Thursday, December 15, 2011

The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov VI

Wilhelm Sasnal

The Letter

“My loves
have always
ambushed me.”
—Paul Russell,
The Unreal Life of
Sergey Nabokov

Oleg and I kept playing truant lovers after school. What else was there to do? What could be more important than that? Heading up Morskaya, past the gilt dome of St. Isaac’s and onto the Nevsky Prospect, Volkov my chauffeur & partner in crime, drove us for long rides throughout the City. Putting mileage on the Benz—swollen inch by inch, seminally stretched-out mile after mile…

Then, Volodya found one of my love letters—my True Confessions addressed to Oleg the Beautiful. It was none of his stupid business, but he couldn’t wait to show it off to our nosy, effeminate tutor. Our sniveling, weaselly, queer tutor acting simply aghast, of course, my dear… As only the most pristine closeted pretend-to-be str8t St. Petersburg Queen could ever be. Naturally, he couldn’t wait to show it to our father who read it carefully and then read aloud it to me:

“Dearest Oleg, I’m simply magnificently, morosely, happily, sadly, bewilderingly, madly in love with you. Your lovely great rolling Ukraine SOUL!!!” I wrote.

I blushed and looked away, hearing my father’s cold attorney’s voice reading my words like some grim court case sentence of death. My prim fastidious father reading it distinctly like it was the end of the world—as if it were some kind of damning legal document that doomed me forever.

He looked down at me. I cringed. Then he continued in his most extremely legalistically scornful voice: “How I simply crumble in tears and sheer abject misery, so full of dreary depression and raging rejection, like some weak, innocent, little schoolgirl, when you look at me afterwards. As if you'd expected it, knowing me better than I could ever surely know myself. Knowing I was the filthiest scum of St. Petersburg and simply totally the most repulsive male whore you’vd ever known. And you don’t even try to conceal your disgust from me—you let me squirm and cringe beneath your disapproving gaze. It's always that way, dearest Oleg. Before and after I make love to your exquisitely thick curved snakey Scimitar of Shame bruising my lips with such cruel succulent Ukranian urges...”

“The more disgusted you get, Oleg—the more I want to do you again and again. Knowing your disgust and repulsion will just get better and better, wanting to feel your disgust and anger all over again again—knowing you as only a famished lover like me could ever want to know you, taste you, become you the way I do when you go helplessly spaz closing your eyes in the Benz backseat. Even the chauffeur shamefaced, looking away...”

“Knowing such exquisite love exists only momentarily—like a briefly flaming moth in a candle's flame, that’s surely me, my beautiful Oleg. I can't help myself, I flame-out and burn whenever I'm near you, I'm attracted to you as both the beginning and end of me, I want you to kidnap me and take me off the wild steppes of the Ukraine so you can possess me—I want to become you the way you are when your slavic eyes slant into slits of love and the big slip oozes the expensive caviar of my desire!!!" Help me, Oleg, come take me, I'm yours...”

“If only I were some farmgirl alluring wench, instead of a lackluster, girlish, mincing, stuttering fool. Such irony with me ending up like my gay Uncle Ruka—haunted by the fatal hereditary curse on my mother’s side that even haunts my father's family tree as well. Here I am simply haunted by some blind remembrance of who I am and why I'm the way I am today. Yet everyone tells me its the wrong go all the way with you."

“Without anybody really knowing or understanding the engendering reasons why? While you and Volodya simply just laugh and shrug, taking your macho machismo masculinity for granted like the sun, the moon, the stars. But for me, dear Oleg—everything under the sun is cursed, everything has been totally, completely, unequivocally queered forever and ever…?”

“Oh, it’s fruitless, I know, Oleg. Simply utterly, completely, helplessly fruitless. It's worse than falling in love with the moon. But I can’t help it—and only you Oleg know what I’m saying is how I truly feel. That nothing else matters to me—except feeling and tasting and squeezing and milking the last seminal drop, the last oozing awful oozelette of jet-jizz out of your lovely grotesque huge veiny throbbing Cossack Penis of the Ukraine!!!”

“Knowing intimately the shame and disgust you must have for me—the same with Volodya, my classmates and family. The way you so generously are sharing it with me, letting me taste and become that imperial shame and disgust in the back seat of the fast-cruising Benz with you. Then calmly, coolly smoking cigarettes after sex, just like the adults to in bed afterwards. You are the only one, Oleg—my one and only Creamy Caviar Kid of Love!”

“Oh Oleg!!! Come, show me you love me—even if you don’t love me anymore at all. Even if you never loved me! Pretend you love this poor wretched creature between your legs—groveling at your feet in my father’s sleek German limo. Give me the only thing that matters at all—the sweeping, primitive, lonely Steppes, sweeping down through your moody Russian soul!!! Make it gush, spurt and ooze out my erect nostrils—great gobs of it, great wads of it like Runny Snot of the Gods!!! Oleg, oh my handsome, exquisite Oleg Danchenko!!!!”

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