grandma knows; she’ll be sleeping at Katya’s.

Once, when Masha had taken a day off and we were “fooling around” in bed after her mother left for work, the mother unexpectedly returned because she had forgotten something! I was simply stunned; if this had happened in Georgia, the best-case scenario would have been an immediate marriage — I didn’t even want to think about the worst. I closed my eyes, bracing for the blow of fate. After a short pause, I heard:

— Don’t play too far! — and the front door slammed shut.

So I knew the taste of Masha’s lips and the firmness of her breasts; I knew much about her body. I knew about the mole on her tummy and the appendicitis scar. I knew how tender she was in bed; I just didn’t know her as a woman. By that time, I’d had many women and girls, but none of them had been virgins — and where would they have come from? I didn’t “court” girls; I mostly engaged in mutual pleasure. And then, this! Of course, in the eyes of her mother and sisters — who, I’m sure, hadn’t hesitated to share their “lessons learned” — everyone, including Masha, considered me a lady-killer, a heartbreaker, a kind of professional virginity liquidator. It clearly never even crossed their minds that in this delicate area, I was an amateur. Masha wanted the desired “Georgian” to give her a lesson in sex where, with a moan of orgasm, she would soar into nirvana.

The “Georgian,” however, understood that all his mastery was completely unsuitable for sex with Masha. And it was not a given that it would end in nirvana; it could easily turn into agony and future disappointment for her. It is difficult to describe my state of mind exactly back then.

Masha was different from her sisters, for whom sex was merely a road to pleasure — without a rudder or sails, without remorse toward husbands, mother, or sister. The sisters were two females of different breeds. One was greedy for sex, wanting everything at once; the other was languid, affectionate, and well-acquainted with the path of passion, preferring to walk it slowly without missing a single corner. Masha was something I had never encountered. For her, sex was neither a goal nor a means to an end, but a derivative of the soul’s state — like a seal verifying her impulse! It was the maximum she could give to a loved one as a gift, as proof of the purity of her intentions, as proof of her feelings — a desire to enter a new world together with the person she wanted.

And I so badly did not want to destroy this girl’s world of ideas about the value of this gift and the happiness with which she would enter adult life.

While I lay waiting for everyone in the house to fall asleep, Masha came to me herself. She stood by the bed against the backdrop of the veranda and the yard light, looking as if she were naked; her nightshirt was translucent, and as I lay there, I admired her figure. Masha apparently didn’t know if I was asleep or not and seemed to hesitate whether to lie down beside me. I moved over, and Masha slipped under the covers. She lay pressed against me, trembling nervously, asking me to warm her. Masha was so spontaneous, so open, and so pure that I was in a stupor. I didn’t know how to begin without hurting her, without breaking her soul, or making her regret and suffer from deceived expectations. It’s easy for me to write this smoothly now, but back then I didn’t know how to properly manage this sudden happiness so that an hour later there wouldn’t be agonizing pain and immense shame.

How easy it had been with her sisters and all the girls before Masha. There, everything was as simple as two plus two — like an open book where it was written in black and white: “forward and deep, and then…” Sex was mostly “every man for himself,” where hypersexuality on both sides made it impossible to focus on more than one or two thoughts or actions at a time. And if sex began, it continued until total victory without a breather, regardless of words, moans, or outside sounds — hands gripping buttocks, lips kissing everything within reach, moving the body back and forth until the looming goal was reached. This youthful sex was straightforward and selfish, like a race. It is only with age and experience that harmony comes, and with it the desire not only to receive but to give pleasure — and most importantly, the skill to do it naturally and without showing off.

But here was a virgin, complete trust, and a total absence of selfishness.

Before Masha ended up in my bed, I had thought a lot about how to start, but the solution came on its own. It was my first ever prelude to sex that ended in the partner’s orgasm. Masha and I lay on our sides, embracing, for probably about an hour. My “manhood” was pressed against her lower abdomen; Masha grew bold and placed her hand on it, then froze, seemingly afraid of either her own boldness or my indecision.

I kissed her lips, her neck, her breasts, her stomach. But I understood that I had to start not with what Masha expected, but with something completely unexpected for her that would bring a mountain of pleasure. Caressing and kissing Masha, I slowly moved my head downward. Masha’s pubis was trimmed short, which was a great rarity for that time. I already knew exactly what would happen next, and, covering us with the blanket just in case, I began to kiss Masha’s very essence. At first, Masha froze, afraid not only to spread her legs but even to move. But as soon as I parted them slightly with my hands, everything went like clockwork. I wasn’t just giving Masha pleasure; I was delighted by her clumsy attempts to help me. Masha’s movements became wider and sharper until they became convulsive. It was an orgasm. We slowly drifted back. Masha was in a trance.

— Yurochka, you’re a master. Now I know what an orgasm is, but you still won’t get out of it — you must take my virginity. Don’t be afraid, I’ll bear it if I have to, but don’t laugh, you’re my first. Don’t torture me, Yurochka, I’m dying of fear and desire right now. Do it!

