February 29, 2008
Nadia The Evil Great


cydytame056.jpg If Michelle exemplifies one type of woman to whom I feel an immediate attraction, the woman who serves for exemplar of my other type would have to be this stripper on whom I had a terrible, burning, yearning, puppy-dog completely unrequited crush, so unrequited in fact that I’m quite sure my existence barely registered. Her name was Nadia; she was Russian, and she was tongue-lollingly gorgeous.

Nadia serves as exemplar for a type of female beauty that infallibly slays me and of whose unquestionable slaying ability I am not proud. Nadia was stereotypically beautiful, though stereotypically in a somewhat razor-edged way. She was tall, about 5′9″, with long vodka legs-strong, high-proof and liquid-that flowed into the dual curves of her ass and then into her sinuous back. She had a narrow waist, strong, wide shoulders, and esculent breasts, big, ripe and mango-shaped. Her skin was white, her hair blunt-cut, her cheekbones predatory, her lips fulsomely red, her eyes calculating narrow almond slits.

Nadia looked like an evil comic book character come to life. Were she drawn, she would be inked all over in some glinting blue-black ink. She looked like she should be armed at all times, clad in some intergalactic skin-tight fabric, her hair blown back fetchingly by some invisible breeze. She held the improbable body of a Playboy model with a dangerous attitude. It was a compelling combination.

I wanted her violently. Excruciatingly. Awesomely.

I could not tell you the number of times I laid in my bed diddling myself with visions of Nadia’s dancing dancing in my head. She took the stage by storm (you see, so stereotypical was Nadia that escape from cliché is impossible. She demands to slide as neatly into archetype as any myth. She fits her stereotype like a slender hand in a hideously expensive leather glove). She slithered around the pole with an insouciant look on her face. Maybe she was bored to be there; maybe her face knew no other expression. Maybe she realized how much her patent disregard for everyone in FlashDancers served to make us all slaves to her Queeny bidding. Whatever. She was a goddess.

I would lie in bed, one-two-three-five fingers busy on, in and around my pussy as I dreamt up ways to enjoy that liquid body, those mango breasts, that white skin, those crimson lips, and that magic cunt that I could only imagine having never born witness to it. In my imagination, Nadia’s pussy tasted like salty honey; in my imagination, her clit was as big and demanding as a ripe raspberry. In my imagination, Nadia’s glacial demeanor warmed to lava passion. In my imagination, erotic clichés were like MacDonald’s on a roadtrip: inevitable and regrettably unavoidable.

Nadia was not a nice person. She wasn’t a mean person either. She just never really seemed to exist on the same plane on as the rest of us. In part, it was her Slavic reserve and émigré’s single-minded resolve to make serious money; most of the Russian girls grouped together, chatting in their husky patois, smoking ultra-light cigarettes, until customers arrived and then they’d descend like sharks on pod of bobbing toddlers. Very few of them would chat with the other girls of any nationality. While the Latinas and the Israelis were less clannish, making friends often with those of us born in the U.S. of A, the Russians had a tendency to band together. But Nadia rarely spoke even to her Eastern European compatriots.

She stood apart, unsmiling and dominant, and she didn’t give me the time of day, though it was not to my lack of trying. I pursued her, oozed gooey charm at her, tried to discern her sexual proclivities, and to a lesser extent her interests, goals, and day-to-day life. See, the other thing I’m not proud of, the thing aside from my attraction to Nadia’s pure and shining stereotypy, is the fact that she was very much an object to me. I was not compelled by Nadia’s sterling personality, her winning ways with people and puppies, her sense of humor, her shining intellect. I wanted her for her lethal body, her dangerous hair, her cold disdain. I wanted her for my idea of her.

And maybe she knew it. Maybe she had lived long enough in that graphic novel of a body to discern that most people reacted to her as if she were just these two dimensions upon which, like a movie, they could project their desires and fears and all the stuff that lay in between those kissing cousins of emotional response. Maybe she actively rejected us because she was tired of being the passive recipient.

It didn’t matter. At the end of the night, I would be in my bed, hands lubed and fingers slick, my private inky-blue movie of Nadia’s privates playing in the endless peepshow of my mind. Her fingers cruel and cunningly employed where mine were. Her pussy fire-grinding against mine. Her mouth open, teeth bared as those of a Modigliani nude, ready to descend on my mouth, my nipples, my pussy in a vampiric kiss of unspeakable delight and beauteous evil. At the end of the inky night, or in the apricot hours of the next afternoon, in my mind Nadia played as I wanted her to, she plied her body as I wanted her to, she came like a shuddering animal when I wanted her to. And so did I.


Comments

One Response to “Nadia The Evil Great”

  1. janeyruth on February 29th, 2008 10:36 pm

    Wow!

    I am curious whether, in your fantasy, there’s any post-coital chat and, if so, what about? I’m almost tempted to write one, but part of me says she leaves once the deed is done. What say you?

    http://janeyruthsscreenplays.blogspot.com/

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