There are special places in Moscow, and in Kiev — where it is almost always too too cold outside — vast huge places with ceilings more than thirty metres high. Foam rubber pits, sprung floors, large weave nylon mesh and competition trampolines, balance beams, roman rings… These places I’m talking about no one from the public or even from the normal State ‘spartakiad’ programs ever gets to go to. There is high security protecting against unauthorised entry. Today’s Russia, and its nearby, aligned neighbours are societies containing rich and powerful oligarchic people, secretively extending their influence and ties of power to many groups and individuals who are sometimes quite far removed from the actual social power-central base of the oligarchs themselves. Peasant-class women, rural boys, also the urban struggling classes… Some of these they take for themselves, to have as pleasure providers. And to train. To make them be able to do whatever they want of them.
Philosophers say the overriding theme of all decadent societies is boredom.
But Russia is distinguished from other societies of the modern world because during the years of Communism such a very high emphasis was placed on an elite and high-brow, if impractical, education for all — so that the momentum of all of that, means the people are even now still self-aware about the evils of decadence. And the ultimate beneficial consequence, is that even the oligarchs are self-aware about their headlong tumble towards decadence, and what it means – and so by luck, chance and a previously sophisticated education, they still in fact possess the necessary intelligence and intellectual tools required to be able to modify or modulate, what is otherwise and everywhere likely to merely be or to have become, destructive ‘social decadence.’
…I go to a place that I have been invited to go to. Generously, someone has commendingly observed some table conversation or other of mine. Even now I realize it was indeed probably this: likely as not or even very probably, during some recent recreational interlude I was making in snow-season Seefeld – I suspect… I had a sixth sense about it even then at the time. I should have been attending a huge international business conference there, but in fact I wasn’t; as in the case of course that I had been having far too many extremely late nights out on apfelschnapps, in order to have been able to have done very much of anything by way of ‘conferencing’ during the days!
By now though, I have since been given every bona fide including photographs of the client/subject — as well as money. Which generally tends to sway the argument.
All the same, it is bitterly cold outside here where I am now and even the expensive and well-protected limousine must have its heaters on ‘full’ to cut the freeze down to something liveable within.
I am myself of course certainly not personally poor in any case, and I have my own upscale North Face eiderdown jacket on to provide some comfort on top of layered cashmere pullover and IonX compression inner vest. But it’s still cold!
The limo stops right outside the brushed steel security gate in the expanded metal circumference fence. It’s no more than three or four steps to walk from the car door to the digital lock-pad. Sarcastically, the code key to get in is ‘1151.’ This is supposed by Chechnyen religious extremist militants to represent ‘Allah…!’
But there will be no Chechnyens inside here.
There will be a Russian Orthodox female, or perhaps even a neo-Marxist atheist, female.
It’s so cold I am literally shuddering within seconds. Briefly I even worry about whether I will be able to enter the security code. I sideways glance back at the limousine, which hasn’t left. But I manage to enter the simple code and the blue LED glows and the steel door opens for me. I run forward without looking back to the limousine, to the front door of the big industrial building, and again thankfully here the handle turns readily and I pull open a hissing accessway through to a small tunnel with vague lighting strips overhead hinting towards another door, this one with slices of very bright light spilling out through the translucent nylon-coated partial-seal edges that ran around its outsides.
What beşevler escort an amazing sight inside. Gleaming juniper root designer linings everywhere, birchwood balance beams, aircraft-grade aluminium equipment and steel-framed competition trampolines, beautiful bright new gymnastics floormats, vast wall mirrors against some parts partnering high-varnish sprung wood dance floors. And very bright lights.
And there right in the middle, in the centre of the whole place, was what was known as a ‘Nawch Vyead’ — a night fairy. Dressed dramatically in jet black leotard, lithe and trim body standing with one hand on curvy hip, hair of gold and eyes of Arctic wolf grey-blue. Cameltoe in shadow of black but with long, strong and powerful defined muscled thighs bracketing the entrance-way to paradise.
“Janosz. How good of you to come.” Her voice was not too deep but it had theatrical stage timbre. And resonated in short tight echoes across the empty gymnasium space. “My name is Tekla.” She said, without appearing or sounding very friendly.
I walked unhurriedly forwards, looking around me at the amazing training hall. She turned away from me to one side and casually herself began walking towards one of the large trampolines.
Fluently lifting herself up onto the equipment piece in one smooth motion she turned back again to directly face me once more but was now moving her legs to get some frequency into the trampoline websprings. One, one, one — toes pointing at the top of the pistoning, legs straightening for the drop like a falling knife — she quickly gathered momentum and was soon springing up and down simply, but at least ten metres into the air.
