Other Days Ch. 01


Before I get into the tale/tail of my Marxist mistress, let me explain how I got into this situation. I guess I can fill you in on all the details of my post-newspaper life in another story or stories, of which there could be more than a few.

OK. After being canned at the Free Press, I got the hint: No more newspaper editors’ wives. And the best way to ensure that was to stop working for newspaper editors. Soooooo, I got a job working with primates at a research center south of Lafayette, followed by work as a bartender, a warehouseman, a junior high shop teacher, and a tabloid hack. Along the way I got laid by cocktail waitresses, teachers, gossip columnists and a publisher. I also spent two semesters in grad school and two weeks in law school.

The tabloid hack stuff — chasing UFOs and interviewing talking dogs — led to my current work writing celebrity bio-books, true confessions, true detective stories and letters to Sexual Digest. (You didn’t think those things were real, did you?) I was also writing formula mystery novels until the publisher went broke.

The story begins when I was sorting out facts and fictions about a murder at the Soviet consulate. My problem was that it took the police less than a week to solve the crime. In fact, despite all expectations of silence, the Soviets, who usually refuse to talk to authorities about dog crap on the banquette or stolen garbage cans, for some reason were quite cooperative, the detectives said. Anyway, since the true detective stories are more about how the law tracks down the bad guy than the crime itself, it would take a bit of work to write a story about a six day investigation.

I interviewed the detectives, read the police reports, got copies of the police pictures: A not-so-big-shot diplomat killed a coworker because she told him she was pregnant with his kid. She wasn’t. Since the killer was already back in Moscow, the police decided to let the Russians do all the work and dropped the case. I needed more if this was going to work. So I called the Soviet consulate, made an appointment, and that same afternoon found myself staring into the large boobs of Natalie Ebabelnakova, (?????? E????????, according to the plastic name tag hung around her neck.) a member of the Soviet diplomatic corps. At six-feet-something, plus four-inch heels, she towered over me: Her boobs were just about my eye level

Dark red hair. Pretty. Early forties. She wore a long, low cut sweater-dress, gray cashmere with buttons from tits to ankles. She had on a necklace of small wooden elephants, probably picked up while at some earlier posting. Cambodia? Oh, did I mention she had large tits?

(I guess I have this thing for tall older women with big boobs.)

Anyway, I followed her to her office — she had a nice ass, too — where she supplied me with all the office gossip. There was a lot. I was not very discreet in my ogling of her tits. And I had no doubt she was aware of my interest and was complimented rather than annoyed.. By five o’clock — quitting time even for commies — I had a tremendous 10,000 word triangle murder story, replete with spies, along with a bunch of candid party pictures and an invitation to have dinner at her apartment… she, her husband, and their two kids. Deflation ran rampant in my imagination.

She had come around the desk to show me to the door when she delivered her parting pin in my balloon: Again her boobs were at eye level, and I had a hard time keeping myself from plunging my face between those Grand Tetons.

# # #

Natalie met me at the door having changed from office attire to sweater and jeans. (She looked great!!!) The husband wore his business suit and tie all evening.

No borsch, but the meal was just as insipid halkalı escort as the beet soup my mother once made — the emphasis on once. The husband was a jerk who, when not correcting Natalie’s English and his children’s Russian, spent his evening probing my political sympathies. I am really at sea in conversations about politics and economics, so I guess I rained on his parade. But I got the impression his inquisition had more to do with my flirting with his wife. At one point, when he felt sure he had scored debate points, he look to the ceiling and laughed. Being stupid, I had no idea what his supposed zinger was all about, and Natalie did not find it amusing. That was when she reached under the table and put her hand on my knee. I slipped her by business card before I left.

# # #

That night, I got a hard-on thinking how Natalie would look naked. I figured her ass was a wee bit on the wide side, but I tried to make a positive out of that.

As is often the case with us crazy people (I think I’ve already explained my bipolar crap), my medicines stop working and must be changed every few months or years. Mine had stopped working. But though I was manic, I was still a jerk and still unsure of things — I mean, Natalie’s husband was a big shot diplomat and she was certainly a dedicated Marxist. I was also a dedicated Marxist: Goucho, Harpo and Chico.

