Can't Let Her Go

Katya

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksdAs4LBRq8&

-just take me anywhere with you-

My parents don’t smile when I tell them I’m spending the night with Irina. They’re not happy, but they’re not suspicious. It’s not like I’ve painted my face or doused myself with perfume. They have no real clues to go on. It’s just the second last night before D-day. They’re anxious. The prize is so close. On the day of the exchange, they get an envelope full of cash.

The bear skin and hot water bottle are already at Irina’s house and I feel calm as I hurry towards her house in my thick clothes. I know I do not look sexy, but I will put some red lipstick on later. My mother bought it for me. It was supposed to be worn on the night I lose my virginity and the irony is that is the way it has turned out even though it will not be to the man of my mother’s dreams.

Everything goes to plan. Irina manages to steal a condom from her brother for me and by the time he comes out of the house after his meal, I am as snug as a bug inside my bearskin. It is dark and his truck is filled with building equipment that he uses for work so he doesn’t notice me.

The ride is horribly bumpy and my body feels bruised when the truck comes to a stop more than an hour later. Yuri jumps out and is soon gone to the bar where all his friends meet every Friday. I peek out carefully. There aren’t too many people around and good news … he has not parked too far away from the tavern.

I hop down to the ground, my boots sinking in the soft thick snow. First, I wrap my hot water bottle tightly inside the bear rug so it does not lose heat too quickly. Then I shrug off my coat, peel off the two layers of sweaters and the thick, ugly tights. There is so much adrenaline rushing through my veins I do not feel the cold even though I am standing in my blouse and skirt. Once I get my coat back on, I carefully apply the red lipstick, remove my head scarf, and smooth down my long honey blonde hair.

Squaring my shoulders, I take the first step towards the tavern.

Outside the door I hesitate, but only for a second, then my hand grasps the handle and I push open the door. It’s a long bar down one side, filled with smoke and men who turn to stare at me. It’s all about being macho, tough and drunk in here. I don’t know all the problems that plague Russian men, but I know a few. They drink too much, work too little, pretend they’re some kind of tough guy.

I look down the bar and there isn’t a single man that appeals to me. But then, I don’t need a man who appeals. I need a man who knows how to have sex. That’s all and the faces staring at me seem to promise at least that much.

The other side of the bar is all booths, half-filled at this time of night. Couples occupy them. They’re here for a few hours of fun. They throw darts, eat and drink, then maybe when they leave, they’ll be happy enough to go to work in the morning, not that there are a lot of jobs in this part of Russia.

I wade through the smoke, looking for a place at the bar that isn’t close to any of the men leering at me. A fear runs through me. This isn’t my territory. I’m a fish out of water, but I’m not going back. If I lose my virginity, I won’t be shipped out. If I lose my virginity, I won’t go someplace where I can be raped or killed or whatever and no one will ever know. This way, it will be on my terms.

Before the barman can attend to me, a man in a leather jacket smiles on his way over. “You look thirsty. Can I buy you a drink?”

He could be the one. I nod. Instead of asking me what I want, he orders me a vodka, which is fine with me. I’ll need more than one to have sex with him. I am conscious of every man in that bar staring at me. They’re all thinking the same thing. I swallow hard. “Do you have a cigarette?” I ask.

He produces a cigarette and lights it for me. I have never really smoked, once or twice with my girlfriends, but I feel so naked, so exposed. He passes me the cigarette and my hand trembles as I take it from him. As my drink arrives, I tell myself that the whole act will take only minutes. Once it’s done, I will not have to disappear like the others. For a while, my parents will hate me, but that would be better than disappearing into some old man’s harem. That would be too awful and to have my innocent sweet sister join me there. It would be unbearable.

“I know who you are, you know,” the man says.

I blow out smoke and watch him through the smoke. “Really?”

His eyes are full of curiosity. “Aren’t you supposed to be leaving tomorrow?”

I feel sick. I wish I’d never asked for the cigarette, but it is too late now. I hold the cigarette far from my face. “Does everyone know about me?”

He shrugs. “Of course.” A strange light comes into his eyes. “But the real question is what are you doing here?”

My drink arrives and I toss it down quickly.

The man takes the hint and orders me another. He recognizes my mood. He doesn’t know what I’m looking for, but he knows I’m looking for something. He hopes I’m looking for him.

I’m not. I need a man who doesn’t know who I am. A stranger who will disappear into the night forever. One, I will never need to come face to face with again.

Before the second drink arrives, the door opens and a man walks in. He is mysterious and magnetic in a way none of the local men are. Big and strong with a scar running down one side of his face. His eyes are sparkling blue, but … dangerous. That’s the only way I can describe those eyes, because they’re looking right at me, turning my insides into liquid.

I don’t lower my eyes because I find his eyes mesmerizing. They draw me in. Where did he come from? He’s not from here. None of the older men have faces like his. In fact, I’d lay a bet that he is not even Russian. He is a foreigner. A surge of unfamiliar heat rushes through me, and it isn’t the vodka. He has that kind of energy.

He moves down the bar until he’s standing next to me. The man who bought my drinks takes one look at the stranger and backs away. There is an animal thing about the man. He slaps money on the table. Far more than the drinks are worth. When the bartender arrives, he brings two vodkas, one for me and one for the stranger. Everyone in the bar understands. There might be a few men who would challenge the newcomer, but even those men don’t stand a chance.

Then, I realize the truth.

This man is pure sex. He is the real thing. He makes the movie I watched about the plumber with the big penis and the housewife seem ridiculous now. All those close ups of their shiny private bits over her fake cries seem … plastic and shallow. This man standing next to me is raw and primal, the manifestation of sex, of joining, of using.

He is Adam, the first real man. He is it.

I don’t have to look around to know that every woman in the room is lusting for him. There might even be a few men who would walk out the door with him. Yet, he isn’t looking at them. He’s looking at me. A shiver runs up my spine. I came here to break my hymen and I thought I would have to do it pushed up against a bathroom wall with a truck driver who hasn’t washed for many days, instead I found … this wordless, clawing need to go with a man.

I want to be with him. I want to feel him. I want him to feel me.

I kill the cigarette in the ashtray and we toss down the drinks, I will leave with him. He will take my virginity, then I will stay with him for as long as he will have me. Why do I think that? Why do I want that? I can’t answer my own questions. I have never felt like this before. I’m certain that I want to feel like this again. I want sex. I want him.

He seems to sense what I want, because his dangerously beautiful blue eyes never leave mine. “What is your name?” he asks in Russian.

This surprises me. I did not expect him to speak Russian. “My name is Katya,” I say in English. I don’t w

ant our conversation to be heard by anyone else in the bar. Gossip travels fast in these parts.

He seems even more surprised than me. He didn’t come to a tiny Russian town and expect to find a girl who speaks English. “Who else speaks English?” he asks in that strangely hypnotic voice of his.

“Probably no one else here.”

“Are you with the man who was just here?”

“No.”

His lips twist. “It’s good to know I won’t get a knife in my back.”

I shrug. “I’d still not turn your back. In Russia, no one trusts no one. We are all in it for ourselves.”

He nods slowly in understanding. I think maybe he knows all about being in it for himself. Why do I think he might be mafia? He looks the part, dangerous, lethal.

“I’m at the only hotel in town,” he says.

“Yes, I know.”

His eyes darken. “Room eleven.”

My heart is hammering away, but I try to keep my expression casual so that no one around us understands what is going on. “Hmm …”

“If you don’t come, I’ll understand,” he murmurs. But I can tell he doesn’t mean it. He knows I’ll go. He knows I can’t stay away even if I wanted to. He is the desire that cannot be resisted. I have never wanted to be with a man who was so sure of his own sexuality and power before. Now, I feel I might like it—if the man is him.

Everyone watches him leave. He walks out the way he walked in. It’s as if he came only to see me, even if he couldn’t know that I would be here. Of course, he didn’t know. I got lucky. He just got lucky.

“Who was that?” the man who bought me the drink asks as he sidles up to me again.

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“But you talked to him. What did he want?” he asks belligerently now that the danger is past.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. I think he just came in here to get a drink.”

The man’s face shows disbelief.