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Before I can reply, a wrestler-like lady says something to us in Russian. Art replies with a wide smile, then hands her a wad of cash. In return, she gives him two keys, two plastic bags, and two pairs of slippers.
“Let her hold on to your valuables,” he says. “This key is to your locker.”
I stash my cell in the baggy and hand it to the woman, then grab my key and head over to the locker room.
Wow.
That is a lot of naked ladies. Hot naked ladies.
Damn. Do they not allow unattractive women in Russia? Maybe not. Maybe it’s like ancient Sparta: any girl babies that aren’t a solid ten get thrown off the walls of the Kremlin.
Thankfully, I’m wearing my bathing suit under my outfit, so I don’t have to be naked in front of all these supermodels. Then again, I won’t be able to avoid that fate on the way out.
I put on the slippers and step out of the locker room.
Oh, my.
Art is already waiting for me—without a shirt or pants.
My mouth goes dry. I’m not sure I could’ve masturbated enough for this scenario even if that were all I’d done for a week. Speaking of beating around the bush, this image of Art is going straight into my rub bank.
He thrusts a towel into my hands, along with a strange hat.
“What’s this?” I ask. The hat is made of wool and is pointy, like that of a witch. The design on the hat is vaguely Soviet—a red star.
He takes my hat and perches it on my head, then puts on his own—making it look sexy instead of dorky. “This is to protect your brain from the heat.”
“Here’s an idea,” I say. “I can protect my brain by not going into a place where it needs a hat for defense.”
“Oh, come on,” he murmurs. “I’m looking forward to taking your banya virginity.”
He turns, which is good, because I wouldn’t want him to see the explosion on my face.
Banya virginity.
Obviously, he can take that, along with any virginities I have left, be it anal, cock-between-lubed-up-boobs, or candy cane as a dildo on the subway.
Wait, what am I saying? He’s my fake husband to be. All my remaining virginities are off limits.
We walk into a hall that reminds me of a restaurant, except the patrons are all wearing swimwear.
Ah. This is where the food and alcohol aromas were coming from.
A round-cheeked middle-aged lady who must be a waitress runs up to Art and excitedly rattles out something in Russian. Her perfume is strong enough to pierce Superman’s skin, and without my nose filters, it would probably choke me to death.
“Hi, Marusja,” Art says to her with a wide grin. “What are you doing here?”
She replies in even faster Russian. Art turns to me and explains, “Marusja used to work at Easy Fume, and since that’s my usual banya, we know each other.”
Poor woman. She had to smell that taranka stuff all day. No wonder she abuses perfume now.
Marusja says something in Russian again, and Art translates, “Luckily for us, she got a job here.”
He winks at her approvingly, and I think she might faint from delight.
“Marusja’s English is amazing,” he says to me, then turns back to her. “My date here only speaks English, which is why I hope you can put us at one of your tables.”
I know this is fake, but it feels so nice to hear him call me his date.
