The lady with the crucifix, or, the long-awaited third guest blog post.

Nestor Bailly, a previous Green Straw blogger, has recently embarked on a new financial venture. Rather than elaborate much further, I will preface his second guest post by simply saying it involves New York, a video game centered on deer hunting, and a Russian with a questionable career choice. (This entry is rated PG-13, thanks to the Russian.)

Emerging from the subway, sunglasses already equipped, I confronted Union Square on a sunny summer afternoon. Tourists, hipsters, and normal people mill about, browsing art vendors’ wares and farm food brought in from the provinces. Various street urchins, of both the skateboard and ghettofab variety, weave in and out of the crowd, coalescing on the southern steps to see and be seen. A drunk Afghan vet accosts passerbys with tales of horror and savage brotherhood. Just another day on the town.

I was among among this seething mass of downtown humanity waiting to meet a special someone. Someone who I would never, ever have any contact with outside of this rather precise and absurd context. I was going to see a Russian Stripper. Not just any Russian Stripper; no, this one was referred to me by a family member. Highly recommended, and with a good rate.

I had a few minutes to burn so I walked across the park to the Starbucks, where I stood out front and stole wifi. As I checked my email, my imagination ran wild with the best possible (and very sexy) results of this meeting (“Oh Nestor, I don’t have money today, I’m sorry!”; “Well, maybe we can work something out.”), while reeling at the consequences if she was here on mob connections. The latter definitely being more likely, I decided not to act a fool. At least not yet.

After all, I haven’t had a great track record with Russian girls: One broke my heart, another was fun in the tent but got married two weeks later, the latest infuriated me beyond all measure. Why was I involving myself again? Every experienced man I’ve spoken to always says the same thing, “Watch out for those Slavic women; they get their claws into you and use you like a puppet! But damn, they’re hot.” Call it the male condition, but there’s something about that exotic eastern charm.

The actual reason, I convinced myself, was that I needed money. Beer is not cheap and Big Buck Hunter is expensive, as are hot dogs these days. I was not about to stoop to doing retail or going on dates just to have someone else pay for my booze. I also needed the experience, since a significant portion of my short-term future hinges on meetings like this. It had to go well enough that she would want to see me again, adding to the pressure.

A New York City Dive Bar Staple, Apparently.

Again and again I imagined the planned stages of our encounter. Introduction, to build trust and learn about each other. The lead-in, to interest and engage her. The pre-activity play exercises, to get her ready and excited. The rest I was going to improvise, based on my impression of her and what she wanted. I pride myself on being able to give what they want while achieving my goals at the same time. That’s the kind of ability you’re born with; I didn’t learn it during my training.

As her lateness dragged into the 10th minute, I began to get nervous. What if I’ve misjudged her experience? She is a stripper, but that doesn’t necessarily mean much beyond that, right? How long has she been in this country? Why is she even here? Is she blonde? These questions raced through my mind as I tried to find her in the crowd; “No, she’s too lanky. That one? Nah, too uncoordinated and too pretty. What about her? Well, it is dark in those clubs… Her? God, I hope so.”

Wishful thinking for the most part. Her tardiness approached unprofessional levels and as I prepared to text her and leave I felt a slight touch on the arm. I turned around and was confronted by something…totally understandable. Totally predictable, the very Platonic image of Russian Stripper. I was a fool to imagine anything else, and now cannot do so.

Jet black hair, straight and flat as pleather jeggings. Total babyface complete with the meaningless, on-command smile. Enough eye contact to effectively feign attention.  Thankfully, a well-toned body tastefully adorned with the obligatory small crucifix necklace and a ‘Liquid Space Team’ Armani tank top, balancing atop what looked like two jean-wrapped pipes where her legs should be. Aww yea.

“Nestor? Hi, I am here for English grammar lesson?” Yes you are, yes you certainly are. Just don’t forget to pay me.

To close, Nestor would like me to take the opportunity to promote his twitter, which I define as a “20-something’s commentary on contemporary New York living.”


One response to “The lady with the crucifix, or, the long-awaited third guest blog post.

  1. Pingback: The Almighty and His[Her] Peaches | Living on a Latte and a Prayer

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