Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Nocturnal Visitors: 3 2 2

Prolog: In a previous post, I mentioned that three attractive women (and a middle-class Brit) had invited themselves into my flat at 4:00 a.m. to celebrate the birthday of the young woman named Julia. The woman named Svetlana had asked me if they could come in, and I let them. Svetlana called a Russian restaurant and ordered home delivery. Then Julia left, tired after a day of celebrating with the Brit, who was her fiancé, and I was left with the Brit, Svetlana, and Olga.

Of the two people who read these memoirs, one asked, How could a single man be so stupid as to let several attractive women invite themselves into his flat at 4:00 a.m.? I'm afraid answering such difficult, existential questions is beyond the scope of this blog. My other reader asked, what happened next? Answering such questions is the raison d'etre of this blog.



The conversation between my three remaining visitors somehow turned to which of the three of them was the best in bed, but the discussion was purely speculative since none had ever been in bed with any of the others, nor had Julia confided any intimate details to her two friends. Olga said something about the Brit’s hands indicating that his prowess must be in the moderate to good range, but Brit and Svetlana disagreed, the Brit claiming his prowess was excellent and Svetlana disparaging his claims. Obviously, when a middle class Brit begins to make any statements about his sexual prowess, it means he has consumed nine drinks, or, as the British say, ‘one over the eight.’

The food arrived—hearty pilmeney soup, Russian salad, and blini with red caviar. They’d ordered five of everything, and, after the hearty soup and salad, we only ate about half of one of the orders of blini. One and a half soups and salads were also left. We were all stuffed.

Then the Brit said he had to leave, and departed. Alone.

This, of course, left me alone with Olga and Svetlana, both of whom still had about half of a large whiskey and coke, which they both continued to nurse.

I asked them what they did, and they explained that they were women of negotiable virtue, who plied their trade at a popular nightclub near the Internet and Media free zones.

The sound of the dawn call to prayer wafted in through the window, and the skies began to lighten.

2 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi Random -
Please don't think it's just two people reading these ever-fascinating memoirs of yours. I am sure there are many, many people who - like me - log on and read with a mixture of horror and fascination at where your next adventure is going to take you! By the way, very pleased that you survived the encounter with whichever one of the F's it was that tried to kill you.
So - now you're alone with your two new best friends (for a price of course), the dawn is breaking, and the call to prayer is reminding you of the life hereafter while Svet and Ol are probably focusing on the next five minutes.
What happens? Does Random squander some of that hard-earned loot he got in the northern emirate; do the two Russian lovelies cut him a package deal; is it a victory for God or mammon; does his performance earn him a place in the Cyclone Hall of Fame?
And speaking of that - given your description of the seating arrangements in your flat, the boastful Brit, the free availabilty of liquor, Svetlana's knee-high boots, the sense of impending carnal adventure - does this mean that your apartment has become a sort of mini-Cyclone? Can we now refer to it, perhaps, as The Tornado?
Hopefully all will be revealed - and soon!!

4:26 pm  
Blogger secretdubai said...

I knew of a Svetlana who shared a flat with an Olga, and there was at least one "working lady" in that flat. This Svetlana was Russian Kazakh though.

2:01 am  

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