And then arms diving out to the sides and then coming back in again and then stretching positively out again, she gained enormous height presently and seemed to be almost floating in space at the top end of the piston and then suddenly executed a perfect front double summersault to a perfect and assured one-bounce landing, and then slowly half-step bounced back to the trampoline middle. ‘Plastique’ of course, was not only a word that meant a kind of explosive, but to Russian gymnasts and dancers it meant the fluent extension and movements that the top performers had.
Eventually she came to the edge and sat down, legs dangling over it.
“Hello,” I said, and then said her name: “Tekla.”
At last she flashed a sudden smile, which seemed at once sad and yet also filled with a self-possession that was unnerving. I noticed she had a truly great body: viciously curvy arse which swelled out flatter laterally now that she was sitting on it on the edge of the trampoline.
“You know, Janosz… When the FSB train us, those of us who make the final grade, get the designation which is very affected, really — ‘Carte Rouge.’ This means we are able to do anything. Anything, Janosz. Do you know what this means? I’ll tell you what this means…” She spoke without giving any chance for reply.
She jumped down from the trampoline. She was close to being very tall, almost standing eye-to-eye to me. In high heels she would have certainly stood taller than me.
She came up close to my face and spoke quietly; I could smell her warm pepperminty breath: “It means that afterawhile we get worn out, tired of everything, bored with every kind of lover… Almost,” she corrected herself. “Every kind of lover. And then -” She turned away and began to saunter casually off, back straight as a plumb-line, head high. “And then, no matter what I let you do, what I let you do with me, or what I let you do to me, you will also feel there is something missing, and then you will be disappointed. Or frustrated. Or worst of all maybe even bored.”
She spoke, fine, perfect english, virtually accentlessly.
She turned sideways looking back at me, almost downwards. “Janosz? D’you understand what I am saying? You’re an intelligent guy. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. Up to a point. Too much of the same thing all the time will make it lose its attraction.” But I didn’t see how I was going to get too bored that quickly with this woman…!
“Up to a point,” she echoed my words. “But you’re a clever boy, aren’t you Janosz, and you don’t believe abstinence is going büyükesat escort to be all that useful.” She made a gesture with a hand like she was holding an invisible ball and turning it this way and that. “All the neurochemicals and all that kind of thing. They’re not going to allow the desire to disappear, just maybe the reward.”
So this was the famous Nawch Vyead — night fairy. Or one of them, at any rate. She was strikingly beautiful. Full sensuous lips but something terribly sinister about the large, sad, slanted eyes. No doubt at all but she had the capacity to put a bullet through a person. …Fly a plane. Or jump from one at extreme high altitude. How was this a human being? It was impossible. Unless one accepted that the spectrum of what constituted human personality had very distant extremes — and this was one of those individuals right out on the edges.
“Are you telling me that you have lost your passions? Ordinarily the psychologists will say this kind of thing is depression.”
She walked back directly towards me again, and spoke again, and as she spoke she creased her eyebrows at me for emphasis each time she said the word ‘no.’
“No. Janosz. No! I am not depressed. Our psychologists have vast knowledge about all these things. It is you that I am considering here…”
Okay so now I was a little taken aback.
Seemingly from out of thin air she next said: “You want to fuck me, Janosz?”
I lifted a palm upwards. I was not sure I completely understood the point of her question.
“Of course and so you shall fuck me, Janosz. But afterwards then what?
“You know that my kind cannot go out in public, go out to public places so much. I cannot be around too many people because it is unsafe for people in our position to do that. I cannot be exposed to ordinary financial situations like a normal person might be — that is, to live a normal life; well certainly not in the same way that an ordinary person might conduct their lives. Which of course leads us in our discussion on to you. For you, are the one that I have picked to be a preferred sex partner. I have an extensive file on you… You are suitable on every test.
“So on the other hand though, I still have to educate you on the sexual philosophy that applies with someone such as myself. Maybe, perhaps, you are even aware of certain things, but then again I must be very sure.”
What is a ‘Nawch Vyead?’ I had been briefed on these people by none other than the socially famous Daphne G. She said the rich people all over Europe knew about of them, talked about them — watched out for them…! Superficially, there were of course the so-called air force ‘Night Witches,’ traditionally the nickname of the women pilots from the Communist-era East German air force — and from earlier on still when Eastern European women pilots flew against Nazis. Today, modern-era elite Russian air force women pilots too, carried the nickname sometimes.
