Confusing Times At A Russian Nightclub

"I'm married." The incredibly hot brunette who was grinding her butt into my crotch on the dance floor panted into my ear, her hand reaching over her shoulder and caressing my head and her other hand forcefully moving my fingers across her belly. "What?!!" I exclaimed. "You'!" She took hold of my free hand and did a little tango-like spin before crushing her perky body into my chest and said: "My husband is the bartender."

I pulled away from this lithe little nympho and stopped dancing. "What?!?" I shouted above the pounding trance music that is blared in all Russian clubs. "He's 14!!!"

A Night Out In Moscow

My  fellow teacher, an American expat I called "Quagmire" (because of his lanky frame and insatiable sexual appetite), and I had explored the Moscow region night scene during our holiday break and found this happening nightclub in Mytischi, called "Pulsar", where the women are super-hot and the music is corny and the beer is over-priced.

On this night we had, together with some other teachers, gone to Starlight Diner, a Russian take on American diner food, and drank several gallons of beer (and ate several pounds of beef).

One of our fellow expats writes for an English-language newspaper in Moscow and does reviews of Moscow's restaurants and clubs. She was reviewing a so-called karaoke bar in the center of Moscow, near the Kremlin. We got in free and I ended up wailing out "Twist and Shout"  and "Friends In Low Places"  in front of a dozen wide-eyed Russians.

After the karaoke bar, our friends went to a Russian friend's flat while Quagmire and I went to a really happening nightclub in Moscow where University students congregated and cleavage exposed itself more than the beer flowed.

A Russian rock band jammed on the stage and, for all intents and purposes, it was a great club (if only I can remember the name). We were chatting up two Slavic blondes when I spotted a couple of angry Russian boyfriends glowering at us. It was time to leave.  We finished our beers, went outside and hailed a gypsy cab.

"Mytischi stanzia. Vo-syet-sot roubli?" We asked the driver ("Mytischi station. 800 roubles?") The toothless old man in the Lada nodded his head "Da! Da!"

Pulsar Nightclub

Mytischi is a suburb of Moscow, just to the north-east of the ring road. Quagmire and I were both teaching at the school there and hadn't really spent much time exploring the sprawling burbs.

On this night, we decided to take a look to see what was happening.

Right next to the Mytischi train station, where our Lada-driver dropped us off, we saw an uninspiring square building with a neon sign that read "Pulsar" out front, and the unmistakable sound of pounding dance music emanating from inside.

where the women are super-hot and the music is corny and the beer is over-priced.

10 minutes later Quagmire and I had gone through feis kontrol and were drinking beer in Pulsar.

Talking To Girls

All the Mytischi youth were out and Quagmire and I, after many hours of drinking, were in a "Let's talk to chicks" mood. We spotted two girls near the bar, one a long-haired brunette with a low-cut black blouse and tight jeans and the other a tall and short-haired girl wearing the same outfit.

Quagmire asked me to play wingman and distract the short-haired girl while he hit on the brunette beauty. I started up a conversation with the girl by using the most interesting thing I could think of: "Hello. Do you speak English?"

The girl spoke English but she was boring as hell and I was hard-pressed to carry on a conversation until I saw that Quagmire was bombing hard with her friend. "Well, goodbye! Paka!" I said and grabbed Quagmire by the arm and dragged him back to the bar.

Quagmire and I, after many hours of drinking, were in a "Let's talk to chicks" mood.

The club was blaring trance and house, spotlights were dancing across the sea of young people on the floor, and a hundred Russians were shakin'  to the tunes.

That's when we spotted a blonde beauty in an almost business-like suit and her brunette friend, wearing an extremely tight white t-shirt and low-cut, belly-revealing jeans sitting at the bar and eyeing us up and down.

"Wow" Quagmire stated.  We went over to the two girls and opened a conversation with the standard "Hey, I speak English!"

The Brunette

The two girls knew us, however. They are both waitresses at Ekspronto, the Italian pizza place in Mytischi that we frequent.

The blonde, who Quagmire had his sights set on, was not interested but the lithe little brunette was game for me. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun and she had glitter in her eye-shadow and her highlights, and her low-cut t-shirt and beautiful brown eyes created an aura of seduction.

"Do you dance?" She asked me, after exchanging information and realizing that we sort-of knew each other. I looked at the smooth tanned skin of the nape of her neck leading down to the V in her t-shirt and said "Damn right I dance!"

She took me by the hand and dragged me to the center of the sea of dancing people and proceeded to writhe and grind on me.

As a typical North American prude I was conservative (Russians can't dance; 90 years of Soviet conservatism has ingrained itself so much into the culture that the ability to bop one's head in rythm to the music makes one as good of a dancer as, say, Micheal Jackson).

She grabbed my hands and forced them to feel her up. Then, out of nowhere, she told me that she was married.

90 years of Soviet conservatism has ingrained itself so much into the culture that the ability to bop one's head in rythm to the music makes one a great dancer

That's when I stopped dancing and stared at her in shock. "Won't your husband be angry?" I asked, looking back at the skinny guy behind the bar. "No, we like group sex." she replied, matter-of-factly. I might have choked on my own saliva. At the very least I nearly fell over. I don't quite remember. I stood there in shock as she went back to the Russian version of the twerk.

At that moment I spotted some commotion over by the bar, right where I had left Quagmire.

Enter The Russian Mafia

Quagmire was shoving and mouthing off a Russian guy with a bad crew cut and wearing a pin-striped shirt. Unable to leave him to fend for himself, I left the nubile, perky, beautiful orgy-loving girl and moved in behind the guy Quagmire was wrestling with.

Apparently, the blonde that Quagmire was intent on taking home was the "property" of the Russian mafia, and her boyfriend was not happy about the American's intrusion.

"Mafia! I am mafia! F*** you!" The guy in the striped shirt kept shouting.
"F*** off! You loser!" Quagmire shouted back.
"Dude!" I shouted at both of them.

About five or six of the Russian guy's buddies started to surround us. I grabbed hold of Quagmire and told him this wasn't a smart idea. He looked around and realized that things were about to go south, and then he disengaged from my grasp and vanished out the door, so I turned to the guy in the pin-stripe suit.

"Hey!" I smiled as disarmingly as possible.

To make a long story short, and for reasons I can't explain, Quagmire ended up going home alone, the hot brunette swinging waitress vanished into the dance floor, and I ended up with the mafia guy's phone number.

About Nate Drescher

Nate spent 10 years teaching overseas before returning home to Canada to start his own publishing business. In that time he taught in South Korea, Thailand, Russia, Ukraine and Poland!

View all posts by Nate Drescher →

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *