Championship: Russians lose

All these days I only hear the feminine, languid: “Lord, how many cool men are around at last! Thank you Championship! They are about those who came in large numbers. They really like guests. The Germans are there, the Brazilians, the British, the Uruguayans, the Belgians, the Swedes, the Mexicans… Our women are literally furious, they are all in a sexual fever.

And I became very annoyed. That is, we, Russian men, are second-class? Well, like domestic cheese. If there is no French or Italian at all, you have to hamster the Kostroma. Without pleasure, by necessity. I even looked at myself in the mirror: what is wrong with me? And I remembered Katya. I remembered the distant June at the dawn of the 90s.

I really liked Katya: steep hips, green eyes. Razvka-student. It was the very beginning of the novel, so far we only kissed passionately. Once I came to her in the evening, she lived on Pyatnitskaya, the center girl. Parents in the country, everything is ready for our love. Phone ring. Katya is invited to visit friends. Katya loved parties, she says: “Let’s go together, it’s fun there!” I followed her.

The party turned out to be really cheerful, a lot of wine and even one professional violinist. And from somewhere there came a guy, either an Argentinean or a Brazilian. Either Pedro or Miguel. Plump, not at all handsome, but charming and good-natured. While I’m chatting with the violinist about Schnittke, my Katya is getting closer and closer to Miguel. Or Pedro. Then they all go to the balcony. The dawn was just beginning. Of course I’m jealous. I take Katya aside and say: “Do you like him, or what?” — “Yes, what are you! He’s just funny! Well, why do I need this Miguel, well, think for yourself! And gently kisses me.

We got drunk, very tired, wildly wanted to sleep. I put Katya in a taxi. My sexual plans were violated, but I believed: there will still be. And a few days later I found out: Katya is dating this Pedro Miguel. No matter how I found out, the world is small. I was upset, Katya’s hips and eyes worried me. In addition, she, the cunning one, also did not want to immediately let go of her thin fingers. But I did not hear any erotic passion in her voice. Yes, I lost. Some shabby Argentinian. I was terribly offended. Miguel soon left, and Katya? About her at the end.

And now that resentment is back. “How many cool men are around!” Look. And I? Why am I worse? And I began to think. What is wrong with us? Why are we bad? Why are we losing to these foreigners? And after all, it would be fine for stately, tall, wealthy Germans, descendants of Wagner and Hegel. Here one acquaintance, a girl quite intellectual, with a completely stupid face, told how she met three Brazilians in a store. And how awesome they are. From her excited speech, one could understand that she, the mother of two children, was ready to give herself to them right there, in the back of the store. Maybe she gave up, I did not specify.

I looked in the mirror again. Then he began to carefully study our boys around. Analyze in detail. And made simple honest conclusions. Our main problems are on the face. Our men have a bad, unhealthy color. Either almost purple (vodka, beer, hypertension) or earthy (vodka, beer, cirrhosis). Even solariums and country sun do not help. Faces darken terribly. Pale Swedes even look much healthier.

Our men have a dull or unkind look. This is generally the main Russian nightmare — our male gaze. Everything is in it. We live without pleasure, we live with apprehension and nervously, always expecting a dirty trick. And this look is the same — that of the fragrant owner of the Porsche, that of the star of the First Channel, that of the sweaty man in the subway car. All are the same. Our eyes are covered with ashes and gunpowder.

Here they will tell me: our life is difficult, where does a joyful look come from? To this I will answer: firstly, we make our own life. Secondly, the Brazilians are clearly not better, but for some reason their eyes are on fire. And most importantly: women do not have this funeral look. Our women. They live in the same country, it is more difficult and sad for them, but for some reason they have a different look. Lively and curious.

The whole world is delighted with our women. Any. I am sure that these fans did not come here for the sake of football, this is just an excuse, a lie for wives and girlfriends. They came to our women. The best women in the world. The most reverent, beautiful, desirable. At least take a look — how they dress up, how they put on makeup, how they walk. How they laugh. Yes, you can go crazy with lust. We have an endless women’s carnival. And ask foreigners about our men. What do they think. Who do you like? They will suffer, they will call Ovechkin. At best, the dancer Polunin, even Bashmet and Gergiev. They are beautiful, yes, but not quite ours, to be honest.

We have a unique division of the nation. Half are dashing, passionate women, the other half are dull and nervous men. Our men even walk around as if a guard with a rifle is behind them: “Look straight ahead, step to the side — I’m shooting!” We walk dejectedly, shoulders are lowered, how bad everything is, but it will be even worse. There is no lightness in our gestures, there is no good nature in our laughter. The mood color is blue.

With such external attributes of sexuality in us is not enough. Almost not. And that means prospects. A woman wants to feel the perspective, this is her physiology. A woman needs a healthy and vigorous macho, a male, and not a janitor, who has only one joy in life — a check stashed from his wife. Women value optimists. A man should smell like the future. Therefore, she will rejoice at any Brazilian with his wild monkey in his pants. And even quite restrained Swede. If only because he smiles sweetly and his shoulders are straightened.

The championship will end, and with it the sexual holiday for our women. They will remember these nice cheerful guys for a long time to come. Someone will surely give birth in nine months to a new Miguel or Pedro. But he will grow up here, thirty years later he will have the same earthy complexion and ashen eyes. Longing, longing, longing.

And what about my big-eyed Katya? She found perspective. A couple of years later she married an American, lives in California, a house with a pool, three children. Happy. He does not come to Russia. And it seems that she forgot the Russian language.

Source: «Snob».