But what people like Lady Daphne were referring to, were a semi-apocryphal handful of modern sex spies trained by the modern-era FSB and originally set up in high places among the oligarchs, but who had quickly become extremely wealthy and independent in their own right and now existed in some sense autonomously from, though parallel to the official State apparatus. For one thing they were able to find and secure budgets for strategic things that even the officials found difficulty in financing, if they wanted to, for their own necessary purposes. What things, for instance? Well, for instance, top quality strikers for some football team or other.
I realised had made well, if not a mistake exactly, then certainly had begun to shine a huge lighthouse lamp, back in a coffee bar in Seefeld, when among a small group of acquaintances I had said that I knew who Georg Lukacs was, when his name cropped up while someone was quoting from Anders Breivik’s Manifesto document being circulated on the internet. And to make matters worse, I had asked ‘well you know who Freud is?’ And of course they all knew who Freud was. Which of course certainly meant that I knew at least as much about Lukacs to link his name with Freud.
The modern Nawch Vyead were people reputedly with borderline genius intelligence çankaya escort and superlative education about political history.
Seefeld is where the rich Europeans recreate. Rich fields indeed for the Nawch Vyead.
“I am not super wealthy, by the way, in case you didn’t know…” I decided to confess suddenly.
“Oh yes, yes. But I know that.”
“And I don’t even have any strategic job. Or know any important people.”
“Oh yes but you do, know at least some important people…” She chided.
“Tovarich. I want you for your penis. I hope you can accept and understand this.”
I remained slightly sceptical about that but then being who I am I found her arse in any event more relevant personally than her potential scheming inclinations, really.
“You, of all people, Janosz, you – must know the needs of people like us -” she made hand expressions that implied I was being included in the ‘us.’ “The masses live inside their comfortable illusions, of course. We, cannot do that for very long. You realize this.
“No. The dangers of boredom for us, we who potentially are the truly decadent, must be obviated by some plan — some psychological plan.”
Ah… A particular idea was at last dredging itself up from my own mind’s archives. It was unfortunately quite true that I did have a quite vast personal knowledge of psycho-sexual literature, and ideas from that out of that field both avant garde and, quaint – or archaic, or even simply just whimsical and fantastic.
“But I seem to recall from some Austrian School psychological authority or other that naturally impulsed sex expression is self-adjusting and never should turn into boredom. Is that not the case?”
“Aah!! My boy…!” Her voice had suddenly changed down a notch maybe two, and now there was more than a hint of the olden-style Russian in her accent. “Now at last you show what you are made of.”
She raised a hand into the air and dropped her head down, her grey-blue eyes darkly flashing because of their long eyelashes and long slanted eyebrows above. The lights suddenly went down and deep blue glowing spots turned on eerily.
“Let me show you the most modern expression of pure traditionalist Communist socio-sexual ideology, Tovarich.
“You will be familiar with the Reichian psycho-sexually driven music of Kate Bush — in particular, let’s say in the example of her work “Running Up That Hill.”
Oh yes, of course I was familiar with that. Everybody should have been. That was the one in which she dances with her brother using Reichian sexual bodywork postures, and which contained some extremely sexually avant garde meanings, at least in terms of the modern puritanical moralising and current anti-sensual zeitgeist.
“You should know that our people had a lot to do with that production,” she said. “And now…”
She clicked a finger. “Experience our latest essay.”
But it was not Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill. Although it was extremely, extremely, similar.
Although the warehouse-sized space was huge, the sound system was more than adequate. With only two people within and lots of empty space, darkness and moody glowing blue lumes drifting all around the walls and the floor and over all the equipment, Delta Goodrem, the Australian singer, lightning cracked out in crystal-clear notes, a torchy song dripping with emotion and heavy beats and power-glam.
I could breath almost like, sharp ozone and electricity, crackling in the air… According to Reich, psycho-sexual build-up was intrinsic to naturally-driven sex impulses, and then a kind of an electric charge. Afterwards, there would be relaxation, which of course, was not boredom. On the surface it would look like boredom, maybe even sadness and boredom. But it was none of those.
Tekla, the Nawch Vyead came close right up to my face again, wiggling and swaying like a big blue-black snake. “Don’t you feel sometimes,” she said, breathily. “That just being together and looking at the other person and knowing what you are both about to do, all the things you are going to do with them, all those horrible things, those insane things you are going to do together — that just communing together in your bitter closeness of intimate, knowing, and acceptance — is one of the biggest thrills of all. Just imagine, Tovarich, feel my body close to you here; sense me – there is nothing at all that I cannot do for you, nothing at all that I will deny to you, nothing that I will not do for you, or be, for you. Sex is bitter sadness, Tovarich.”