It was a boring winter night during my senior year of college, and my roommates and I decided to go to the local bar and look for some man action. It happened to be “Sangria Sunday” (my favorite).
While I was waiting for the bartender to refill my second pitcher of Sangria, these three guys sat down next to me. The one closest to me was wearing sunglasses… By the way, it was 10:00 pm, inside of a dark bar, and obviously there was no sunshine in sight. This guy kept pushing his shades down, smiling like a pervert, and looked me up and down. He was just staring at me and I’ve never been a fan of guys who blatantly creep. When I reached the point of being unbearably creeped-out, I finally turned to him
“Can I help you?” I asked in the bitchiest tone I’ve ever had.
“You are vedy bootiful,” he said. He sounded foreign and suddenly the sunglasses at night made sense.
“Thanks… you have an accent, where are you from?”
“Oh nice, what brings you to New England?”
“Fishing. I’m starting new life here.”
“Nice, well, I’m Briana, by the way.” He grabbed my hand with both of his and kissed it.
I love foreigners, they’re such corny romantics, but it’s absolutely adorable.
“Briana, I am _____. What are you doing tonight? I’m here with my friends. They are American except for one on end. He Irish.”
The Russian was definitely not a bad looker; he had a pretty face with a strong jaw line, he was tall, and pretty muscular. Most of all, his accent turned me on. His friends, on the other hand, were not what most would consider to be “sexy” per say. Yet, I knew if my friends were drunk enough, they would totally be up to hanging out with them… maybe even suck face with one of them.
“I’m here with my friends, maybe we could all hang out after the bar later.”
“Yes, we would like it a lot, to do that,” he said.
We exchanged numbers and I didn’t think the Russian would call, but he did exactly 15 minutes after the bar closed. My roommates and I had some friends over to continue our drunken fun, and when the Russian and his flock walked in, the room went completely silent.
“Ehlow ehvarray buddy, my name is ______ and these are friends of mine”
Once the Russian accent was revealed, everyone welcomed them with open arms. Apparently drunk and stoned college kids get really excited when they meet people with foreign accents…for them it’s thrilling- like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs or something.
Later, the Russian invited me back to his place to hang out with him and some friends… and I accepted. My non-American buddies and I stayed up late, drinking vodka (of course), and talking about our different cultures. The last thing I remember from that night was saying goodnight to the Irish guy, and plopping onto the couch with the Russian.
I woke up the next morning, in my underwear, with the Russian spooning with me. Uh oh. I sprung up from the couch in a panic to find some kind of clothing I could cover up with. The Russian calmly handed me my surprisingly neatly folded clothes. He then grabbed a blanket, held it up in front of me like a curtain and looked away like a true gentleman. I was confused, embarrassed, and hung-over, but I must say, I was quite charmed by the Russian’s good manners.
The Russian sat in the backseat holding me, while his awkward Pauly D-esque roommate drove me home. “Pauly D” was quiet the whole ride back, but as soon as I was about to get out of the car, he managed to blurt out, “So, what was it like to sleep with a Russian? It sounded like you had a REALLY good time.”
The inappropriate comment made me turn red in the face, and although the Russian was genuinely a really great guy, I still felt like pretty dirty about the whole thing. The Russian ignored the comment and walked me to my front door. Yes, this guy escorted me on my “walk of shame.” What a gentleman! He kissed me passionately on the lips and then gently on the forehead. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like a typical morning after a one-night-stand. Maybe this wasn’t a one-night-stand after all?
For the next month, the Russian and I kept in touch via texting. I always got excited when I received a text from him. Here are some actual texts (word-for-word) from him, and you’ll see what I mean:
Hi, beauty, where are you tonight? Today was my Russian friend birthday, I just get back to my house, need only you for perfect weekend.
Honey, I crashed my Mercedes and my Russians gone to their houses. I have day off for next few days. All what I need its only you.
Hi, Briana, I’m good, was last couple weeks in Boston, cant meet you, but want to see such desirable woman. . How about you? What are you doing? Me and my Russians friends right now in Boston Russian bathhouse. I want to take you with me next time. You will like Boston, a lot of vodka.
Briana, Happy Birthday! Wish you the best, the world is yours! You very beautiful. I very want to be there, just can’t- have work tomorrow. Kiss you baby, sorry.
Sweetheart, you always perfect. Happy Valentine baby!
I’m not sure if it was his terrible grammar, misuse of English terms, the unbelievably corny expressions, or the fact that he wanted to take me out on a date to a Russian bathhouse- there was something weirdly adorable and attractive about this guy. He was obviously different from any American guy I’ve ever been involved with… and after some pretty traumatic dating experiences with American guys, I didn’t hate the idea of a Russian romance. In fact, he was a breath of fresh air.
It was one of those Friday nights I decided to take it easy. I had planned on doing laundry, wearing my ugly comfortable pajamas, and catching up on my TiVo-recorded Gossip Girl episodes, while indulging in some Ben and Jerry’s Fish Food, and working on the latest People magazine crossword puzzle. I realized I was running low on the ice cream and decided to run over to the nearest 24-hour convenience store to stock up. Since I wasn’t planning on communicating with the world that night, I left my phone in my car, while I ran into the store. When I returned, I had 10 missed calls and 5 voicemails from my roommates and the Russian. That’s when I knew obviously something shitty had happened.
Voicemail from my roommate: BREE! I don’t know where you are, but your Russian is outside blasting European techno and calling your name. I’m trying to sleep and I’m about to kill this motherfucker. GET. HOME. NOW!
Voicemail from the Russian: Briana, my sweet, vedy sweet American friend. In you neighborhood and need to see you right way. Call me. I miss you my sweet.
Voicemail from my other Roommate: Bree, seriously? The Russian is here for the second time. Please get home and take care of this. We all needed a good night sleep tonight and the Russian is ruining everything. Bye.
Immediately I called the Russian, completely mortified of what had just gone down.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“BRIANA! My beauty! Where you be? I just went to your house and you not home?”
“Yes, I know. I’ll be home soon. But please, just knock on the door and try to be quiet.”
“You got it babe.”
Shortly after I got home, the Russian tiptoed into my house. He was wearing tight white jeans, a white Harvard t-shirt, and once again, he was wearing sunglasses at night. We went up to my room and start snuggling. He kept stroking my hair and was trying to whisper sweet nothings into my ear in English… except it sounded like Russian mumbo jumbo.
“You are not like all American girl I meet.”
“Oh yeah? How so, Russian?”
“You are very smart and different. I like you a lot. You are my favorite of American girl.”
“I like you, too, Russian. Thank you. And you’re my favorite Russian.”
He smiled and held me tighter in his big strong arms.
Every girl dreams of a guy pulling the “Romeo.” You know what I’m talking about! When a guy spontaneously throws pebbles gently at your window, and you would either walk out onto your balcony or just simply open your window, as your Romeo professes his love for you. I’m pretty sure this is a fantasy we’ve all shared at one time or another, and almost never happens. Believe it or not, there was one guy who attempted the “Romeo;” except my Romeo wasn’t Italian, but he was Russian, and instead of professing his love, he blasted Russian techno, woke up the neighborhood, drunkenly screaming my name in his heavy Russian accent… Meanwhile Juliet wasn’t even home.
The Russian and I kept in touch. Time and again, we would meet up and have fun together (wink wink). I liked the Russian, but then again I didn’t think he would be any more than just a friendly hook-up. Yeah, it turns out, I was pretty wrong about that… You will see what I mean… later on.