And I “did it”! I tried to enter very slowly, but it was as if I hit a wall. I was checking to see if I was in the right place until, with a sharp movement, she did for me what I hadn’t dared to do. Masha cried, smiled, and cried:

— Yurochka, my good one, my joy, I’m so happy, now I know everything. Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt, it feels good. Don’t stop until I or you receive pleasure.

I was the first to receive pleasure, but I had enough sense to pull out in time. While I went to the bathroom to wash up, thinking there would be more “problems,” Masha changed the bedding. When I returned from the shower, Masha lay down with me again.

— I have it better than they do. They were fools and slept around in school after drinking at a birthday party. Now they don’t even remember who with, but for me — you are the first and the beloved.

Oh, if she only knew how good I felt too! Under her whisper, I fell asleep on her chest like a babe!

When Masha left for work, I was sleeping. She kissed me and cried. That afternoon, I flew back to Tbilisi.

Afterword

To this day, I have a dual attitude toward what happened then. I have thought a lot about that situation with Masha. Had I known that Masha was a virgin, I probably — most likely — would not have come to her, because I was traveling, to be honest, specifically to make up for what I had missed out on in Tbilisi.

But my relationship with Masha apparently shaped my future attitude toward both women and sex. Since then, for me, sex has been an opportunity to give a female partner not just joy, but a madness of feelings and a vividness of colors — to feel and understand that sex is freedom! Of course, I never forgot about myself, but the partner always came first. Yes, exactly like that

Honeymoon

Part 1

For our honeymoon, my first wife Tamara and I flew to Leningrad. I had never been there, and neither had Tamara, though she had a relative there — the ex-wife of her cousin.

We landed at Pulkovo. Hurrah, Leningrad! Now for the best hotel, champagne, nights lasting two or three days, a bathtub for two, soft white robes, a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, and…!

We get into a taxi: — Where to? — The best hotel! — Which one?

Which one? What a motorized blockhead! Any Caucasian knows that the best hotel in every major Russian city is the “Rossiya.” — To the “Rossiya”!

We arrived fairly quickly, let the taxi go, and headed straight to the receptionist: — Greetings, my dear. A suite with a city view and a large double bed. — Do you have a reservation? — Almost — we’re on our honeymoon! — We have a single room in the attic, but it’s under renovation. The toilet and bathtub don’t work; you’ll have to walk to the end of the corridor.

The grimace on Tamara’s face expressed such horror, as if she were the owner of a castle in Monaco being offered a shack with cockroaches, bedbugs, and rats in the middle of nowhere.

I had to keep the bar high: — Listen, darling, you clearly don’t understand. We are on our honeymoon. We need only a suite, preferably with floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the bedroom! — Try the “Turist” hotel around the corner; check there!

The flight had exhausted Tamara: — You rest here, and I’ll run over and find out.

I “ran” for a long time. This wasn’t Tbilisi — when they say “it’s not far” in Leningrad, you have to multiply the Tbilisi concept of distance by at least three.

It took about an hour and a half to “run” there, find out there were no vacancies at the “Turist,” and return. Since it stays light in Leningrad in August even at night compared to Tbilisi — where darkness falls over the city like a theater curtain — I didn’t immediately realize it was already 9 PM. The best we could hope for was a night at the train station. Tamara was asleep in a chair in the middle of the lobby, already floating in a state of honeymoon bliss.

I tried to seduce the clerk with a passionate Caucasian gaze, but the age categories were different, and her training was old-school — Stalinist. Sliding her glasses down her nose, she said: — I’ll let your wife sleep in the chair until midnight. After that, go watch the raising of the bridges — the police will kick you out anyway.

Sitting down next to my sleeping wife, I began to wait for the “raising of the bridges.”

Cleaning ladies scurried around, vacuumed the carpet, rolled it up, and leaned it against my chair. It almost fell on me — large and colorful. — Where did you buy a carpet like that? — asked a man with a Central Asian accent, clearly looking to haggle. — It’s a wedding gift from the hotel, — I brushed him off like a nagging fly.

The second man who approached had a sense of humor: — I’m checking out soon and would also like to give you a wedding gift. — Another carpet?

The man smiled: — I’m vacating my suite in two hours, but they’re supposed to repair the plumbing in a few days. So for a day or two, you’ll be able to alternate your games between the bed and the tub. I’ll give you the key so they don’t give the room to someone else. Don’t mess it up. From the accent — are you from Georgia? — Thank you, genatsvale!

I led the man to the clerk and informed her that this citizen had decided to give us a wedding gift: he was giving us his suite. All three of us laughed. The woman asked for our passports. I began filling out the forms, and suddenly, a baffling question: — Did you change your last name? — Me? — Well, not me! There’s a note in your passport: “Passport subject to exchange due to change of surname.”

I spent a long time proving to her that they had written it in mine instead of my wife’s due to carelessness. I held that old nag by the elbows, by the hand, even by the lapels, and even ran a finger along her cheek — she believed me!

I dozed for an hour in the chair, and when Volodya (our savior’s name) came out with his bags, I woke my wife. Entering the elevator, fully convinced we were going to the attic, she quipped: — To the suite, my all-powerful hubby? The elevator girl: — Yes, yes, dear — to the suite!