Not being real sure how things worked at a communist consulate, I was afraid to call her, at home or at the consulate, and after about a week or so I had given up. It was a nice fantasy.

Then one afternoon I got a call. “Are you busy?” Natalie asked. “Can you take off… no. I wonder if we could… Forget that. No.” And she hung up.

So, I was back to thinking of Natalie naked and whether her bush was as red as her hair or her politics.

That was when I had an idea.

Monday morning, I went to a wine store and bought champagne – and some vodka, of course. I got a room at the Doubletree and after taking a few deep breaths and a shot or two of vodka I phoned the consulate.

I told the receptionist I had more questions to ask Natalie and, when she answered the phone I said, “This is Jack, I’m in Room 909 at the Doubletree, with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on ice.” And I hung up. There was nothing to add.

Those were an awfully long two hours, like waiting for Santa Claus and still not sure if he is real. I tried watching the last two innings of an afternoon baseball game. I don’t remember who was playing, but I do remember they were teams I didn’t care much about. I tried not to drink all the vodka. But, I did remember to fill buckets with ice, one for the vodka, another for the champagne. I also remembered enough physics to put some salt in the ice to get it colder.

My two hour wait had made me more excited, and probably just a little drunker. After the baseball game I watched two lesbians play pool before sitting in the comfortable chair to read the New York Times.

I was doing the crossword puzzle when I heard the knock on the door, which I had left ajar. Before I could answer she was already in the room.

You know, she looked even better than she had looked at the consulate or at her apartment. She wore tight jeans and a low-cut, form-fitting red sweater. She still had a slightly bigger ass than my tastes run, but she still looked great. Her high heels were not too, too high this afternoon, but she still towered over me. She had on only a small bit of makeup, and a perfume that was sensual, not too heavy. Her bra just firm enough to make those delicious tits stand out but sheer enough to let her hard nipples show.

She shut the door behind her, and taksim escort let her light coat drop to the floor. In silence we walked toward each other until we were standing face to face, or as close to face to face as we could. Just standing there for I don’t know how long. At last I couldn’t restrain myself and put my arms around her and a hand on her neck and pulled her down to my level. We kissed long and deep. She responded approvingly. We fell to the edge of the king-sized bed and kissed and groped. I massaged her tits through her sweater and bra. Our lips locked together. Passion maybe, but it was more like lust. I for her and she for me. She began nibbling on my ear. I had no idea how long we silently made out on the bed, but somewhere along the line I had freed her tits from sweater and bra – she had one of those bras that hooked in the front, so I was a bit embarrassed when I reached behind her back.

Anyway, I lost myself in those delicious tits, dropping from time to time to nibble on those long and stiff nipples. I was excited and hard as a rock. I ran my hands all over her body, the sides of her torso and up and down her back. She squirmed a bit when my fingers crawled up her spine, counting every vertebrae from inside her jeans to her neck.

I vividly remember how she slowly, teasingly, silently unbuttoned my shirt and put her hands over my chest, sucking on my nipples until they, too, were hard. (Damn, those Ruskies know how to make love.) Both naked from the waist up, we pressed ourselves together to enjoy the feel of body against body. I ran my hands again up the sides of her body before reaching to touch her through her jeans. She grabbed me in the same way, but only for a moment. She unzipped my jeans and released my growing erection. I was gritting my teeth and trying my best to remember all those tricks I read about in a book about delaying eruptions. Before I could put my hand down her panties, she slid down and quickly removed my jeans and shorts.

Can’t say I really remember what happened next. But I do recall that she was soon lying on her back, naked except for the religious medal around her neck and the oversized loops in her ears. And me, my tongue was crawling up her legs, nibbling and planting my love marks as I went first up and down one leg and the other, each time sliding my tongue over her warm, moist muff. Her bush was quite full – and red – and the moisture on each hair delicious. She was moaning and whispering something in Russian that I couldn’t possibly understand. As I was drowning in her essence, she nearly shouted before clamping her legs about my neck and pressing my head to hold it in place. I didn’t mind that at all for her scent was ambrosia. Her taste, her love juices mixed with her sweat was unique among all the women I’ve known. As I write this story, I can actually smell her, sense her. Maybe it was because she was Russian, but I want to believe it was just Natalie. Anyway, I buried my face in her bush and tried to drink up all the juices I could, while sucking and biting her pearl. All this time she was still moaning, talking to herself in Russian and breathing hard.

