Pulsar

"I'm married." The incredibly hot brunette who was grinding her ass into my crotch on the dance floor panted into my ear, her hand reaching over her shoulder and caressing my head and her other hand forcefully moving my fingers across her belly. "What?!!" I exlclaimed. "You're...like...20!" She took hold of my free hand and did a little tango-like spin before crushing her perky body into my chest and said "My husband is the bartender." I pulled away from this lithe little nympho and stopped dancing. "What?!?" I shouted above the pounding trance music that is blared in all Russian clubs. "He's 14!!!"

Quagmire and I had explored the Moscow region night scene during our holiday break and found this happening nightclub in Mytischi, called "Pulsar", where the women are super-hot and the music is corny and the beer is over-priced.

Tonight we had, together with Wonderpants, Gem and Ms. Australia, gone to Starlight Diner, a Russian take on American diner food, and drank several gallons of beer (and ate several pounds of beef). Gem writes for an English-language newspaper in Moscow and does reviews of Moscow's restaurants and clubs. Tonight she was reviewing a so-called karaoke bar in the center of Moscow, near the Kremlin.

We got in free (there was a 2,000 rouble cover charge...about $60) because of Gem's review and I ended up wailing out "Twist and Shout" with Gem and "Friends In Low Places" with Wonderpants in front of a dozen Russians. We drank a bunch of beer there, as well.

After the karaoke bar Wonderpants went to a Russian friend's flat while Quagmire, Gem, Ms. Australia and I went to a really happening nightclub in Moscow where University students congregated and cleavage exposed itself more than the beer flowed. A Russian rock band jammed on the stage and, for all intents and purposes, it was a great club (if only I can remember the name). Quagmire and I were chatting up two slavic blondes in tight black shirts when I spotted Gem and Ms. Australia making a break for the door. Suddenly we were alone and unable to speak Russian. Well, between the two of us we can get by. We finished our beers, went outside and hailed a gypsy cab.

"Mytischi stanzia. Vo-syet-sot roubli?" We asked the driver ("Mytischi station. 800 roubles?") The toothless old man in the Lada nodded his head "Da! Da!"

30 minutes later Quagmire and I had gone through feis kontrol and were drinking beer in Pulsar. All the Mytischi youth were out and Quagmire and I, after many hours of drinking, were in a "Let's talk to chicks" mood. We spotted two girls near the bar, one a long-haired brunette with a low-cut black blouse and tight jeans and the other a tall and short-haired girl wearing the same outfit. Quagmire, who is single, asked me to play wingman and distract the short-haired girl while he hit on the brunette beauty. I started up a conversation with the girl by using the most interesting thing any Russian girl hears in her life. "Hello. Do you speak English?"

The girl spoke English but she was boring as hell and I was hard-pressed to carry on a conversation until I saw that Quagmire was bombing hard with her friend. "Well, goodbye! Paka!" I said and grabbed Quagmire by the arm and dragged him back to the bar.

The club was blaring trance and house, spotlights were dancing across the sea of young people on the floor, and a hundred nubile Russian girls were shakin' and bakin' to the tunes. That's when we spotted a blonde beauty in an almost business-like suit and her brunette friend, wearing an extremely tight white t-shirt and low-cut, belly-revealing jeans sitting at the bar and giving us the "eye" (if you don't the "eye", stop reading this blog).

"I want the blonde" Quagmire stated. As a guy who has an incredibly hot Russian girlfriend, I wasn't cruising but was only there to admire and, if need be, help my buddy out. We went over to the two girls and opened a conversation with the standard "Hey, I speak English! Wanna fuck?"

The two girls knew us, however. They are both waitresses at Ekspronto, the Italian pizza place in Mytischi that we frequent. The blonde, who Quagmire had his sights set on, was not interested but the lithe little brunette was game for me. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun and she had glitter in her eye-shadow and her highlights, and her low-cut t-shirt and beautiful brown eyes created an aura of slutty seduction.

"Do you dance?" She asked me, after exchanging information and realizing that we sort-of knew each other. I looked at the smooth tanned skin of the nape of her neck and cleavage and said "Damn right I dance!" She took me by the hand and dragged me to the center of the sea of dancing people and proceeded to writhe and grind me. As a typical North American prude I was conservative (Russians can't dance; 90 years of Soviet conservatism has ingrained itself so much into the culture that the ability to bop one's head in rythm to the music makes one as good of a dancer as, say, Micheal Jackson).

She grabbed my hands and forced them to feel her up. From her tight belly with it's sparkling faux-diamond jewel to her perky breasts, I had a near-pornographic dance. Then, out of nowhere, she told me that she was married.

That's when I stopped dancing and stared at her in shock. "Won't your husband be angry?" I asked, looking back at the skinny 14-year old behind the bar. "No, we like group sex." she replied, matter-of-factly. I might have choked on my own saliva. At the very least I nearly fell over. I don't quite remember.

Then, at the worst possible moment, Quagmire started to shove and fight with a Russian guy in a pin-striped shirt. Unable to leave Quagmire to fend for himself, I left the nubile, perky, beautiful orgy-loving girl and moved in behind the guy Quagmire was wrestling with. Apparently the blonde that Quagmire was intent on taking home was the "property" of the Russian mafia, and her boyfriend was not happy about the American's intrusion.

"Mafia! I am mafia! Fuck you!" The guy in the striped shirt kept shouting. "Fuck off! You loser!" Quagmire shouted back. "Dude!" I shouted at both of them.

To make a long story short, and for reasons I can't explain, Quagmire ended up going home alone, the hot brunette swinging waitress vanished into the dance floor, and I ended up with the mafia guy's phone number.