THE CHAIR (or A Mean Russian)

 Second Intermezzo: The CHAIR

by David Scott Hay

A Mean Russian

 A new chair.

Too arty. Not comfortable looking, not inviting.

Vladislav Vladislavovich Glinski scoffs at it, here in the front corner of the high-end furniture store, Highenders. Next to a collection of limited edition Higby pieces. And what was that smell? Varnish? Lacquer? “Bah, those kids,” Vlad mutters. “What happened to craftsmanship? Hand tools, da?”

In his day, Vladislav would build a solid chair and it would last. Become an heirloom. This one looks flimsy, leafy, half finished, or abandoned like a tree growing through a rotting wine barrel. Perhaps it could have been exquisite. Poof, like something the rich or the rich sons would have, never their heads filled with want or worry, but only how to spend, how to drink, how to mock. How to fuck.

Sigh.

Vladislav used to know how to fuck. How to court the women. There were plenty; more than enough to keep him warm. Enough to develop a reputation. Enough to get the occasional slap in the face.

Vladislav smiles, thinking of a particular slap.

Natasha.

Young Natasha. A wicked slap. Vladislav slaps himself lightly. His palm and cheek tingle. Natasha. With the birthmark, the big lips, and that high-pitched cat’s cry when she climaxed. Natasha was young girl, maybe fifteen, sixteen, but she was a big girl, as in stout; tall. So young, so full.

He remembers the first time she climaxed, the high screeching voice.

Come, Tiger.

Oh my.

This strong curvaceous young woman, squealing. Unearthly.

It had shocked him. He’d lost his rhythm, but quickly found it again.

Later, he would gag her with an old sock. Tie her up with oily rope, very lightly at first and then tighter, to the point where her eyes flickered with a hint of panic. A hint of danger. But he could tell by the way she curled her toes, it was mostly for show. And he appreciated it. Then he would tickle her big feet which always smelled like oranges. And she would laugh and they would fuck, and the squeal would not be so bad the second and third time. Not with the cotton in his ears. And in this closed chamber in his head, he would call her Morana, Goddess of nature. And death.

∞         ∞         ∞

Vlad shifts his weight from one leg to the another. The leg on the cane side. And then there was--

something stirs.

His penis twitches.

He thinks more about Natasha, tied up, the look of fear, her laugh, her body taking up so much space, great-sized ass and breasts all in proportion, all defying the earth’s gravity. The smell of orange sexy orange.

But no more stirrings.

No more.

It is the biggest reaction Vladislav Vladislavovich Glinski has had down country in a number of years even though his mind still yearns, still lusts. A girl passing on the street, a woman on the train. The L stop with all the young business women wearing their tailored suits and cheap tennis shoes. Perhaps their stiletto heels of their shoes poking out of their bags. He’d stand on the train platform for hours at a time. Sometimes they would speak Russian, usually none of the women in the suits, but he would hear it. In the evenings as the second shift launched. The cleaning crews. It makes him long for his youth, when a smile and a wink would melt the iciest of them.