Thursday night at Solyanka, one of Moscow’s coolest clubs. I’m leaning against the wall, watching the dance floor. It’s still early, and the floor is mostly empty. A few long-legged Russian girls sway to the beat, joined by Chet, a banker from the Caribbean. Chet’s still in his work suit, tie hanging loose, dancing like it’s a weekend back on the islands.
No, I’m not one of those guys who stands against the wall all night ogling women. Tonight is my night at Solyanka. Once a month, I bring my DJs here and organize a club party. I invite friends, and friends of friends, and we all have a good time. Let’s see if tonight turns out to be a good one.
I move from room to room, greeting guests. “Hi, I’m Elena,” says a blonde with a full figure. She’s new; I don’t know her yet. “You look like a friend of mine from New York.”
“Ah,” I respond, “I’ve lived there too.”
“You’re German?” she asks.
“No, Bavarian.”
“Ah, Bavarian. My friend in New York was too. He was really well-endowed… you know, down there. We had a lot of fun. In bed.” She grins, pulling her neckline a little lower. I smirk awkwardly.
Unfortunately, I have to stay at these club parties until the very end. By the time I’ve had my debrief with the owner or night manager and finally grab a drink, most of the women have already gone home. Alone or with someone else. It was better at Justo, another club now closed due to the crisis. Justo had an apartment above the club with a bedroom where you could retreat and come back later. Like the time an Asian woman grabbed me between the legs right at the door and didn’t want to wait until the end of the night.
I’m back by the dance floor, reminiscing about the good old Justo days. Matt, an American, joins me. He used to be a bush pilot in Alaska and an island hopper in the Caribbean. Now he flies Russia’s richest in their private jets.
“Man,” Matt says, “yesterday we flew an oligarch back from Egypt. He was already hammered when he boarded. During the flight, he got completely wasted, going on about how his girlfriend left him. Eventually, he passed out. When we landed in Moscow, we had trouble waking him up. He couldn’t remember where he was or who he was. Imagine that. Pays 45,000 euros for a flight and remembers nothing. We had to hand him over to customs because no one came to pick him up, and he couldn’t stay on the plane.”
I shake my head.
“So,” Matt continues, “how are you? Sexually, I mean.”
“What?” I ask. “I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re wondering!”
“No, I mean, are you open?”
“That depends. Why?”
“When we have empty legs – picking someone up or flying back to Moscow – we often bring a few girls on board. They go wild. I don’t know what it is – the champagne, the jet, the luxury. Once we’re in the air, they lose it. Even our flight attendants turn a blind eye or join in.”
“Really? And what happens then?”
“One of us goes to the back for a quickie while the other flies. Then we switch shifts.” Matt grins. “Wanna join us sometime?”
“Ha, you’re kidding.”
“It’s like a deluxe Mile High Club,” he adds with a laugh.
Matt orders water, explaining he’s been sober for years. “Respect,” I say, raising my glass. I grab two drinks and find Elena again. She’s talking to another guy but comes straight over when she sees me. Pressing her body against mine, she whispers, “Is this for me?” while running her hand up my thigh, stopping just where it gets interesting.
“Yeah, baby, this is for you,” I reply, handing her the drink. She keeps teasing, but I stay cool. “You know, I have a girlfriend,” I tell her, hoping she’ll back off.
Elena grins. “Oh, can I meet her? Maybe we can be friends.”
God, that would be amazing, but my girlfriend would never go for it. What kind of night is this? It feels like torture. Sexy women everywhere, and I’m stuck. “Give me your number,” I say. “Maybe we can pick this up another time.”
She doesn’t seem disappointed and gives me her number before returning to her earlier conversation. I take a moment to watch her – long legs, black high-heeled boots, a slitted black dress revealing thigh-high stockings. She’s no escort, just another ambitious banker playing games.
When I get home, I sit on the couch, light a joint, and replay the night in my head. The Mile High pilots, the hot banker – what a night. Slowly, I drift off. It’s late enough, and like everyone else, I have work tomorrow.
Saturday evening. I’m at a birthday party when my phone rings. It’s Matt. “Hey, what’s up? We’re flying empty to Alicante tomorrow. Wanna join?”
“Let me check return flights,” I say. “When do you need an answer by…?”
Photo by Rebecca Leitner on Unsplash
