LONDON DEC 2005 - WALNUT CRACKING THIGHS
The writer Paul Theroux described in his travel book the Iron Rooster how a group of Russian women - hard up housewives - tried to hook him up with the prettiest and youngest member of their group. They propositioned him in a Moscow supermarket, and then took him back to their grim high rise flat. They all sat in the lounge and the women nervously negotiated the price with him and urged him to hurry because one of their husbands was due back at any moment. They expected him to shoot into a tiny back room with the woman and get his rocks off while they all waited nervously in the lounge a few feet away. Paul's ardour was understandably a bit dimmed by all this, but the housewives couldn't understand his reluctance.
'Come! You are man! She is woman! What is problem?'
He eventually escaped, but on a cold November night I found myself in a similar situation. I was working as a night-guard at the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood- a colossal old Victorian building which confronts anyone coming out of the Bethnal Green tube station in the eastern part of London. Built in the shape of a rectangle, with sheer brick walls rising a good fifteen metres on all sides, it looms over the quiet park beside it like a stranded ship. I usually had the place to myself once I locked up, but on the night in question I had a surprise visitor.
Our Ukranian cleaner Roman arrived completely drunk at about ten o'clock. He was determined to go out and find a prostitute for the two of us. I had my psychology books out - I was studying through UNISA - and I was very coldly sober. No problem! We had a soft-play area - a padded room for kids to bounce around in - which was perfect for bouncing a prostitute around in. Roman was not keen to find an English prostitute: they are dirty and fat and at £40 a session they charge too much. For half the price he could find a strong Ukranian woman. Unlike English women, Roman informed me, Ukranian women enjoy having sex with drunk strangers.
Strength featured heavily in Roman's list of requirements. 'Aahhh, loooovly stroooong,' pulling a face like he was sucking on a mouthfull of caviar and bunching his fists out in front of him like a pair of arse cheeks clenching, 'Ukrrrranian woooman.'
I can't lie about this: I was shitting myself. I tried to tell Roman he could have his Ukranian woman all to himself, but this was unthinkable. 'Ah, Krisstoffel, come. Come! You will see. Ukrrranian woman is very good, very strooong, very clean. Not like dirty English bitch! I give you. My treat!'
What could I say? After a while it all started to sound appealing. I could picture this strong Ukranian woman with wicked tilted eyes and thighs that could crack a walnut. Roman went staggering off into the night and I tried to concentrate on Sternberg's Triangular Theory of Aggression - without much success. Three hours later the intercom buzzed and my heart did a little cartwheel. But, a voice dolefully intoned over the speaker, the night had gone very plogo (bad). After scouring the length and breadth of Petticoat Lane and beyond, Roman had finally found a strong Ukranian girl who was willing to earn £20 for an honest night's work. Unfortunatlely she'd had a few more hours of bartending to get through first, and Roman was too wasted from his ongoing intake of Vodka to wait this long.
He came into my office and moped around for a while.
Our Ukranian cleaner Roman arrived completely drunk at about ten o'clock. He was determined to go out and find a prostitute for the two of us. I had my psychology books out - I was studying through UNISA - and I was very coldly sober. No problem! We had a soft-play area - a padded room for kids to bounce around in - which was perfect for bouncing a prostitute around in. Roman was not keen to find an English prostitute: they are dirty and fat and at £40 a session they charge too much. For half the price he could find a strong Ukranian woman. Unlike English women, Roman informed me, Ukranian women enjoy having sex with drunk strangers.
Strength featured heavily in Roman's list of requirements. 'Aahhh, loooovly stroooong,' pulling a face like he was sucking on a mouthfull of caviar and bunching his fists out in front of him like a pair of arse cheeks clenching, 'Ukrrrranian woooman.'
I can't lie about this: I was shitting myself. I tried to tell Roman he could have his Ukranian woman all to himself, but this was unthinkable. 'Ah, Krisstoffel, come. Come! You will see. Ukrrranian woman is very good, very strooong, very clean. Not like dirty English bitch! I give you. My treat!'
What could I say? After a while it all started to sound appealing. I could picture this strong Ukranian woman with wicked tilted eyes and thighs that could crack a walnut. Roman went staggering off into the night and I tried to concentrate on Sternberg's Triangular Theory of Aggression - without much success. Three hours later the intercom buzzed and my heart did a little cartwheel. But, a voice dolefully intoned over the speaker, the night had gone very plogo (bad). After scouring the length and breadth of Petticoat Lane and beyond, Roman had finally found a strong Ukranian girl who was willing to earn £20 for an honest night's work. Unfortunatlely she'd had a few more hours of bartending to get through first, and Roman was too wasted from his ongoing intake of Vodka to wait this long.
He came into my office and moped around for a while.
'Aahhh farrrk ... very nice gurrl ... very strrooong,' clenching his fists and shaking his head wistfully; then snapping to with slavonic fatalism. 'But this time not. So! I go now sleep in soft-play.' And off he went. But I heard, 'Faaaarrrrk ... strrrooong ... ' as he staggered up the stairs.
posted by Krisstoffel at 9:53 AM
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