The sarcastic smile vanished from my wife’s face only when we opened the door. The suite consisted of an entryway and two rooms — a lounge and a bedroom. A fridge, a TV, a bar, a sofa with two armchairs, and a balcony right above the hotel entrance. The bedroom had a plush, cream-colored carpet, a massive double bed, and to the side — a large wardrobe with sliding doors. But where was the bath?! We were about to call the maid, but Tamara opened one of the sliding doors and… there it was! Light green tiles, a large white tub, and a MIRROR across the entire wall! They said there was no sex in the USSR, but we had plenty, and what a kind it was!

The “sexodrome” didn’t particularly impress me after the bath; besides, it wasn’t a wedding night anymore, but a month into a legal marriage certified with a stamp. Tamara went to sleep, and I went to watch the local kids beg foreigners for chewing gum. As I said, it was late August, and a piercing wind was blowing, but “we had it”! We hadn’t found anything decent for Tamara at the “wedding store” with our coupons, but I had bought a Bulgarian sheepskin vest there. It was so pleasant, soft, and warm, and it looked so good that someone even asked me: — Give me a cigarette.

What Georgian traveled to Moscow or Leningrad without a pack of Philip Morris in a cocoa-colored plastic box (acquired through God knows what channels) in his pocket? I handed him a cigarette from the pack: — Please!

Long hair like the Beatles, a brown sheepskin vest worn over a t-shirt, and shiny brown shoes made me look like a foreign “dude,” albeit a mute one (the flaws of my education!). I saw the cops chasing away the beggars while politely bypassing me. One girl in fishnet stockings even asked: — Do you like me? What could I say to her when my wife was sleeping on the third floor, and I barely knew Georgian, let alone English? I patted her on the bottom and said: — No money.

Heading back up to the third floor, I thought: — I’ll go to the room now, pour two glasses of cognac from the bar, light a Philip Morris, wake the dozing Tamara (she surely got enough sleep in the lobby), and hand her the cognac… and not a single paid “girl” in fishnets will be able to arrange anything like what we (supposedly) didn’t have in the USSR! Yes, I didn’t lose out!

In the morning, we decided to go for a bite and find out when the bridges were being raised. Strange thing: everyone in Leningrad knew when the bridges went up, but everyone gave a different time. It seemed like they were mocking us. Later I realized the bridges were raised at different times, and everyone gave the time for the bridge closest to them. At first, I didn’t like Leningrad. Bare streets without trees, courtyards like interconnected wells — it took three or four tries to find an entrance. For the first time, near some metro station. I saw the chaotic nightlife of the capital, with its bright lights, strange characters, and the unforgettable atmosphere of freedom that filled every street corner and phone booth.

While this was going on, the floor maid came in the evening and announced that they would be tearing up the bathroom in the morning. No, we wouldn’t stand for that! We flew two thousand kilometers to St. Petersburg just to go pee like we did at home in a Tbilisi communal apartment? There it was free, but here!

My hot head flared up, and I went to war with the management. I attacked with such force that they gave me another room — a junior suite, one room with a courtyard view, but with excellent plumbing. A fool would have been happy, but not me — I slammed my fist on the desk: — I will not live in anything halfway in this hotel! If you don’t stop the renovation in my suite right now or give me another one just like it, I won’t stay in this hotel for another minute!

Tamara didn’t even have time to exhale during this tirade! She finally exhaled on the street, where our suitcases stood at our feet.

Part 2

Sometimes even forty-eight hours can change a person’s behavior. I was no longer the same Yura who had arrived in Leningrad two days ago. I hailed a taxi and commanded:

— Driver, to the Hotel Leningrad!

After buying a beautiful box of small pastries along the way, we entered the lobby of the hotel’s central building. The girls at the reception were drinking coffee, and a “NO VACANCIES” sign was prominently displayed. Leaving Tamara in the cafeteria, I approached them:

— Is it possible for me to get a coffee too? — The cafe is right across from here; you can order there. — Girls, here’s the situation: my wife is sitting right there in the cafeteria — I gestured casually toward the cafe. — As we walked past you, I pointed out how young and pretty you are, which, of course, I shouldn’t have done. When we got to the cafe, she said, “Go on then, go ask those beauties for a coffee and let’s see them hit you with a shoe.” I quickly explained that we’re from Tbilisi and our women are very jealous.

Tamara, of course, had no idea about my impromptu performance. The girls burst out laughing: — Won’t she kill us? — Not at all, I’ll take every dagger strike myself!

I opened the box of pastries I’d been keeping “in the wings,” and we peacefully sipped coffee together. — So, are you all native Leningraders? — Yes! — Then tell me, who loaded the cannon on the Aurora on that momentous day?

Puzzled smiles appeared on their sweet faces. — My grandfather, Kupriyan Stepanovich Yakunin! — Oh, so you’re a celebrity in Leningrad! — Of course! And surely in Leningrad, the cradle of the Revolution, in a hotel with the same name, there’s a room for the grandson of such a man — especially since I’m on my honeymoon. — And won’t your wife divorce you for flirting with us?