bad company III

    Harvard would not consider his application without letters of recommendation from his teachers. But as an emigrant, and a troublemaking one at that, Michael had nothing but scorn coming to him from the Soviet authorities. Even under the aegis of glasnost and perestroika, turncoats were not to expect testimonials. Upon his return to Los Angeles, Michael wormed himself into U.C.L.A. by way of summer school and extension courses. Almost immediately his academic course was bifurcated by his intention to read Les fleurs du mal in the original, standing at odds with his interest in formal logic. Michael’s curriculum comprised studies of French language and literature and the foundations of mathematics and intensionalities with Alonzo Church. Unconcerned with degree requirements, he haunted the Philosophy Department’s library day and night, writing out term papers in a single longhand take, with a fountain pen. He distracted himself by weightlifting and sword exercises at the school gym. The handling of his loud Italian motorcycles inspired confidence that reached unto their scuffed tire sidewalls, his toes dragging on innumerable canyon roads. His black leather outfit drew volunteers for bitch perch duty. As he pulled away from the pub at 2 a.m., his hair was likely blowing in the wind, his crash helmet gallantly adorning the head of a freshly bagged bimbo. Not that he was averse to finding true love. But such attachments were not to be found by looking. His father often regretted having once inspired him in a moment of candor compelled by a cognac fumes, to follow a time-tested recipe: «Всякую тварь на хуй пяль ― бог увидит, пожалеет, и хорошую пошлëт.» If he crammed every creature on his cock, God would take note of his diligence, take pity on him, and send him a good one. Continue reading bad company III

bad company II

    Eugene engaged Michael’s friends like a shark takes to a flock of dolphins. He fashioned himself into a stealth fornicator, confounding the first impressions that relegated him to the status of an inconsequential clown. He might have been that, but for the remarkable glibness of his dealings with women. His heterosexual charm was perfectly complemented in addressing men by his non-threatening demeanor. A less refined personage trying to pull the same stunts would surely have ended up perforated in some dark alley by the mates of innumerable wenches whom Eugene casually serviced in the course of a single week. Instead, he was lauded by both genders for his wit and manners. The perfect party guest, his entourage ranging from shop girls to society ladies, Eugene lavished equal though discreet attention on all women present. His discretion vanished once Adrienne, his breadwinning live-in mate, inevitably passed out on a stack of coats in the closet. At that point, all bets were off. On the occasion of Michael’s twenty-fifth birthday, Eugene’s company included a lanky blonde in spike heels propping up her six foot frame in an equilibrium mediated by tilting and clenching a pair of buttocks proudly sheathed in a white cocktail dress. Transfixed by this lascivious display, Michael connected it to the Japanese image familiar from his dojo mates, of Western women walking like dogs, upheld on their toes, heels afloat. As soon as Adrienne was out of commission, the sallow sylph boasted of going commando to commemorate the occasion of her own birthday. Eugene knelt down and lapped at her nude crotch, unfazed by the disparity of height straining his neck to a grotesque angle. In his conjugal loyalty, he excused himself as soon as his woozy mistress awakened and asked to be escorted home. Eugene scarcely absented himself for a half hour, which allegedly sufficed to traverse two blocks, exchange bodily fluids, and hurry back towards further excitement. Continue reading bad company II