Oleg Danchenko
__________________
“the tristesse
into which I had
unaccountably sunk”
—Paul Russell,
The Unreal Life of
Sergey Nabokov
I had to bribe Volkov more & more, especially that winter when Volodya was sick for a week sometimes. How many packs of cigarettes did Oleg smoke, how many bottles of cognac in the backseat, how many times getting the smirking young Oleg off in the red-leather cushions of the sleek old Benz?
Oleg hadn’t grown up in St. Petersburg, instead his family owned several estates near Dnepropetrovsk. Out in the wheat-lands of the Ukraine—came bread for the tables of Russia. His father's country estate would soon be Oleg’s. After he acquired some upper-class allure at school in St. Petersburg, he’d be to lord of the manor, instead of just a spoiled young aristocrat.
“I hope you’re pleased with your filthy self,” I heard Oleg hiss at me, as I licked my lips, tasting the exquisite cumly sap of his uncut gnarly Family Tree.
I didn’t care what Oleg said. What he did was more important—what he did to my twitching tonsils. I kept my eyes closed, tasting the shame that was beginning to coat my soul with the ultimate imperial slime. I didn’t even try to rearrange my mussed-up hair, my somewhat perturbed flannels, me down on my knees in the back of the Benz limo.
Instead I was completely, irrevocably inspired by those enchanting, enticing, smirking eyes glowing in the dark, the slanted high-cheekbone eyes of my haughty hung Tartar chieftain Oleg Danchenko—my moody, pouty, sullen horseman of the steppes.
“You still like what you used to want then?" Oleg whispered. “Tell me, because I know what you want, I’m no fool Nabokov. You’ve had plans for me all along, since the first time you saw me at school.”
Oleg smirked, guiding my dazed head and prissy, protuberant lips down again, down to his unbuttoned trousers a second time. Oleg’s aggressive young manliness took my breath away, I was doomed to be harpooned again & again by this young Tartar’s savage love. Oleg was only in love with himself—and I wanted to feel what he felt & the way he felt it.
This second time was a slow fuck—his leisurely turn to get what he wanted as if I were his shy petite girlfriend. Except he wasn’t very polite about it—nothing tres demure or even remotely shy about how he got what he wanted. It was just awful—awfully nice.
We were nothing but schoolboys but he was a man already down there and it was the man who turned me into a wide-eyed, ogling sucker-fish that second time. I almost choked to death, the way he almost snorkeled me to death—all the way down to the bottom of Neva, down into the sewers of love.
Afterwards, Oleg pulled me up into the leather-cushioned seat beside him, putting his arms around my shoulder. “Look at me,” he said. His eyes were brown with flecks of gold, they burned strange pathways into my pounding heart. I had to look away. He laughed at me. He knew why.
I’d tasted the ultimate thing—the just-hatched dragon spawn of forbidden love. The hidden holiest temple of male spermy sacraments—a nasty-tasting, smelly uncut, virile young sacrifice. At least for the moment, I was the world’s worst sexual criminal—like those cases at home in the den in my father’s books. I might as well play it to the hilt though…
We smoked a cigarette together. I had no plan. I didn’t know what to do with my life after that. Who cared? There was only him—that’s all I could think about. Oleg Danchenko—and when would I be able to get him off again? Twice in the Benz backseat—it wasn’t enough. I needed more of him—and he knew it. He moved the cigarette back and forth—between his lips and mine. Pressing his leg against me.
There were no stupid catcalls or adult mutterings of reluctant approbation. Only Oleg Danchenko and me—nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, him sharing it with me, scrutinizing me indifferently.
Surely Oleg knew—I was deeply in love with him. He treated me like a love-sick calf or girlfriend though. He didn’t take me seriously, after all he had an image to keep up with his boyfriends. The rowdy bunch of ugly cretins he ran around with—all of them jealous of me with my tacky fem invasion of their macho fun & games.
Why did Oleg like me? Volkov came back from the tavern, I’d bribed him well so that I could have the afternoon alone with Oleg in the Benz. Volkov gave me a knowing, leering grimace, smile and wink—and then we were off.
We drove past the snowy gardens to the quay along the Neva where tugboats were slaving away, the needlelike spire of Saints Peter and Paul rising into the overcast sky.
The wind was cold across the square of the Winter Palace where a coach drawn by Orloff stallions caught Oleg’s eye. He squeezed my thigh saying “Magnificent!” making me almost faint from desire. Ice skaters in Admiralty Gardens, Oleg’s breath fogging up the windows with his athletic prowess.
