Russian girls come with a couple of certainties. They will treat your money like they treat your sperm, they drain it all, daily, with a smile. The only area they economize in, is textile surface.

It's harder to keep a Russian girl away from her two-weekly manicure and pedicure and near daily shopping spree than it is to keep a rooster from cackling.

Oljga has green Scorpio eyes. When she looks you in the eye you never know whether she wants to slit your throat or hump you. When she drives her fluorescent pink nails in my back, I never know if she didn't dip them in some poison that's gonna make me vomit blood. Strange thought anyway, my she looks like this giggly radiant angel. Still, I don't trust angels. And I don't trust giggles.

Four days into this escalated flirt/ hormonal rollercoaster/ budding relationship (??) my hands smell like this salty-fishy blend of semen and pussy juice. It's in the air, it dips the bedroom, the hall and the bathroom in some ubiquitous lecherous haze. It puts us in a state of constant arousal.

We never talk. We joke and we fuck, but we never talk. She's either laughing or moaning. Or humming. She likes to hum. Very zen, very hot, very zen. I don't know why we are always laughing so hysterically. I can't recall a single joke. It must be the exhiliration of an absurd situation. We met on a plane. I don't know what started us talking. I think you wanted to trade your chicken for my salad. I don't usually trade food, but it's hard to refuse a girl in a tennis short with thies that meet olympic standards.

We went straight to this house. It's neither mine nor yours. It's the house of a friend of yours. A phd student in engineering. Sasja. A guy with the biggest pair of glasses I ever saw, judging from his pictures. There's no vodka in the fridge and I say: 'He is not a real Russian.'

'He is', you say, 'a true Russian doesn't store vodka, he drinks it. Besides, a real Russian drinks cognac, especially in his class.'

There are two bottles of expenisve looking cognac on the book shelf of his study. The taste of cognac blends with the aroma on my and her hands, her belly and the inside of her wet thies.

'Where is this going?', I ask on the fourth day.

'With that question you piss in our soup', Olga with a mjagkij znak says.

Olga with a soft sign: Ольга as opposed to Олга without a mjagki znak.

'If you manage to pronounce my name correctly for this one time, I will tell you where it's going'

This mjagki znak makes the L sound like a French L, she tells me.

'You know French?', I ask.

'Russian aristocracy is traditionally well-versed in the French tongue', she says sitting wide-legged on my chest.

'You're an aristocrat?'

She rubs herself off on my chest and says:

'With a jewel like this, how can I be anything but royalty?'

This isn't going to last. I feel it. Girls like these, they don't stick around with guys like me.

On the fifth day we have to leave. Big Glasses Sasja is about to return from his engineering conference in Dublin.

We promise to stay in touch. She kisses me on the cheek, not the mouth, when we part. A doernij znak. A bad sign, as they in Russian. A doernij znak from the girl with the mjagkij znak.

I send her a friend request on Facebook. She doesn't respond. Russians use a Russian variant of Facebook, an actual friend tells me. But I don't find her there.

Two weeks later I see her in the main shopping street of Gent. There this small, fat, round, bald, pink worm-like entity glued to her arm. I hear her giggles, before I see her. We pass. She looks me in the eyes, but says nothing. Two guys in black suits follow them. Holding 5 or 6 shopping bags in each hand. They dive into yet an other clothes-shop.

Gas and oil money, I take it.

My friend sees my face drop and says: 'Cheer up, dude, you had four days with her. And it didn't cost you anything.'

'I don't know if it's such a good thing', I say. 'I feel like a man who was born blind, got his eye-sight for four days,only to have it taken away again. Those four days were so short, it's like they never happened.'

My friend shoves me against a tree and walks on, saying: 'You know what I can't stand about you? No matter what kind of delicious soup life serves you, you always have to piss in it.'

I protest. The soup was great, I just want more of it. A little bit too much, is just enough for me. And 4 days is far, far too little.

My friend is adamant: 'Cherish the memory. Quit yanking. Move on. What else are you gonna do? Stalk her? Become a billionaire?'

I read somewhere that lavender suppresses sexual desire. For weeks I wash my hands in seas of lavender. I put lavender on my night-stand. I hang lavender on my neck. Lavender like garlic to fight off the lethal attraction to a modern day vampire, a giggling angel. Olga with the mjagkij znak.

My friend frowns: 'You're excessive about everything you do.'

I don't answer. The lavender works. It's better to be always blind, than to be always blind minus four days.

20-02-2012 om 14:15 geschreven door Tederdraads