I began moving up, intending to crawl up her sides and be smothered again in her tits, run my hard-on under her chin and over her tits. I wanted to kiss her long and passionately and be consumed completely by her smell, her taste, herself – if I could restrain myself long enough. Before I could reach her tits, she exhaled a deep breath, rolled me over, and went down, licking the upper corners of my legs and my crotch, her head with its ruby hair rubbing against me. I was already on the edge. I somehow kept myself under control, but I don’t know how – maybe it was that book.

(I şişli escort never did screw the hippie who gave me the book, by the way.)

She pulled herself up so that she was lying on top of me, my erection rubbing her just above the bush, and we kissed, long, deep and wet, just as I had wished. Even the way she kissed was exotic and erotic. I rolled us over and was soon on top of her. She jerked as my lubricated head was moving close to her rose and I was suddenly inside her. She wrapped those oh so long legs about my hips, and I was out of my mind with pleasure.

As I said, she was a great fuck. And I was trying my best to be worthy of her.

I began to stroke her with slow, soft movement, coming as close as I could to withdrawing and slowly pushing every bit of me inside her. I felt I was moving through her, pushing to open just enough of a passage to enter the deep, wet reaches of her body. She moaned and gasped and continued talking in Russian, as I quickened my motions then returned to a soft stroke. It felt so good to go from the wet grip of her muscles to a slight massage and back again. I had never done anything quite like this before, but Natalie was excitingly different and wonderful.

As her breathing got heavier and her groans and moans deeper and louder, I whispered in her ear, “Natalie, I adore you. I want to have you, all of you.” They were the first real words either of us had spoken. Whether I believed that at the time or not, it got me more excited just saying as much and, more importantly, my words moved her to break her own silence: “Take me. Take all of me, Jack. All of me.,” which seemed to get her more excited. She arched her back, and moaned loudly as she thrust her hips violently, urging me to pump stronger, deeper, quicker, and I complied. As her moans turned into screams, I plunged in as deep as I could, her legs grabbed me tightly and we erupted together, shaking and writhing in each other’s arms and rolling as one about the king-size bed. I must have spilled gallons in just a few moments of “Natalie, Natalie.” Then we collapsed.

We lay in bed under a single white sheet, holding on to each other, her delicious tits resting on my chest (How is it possible to forget someone like that.) The days of the post-sex cigarette was no more so we settled on smiling and feeling satisfied.

After a few minutes – 10 or 15 or so – I rose and fetched one of those terrycloth robes the hotel provides. I tossed it to Natalie and went to the ice bucket containing the vodka.

“Nyet,” she said. It was the only Russian word everybody in the world knows. “I must go home to my husband and I cannot be drunk.”


“One glass.”

For the next hour as we finished the bottle, she did most of the talking – she had a lot to say, things she couldn’t say to her husband or her gossipy Russian girlfriends. She hated her husband, hated sex with him, didn’t want to have his children and didn’t believe in his god or anyone else’s. But she hated the Soviet Union and its god, and feared she would be sent back if she left her husband. Two or three times during our talk, she nearly came to tears. It took a few deep breaths and a few shots of vodka to retain her composure.

When she stopped her confession/complaint I leaned over and kissed her again, softly, almost lovingly. We made love again, this time without the excited foreplay of undressing or going down on each other. Just intercourse, long, soft, and silent.

# # #

Though we made love only twice after this, for much of the spring met once every two weeks or so at a Chinese restaurant in Kenner. I’m sure half the couples there were trysting the night away, too. One day she said she saw her husband’s secretary there — with a guy who wasn’t her husband no less — and thought we should let things rest for a while.

She said all the calls at the consulate were taped, and that I should wait for her to phone me. I waited and waited for her call that never came. She apparently went back to Moscow. I fear my call that Monday was taped.

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