SEX WITHOUT BORDERS
The site’s welcome page was plastered with photographs of half-naked models and invitations to enter virtual sex video chat rooms. Uninhibited Latin American, Nigerian, Thai, even Aleut girls were available to talk to you in real time. Nils was a member; he typed in his password and clicked on the banner for the “Russian Girls” room.
An auburn-haired girl with a clipped-on hair extension, wearing a skimpy slip, sat on a sofa in front of her computer, fanning herself with an out-of-date issue of Liza magazine. She looked bored.
Noticing that a member had logged on, she perked up, bared a mouthful of even, white teeth, and waved seductively into her webcam. There was picture, but no sound. Smiling, she began typing her own brand of broken English into the chat box:
Hi cowboy! What’s your name?
Peter typed in his answer: My name is Peter. I’m from the Netherlands. Let’s talk!
Sure Peter! With all my pleasure… What do you want me… to tell about?
The girl cast an anxious glance at the clock displayed in the lower right corner of her screen. Every hour of commercial chat cost the “member” fifty euros. The girls got forty percent of the final tally. But her contract specified that unless she can keep the client online for at least ten minutes, she gets nothing.
My name is Tanya. I’m 19 years old. And I like to talk with guys about desires… Also I like to show my body…
To keep Peter’s attention, the girl somewhat abruptly lowered the left strap of her slip, exposing half of her breast.
That’s nice. U R beautiful.
Nils scooted his chair back slightly, loosened his belt and slipped his hand through his fly.
I don’t have much experience in love and sex. Indeed, I’m just a little girl, you see. Do you like foolish little girls like me?
The girl lowered the other strap and exposed the upper part of her breasts down to the edge of her bra, which, modest girl that she was, she evidently never removed, even in the tanning booth.
Yeah, baby, go on!
I think that you are very handsome. Oh, let me imagine, you are a big man with great gadget. And you know how to do all these nasty things with girls.
Yessss, I do, baby.
Can you teach me? Please, say to me, how can I give pleasure to you?
The model hitched up her slip, and the edge of her white panties peeked out from underneath.
Tell me about your country.
Sorry?
Tell me about Russia, baby.
Oh… Russia, yes…
The girl hesitated. She hadn’t encountered this particular perversion before. She was usually asked to spread her legs and expose herself, to get down on all fours and poke various objects into her various orifices, but no one had ever asked her to talk about Russia. But she quickly collected herself, and began searching her memory for tidbits from her school textbooks or training manuals for tour guides and translators. Yes, she had taken English in night school when she’d been planning a career as a tour guide. Her original idea had been to take foreigners on excursions around the Golden Ring… But offering tours around her own body had turned out to be far more profitable.
Russia is a great country. We have many forests, lakes, rivers… Yeah, deep rivers. And fields with smooth grass, very smooth, just like my skin…
Tanya started to improvise, running her hand up and down her breasts as she spoke. Peter’s grip on his cock tightened and he began to stroke it slowly.
And what about people?
People are nice and friendly. But you are better, I’m sure!
The girl was afraid he’d get jealous of the male Russian population.
Actually, there are not so many people in our country. Most part of territory is a virgin land.
Virgin?
Virgin land. Ever waiting for strong man like you.
To fuck it?
Yeah, to fuck it over! That is our history. In the very beginning, as it is said in ancient chronicle, people of Russia approached men from West and said “Our land is large and plentiful, but without order. Come and possess us.” So it is now. We got oil and gas, wood, furs, caviar, and also plenty of lonely girls. We got many resources. But we have lack of fuckers like you.
U got me now, baby!
I feel it! And I’m horny!
Sing! Sing a Russian song, baby!
The apple and pear trees are in bloom,
Mists have come over the river…
Oh, yeah! How about poetry? Do you know any Russian poetry?
I think I do…
Let me have it!
Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin:
I’m writing you this declaration—
What more can I in candor say?
It may be now your inclination
To scorn me and to turn away…
Ah, shit! I’m coming! Who’s your daddy?
My daddy?
Who is your daddy, fucking Russia?
You. U R my daddy!!!
Peter came into a napkin he had had the foresight to stick into his pants and immediately clicked exit. The session was over. Nine minutes and change.
Nils tossed the napkin with his slimy unborn offspring into the trash can. Then he took a second napkin from the desk, carefully wiped his hands, and tossed it away after the first one. He sat limply at his desk for a couple of minutes, eyes closed. Visions arose into his consciousness: golden fields of wheat, oil rigs, mountains of diamonds, piles of bearskins, a castle with rows of severed heads adorning its walls, and, of course, forestfuls of graceful, supple birches. He pictured himself riding along a cobblestone road through Russian pastoral landscapes, encased in glittering steel armor and wearing a helmet with a splendid plume on top. Russian serfs, notably female, lined both sides of the roadway, all of them on their hands and knees, and one of them, a maiden of striking beauty, came out into the middle of the road to greet him, her master, with a silver tray bearing a loaf of fragrant, freshly baked bread, a salt cellar, and a small bowl filled with pure cocaine.
Peter took a moment to savor his dream, then turned back to his work.
He had to deal with a Russian complaint that had come in the night before concerning the quality of a shipment of frozen potatoes. The Russians had gotten picky lately. They used to accept anything, so long as the label said “Product of the Netherlands,” and never used to complain. Now they’d started spelling everything out meticulously in their contracts, and when the shipments arrived they would bring a surveyor along; they would fish around in the cartons, break the seals, and would call in some expert at the slightest suspicion; before you knew it, they’d be lodging a complaint.
It was the oil that had spoiled them. First oil, then gas. And the throngs of beautiful girls whom the Russians themselves could screw for nothing, but who would charge foreigners just for looking. It wouldn’t last forever, though. Their own Russian expert, a member of the Academy of Sciences, said that the known oil reserves would only last five or six more years. And, in the meantime, the Russians had forgotten how to plow their land and grow their own food. The time would come, he said, when they would crawl to the Netherlands on their knees for a piece of rotten potato and would beg the Dutch to buy their own daughters.