__________________
“the tristesse
into which I had
unaccountably sunk”
—Paul Russell,
The Unreal Life of
Sergey Nabokov
I had to bribe Volkov more & more, especially that winter when Volodya was sick for a week sometimes. How many packs of cigarettes did Oleg smoke, how many bottles of cognac in the backseat, how many times getting the smirking young Oleg off in the red-leather cushions of the sleek old Benz?
Oleg hadn’t grown up in St. Petersburg, instead his family owned several estates near Dnepropetrovsk. Out in the wheat-lands of the Ukraine—came bread for the tables of Russia. His father's country estate would soon be Oleg’s. After he acquired some upper-class allure at school in St. Petersburg, he’d be to lord of the manor, instead of just a spoiled young aristocrat.
“I hope you’re pleased with your filthy self,” I heard Oleg hiss at me, as I licked my lips, tasting the exquisite cumly sap of his uncut gnarly Family Tree.
I didn’t care what Oleg said. What he did was more important—what he did to my twitching tonsils. I kept my eyes closed, tasting the shame that was beginning to coat my soul with the ultimate imperial slime. I didn’t even try to rearrange my mussed-up hair, my somewhat perturbed flannels, me down on my knees in the back of the Benz limo.
Instead I was completely, irrevocably inspired by those enchanting, enticing, smirking eyes glowing in the dark, the slanted high-cheekbone eyes of my haughty hung Tartar chieftain Oleg Danchenko—my moody, pouty, sullen horseman of the steppes.
“You still like what you used to want then?" Oleg whispered. “Tell me, because I know what you want, I’m no fool Nabokov. You’ve had plans for me all along, since the first time you saw me at school.”
Oleg smirked, guiding my dazed head and prissy, protuberant lips down again, down to his unbuttoned trousers a second time. Oleg’s aggressive young manliness took my breath away, I was doomed to be harpooned again & again by this young Tartar’s savage love. Oleg was only in love with himself—and I wanted to feel what he felt & the way he felt it.
This second time was a slow fuck—his leisurely turn to get what he wanted as if I were his shy petite girlfriend. Except he wasn’t very polite about it—nothing tres demure or even remotely shy about how he got what he wanted. It was just awful—awfully nice.
We were nothing but schoolboys but he was a man already down there and it was the man who turned me into a wide-eyed, ogling sucker-fish that second time. I almost choked to death, the way he almost snorkeled me to death—all the way down to the bottom of Neva, down into the sewers of love.
Afterwards, Oleg pulled me up into the leather-cushioned seat beside him, putting his arms around my shoulder. “Look at me,” he said. His eyes were brown with flecks of gold, they burned strange pathways into my pounding heart. I had to look away. He laughed at me. He knew why.
I’d tasted the ultimate thing—the just-hatched dragon spawn of forbidden love. The hidden holiest temple of male spermy sacraments—a nasty-tasting, smelly uncut, virile young sacrifice. At least for the moment, I was the world’s worst sexual criminal—like those cases at home in the den in my father’s books. I might as well play it to the hilt though…
We smoked a cigarette together. I had no plan. I didn’t know what to do with my life after that. Who cared? There was only him—that’s all I could think about. Oleg Danchenko—and when would I be able to get him off again? Twice in the Benz backseat—it wasn’t enough. I needed more of him—and he knew it. He moved the cigarette back and forth—between his lips and mine. Pressing his leg against me.
There were no stupid catcalls or adult mutterings of reluctant approbation. Only Oleg Danchenko and me—nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, him sharing it with me, scrutinizing me indifferently.
Surely Oleg knew—I was deeply in love with him. He treated me like a love-sick calf or girlfriend though. He didn’t take me seriously, after all he had an image to keep up with his boyfriends. The rowdy bunch of ugly cretins he ran around with—all of them jealous of me with my tacky fem invasion of their macho fun & games.
Why did Oleg like me? Volkov came back from the tavern, I’d bribed him well so that I could have the afternoon alone with Oleg in the Benz. Volkov gave me a knowing, leering grimace, smile and wink—and then we were off.
We drove past the snowy gardens to the quay along the Neva where tugboats were slaving away, the needlelike spire of Saints Peter and Paul rising into the overcast sky.
The wind was cold across the square of the Winter Palace where a coach drawn by Orloff stallions caught Oleg’s eye. He squeezed my thigh saying “Magnificent!” making me almost faint from desire. Ice skaters in Admiralty Gardens, Oleg’s breath fogging up the windows with his athletic prowess.
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