After dinner, I invited Irina back to my place for some drinks and relaxation. She agreed without any hesitation.
We met three weeks ago after I approached her at a Kiev metro station. Ever since, I liked everything about her. I enjoyed discussing with her various topics with the same intensity that I enjoyed looking at her sexy body.
She came inside my spartan apartment, took off her shoes, and immediately made herself at home.
I fixed her a drink and sat next to her on the couch.
“So, why did you decide traveling?” she asked me with a certain curiosity.
I paused before answering. It was a question that I’ve been asked numerous times, and, it seemed, every one of those times, the answer would invariably change to something new.
“I guess it was a way to escape and see what else was out there,” I began trying to formulate an answer.
“I started traveling gradually, but each succeeding trip became longer and longer. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into years.”
“The culmination of it all was when I ended up living two years in Brazil. It was one of the happiest times in my life,” I said, switching my gaze from her beautiful hazel eyes to the city view out of the window behind her.
She smiled and took a sip from her drink.
“As it happened, traveling opened my eyes to a world beyond America; it opened my eyes to a world that was drastically different, and much more compatible with my values,” I continued.
“What kind of values?” She interrupted.
“Living in Brazil thought me that meeting and forming relationships with people should be effortless, a huge difference compared to how it’s done in America.”
“By people, you mean sexy Brazilian women?” She smiled seductively.
She saw right through me, but I didn’t mind; discussing international mating rituals is always a great conversational topic.
“Well, yes, of course the women,” I smiled.
“I can’t deny; I like women. Women are important. Besides, I’ve always been interested at how different are the mating rituals in each country.”
She was attentively listening.
“In Brazil, meeting women is simple, natural and effortless. I can come up to a woman and begin flirting. In fact, it’s expected. That was the most striking difference as soon as I returned to America. In America, things are completely different.”
“What do you mean? What’s it like in America?”
“Don’t get me started,” I said, perfectly knowing that it would pique her curiosity even further.
“It’s a mess in America. A complete mess,” I said in a disgusted tone.
“Meeting and seducing women in America is like playing chess. Literally. I make a move and then she makes a move. I make another move and she makes another move. Our goal is to outsmart each other,” I began describing a process that, I, unfortunately, knew all too well.
“Many times this ‘clicking’ that we are experiencing right now isn’t automatic. In fact, most times it’s not. If you were an American girl, we would be having a different conversation right now. I would probably try to impress you, all with the purpose of getting you to like me. In return, you would try to act aloof and indifferent. In America we call that “game”: a way for a man to generate attraction in a woman.”
“That really does sound like a mess. I can’t imagine being with a guy who plays games; to me that just means he’s insecure and lacks confidence. I like a confident man. I think every woman does,” she echoed precisely what has been my experience in Ukraine and most Eastern European countries.
I finished my drink, and seeing that her drink was almost empty, went to the kitchen and made her a new one. I returned with two drinks only to find her getting more comfortable on my couch. There will be no games tonight with this beautiful woman.
“Yep, that’s exactly how it is,” I continued, gaining my stride. I couldn’t believe we were discussing the exact same topic that, over the past few years, I’ve spent lots of time thinking about it.
“Also, in America the men are mostly feminine sissies and the women are masculine ball-busters. It’s the complete opposite of nature and evolution”
“For example, I have a friend in New York who’s completely owned by his girlfriend. She says jump, he asks ‘how high.’ It’s sickening to see a man being dominated like that. He has no backbone. But that’s what is happening to men these days.”
She was amazed, nodding in agreement.
“He’s been so strongly assimilated into American culture, that I don’t recognize anything Eastern European in him. I look at him and no longer see a man.”
“That’s funny you say that. What about you? What do you consider yourself? Are you more American or more Eastern European?”
“Hmm. I guess I would say, 50/50, or maybe 30/70; 30% American, 70% Eastern European. While I have many American friends and like America, my heart belongs here in Eastern Europe.”
“It’s amazing to see how quickly people acclimate to American culture. For instance, the Russian and Ukrainian women in America are nothing like their counterparts here.”
“They become selflessly spoiled. I’ve known women, who after moving to US, completely changed within 2-3 years. It’s truly sad to see how people change so drastically.”
“I’m proud of having grown up in New York, and of having had very good friends, but I’ve never quite fit into the American lifestyle. That probably has to do with me not being very young when I came. Had I been younger (or even born there), there’s no doubt I would’ve been much more Americanized.”
“And you probably wouldn’t be here in Kiev, and we’ve probably wouldn’t have met.” She finished my thought, smiling.
“Right,” I admitted.
I paused, getting lost in some thought. Moments later I let out a deep sigh of relief.
“It feels good to be here. It truly does. I mean, look, I can honestly tell you that I like spending time with you. I find you interesting and attractive. But I can’t do that in America. If I do that, that will be a sign of weakness. The girl might immediately lose all attraction for me.”
Irina listened intently to every single one of my words.
“Look, I know you like me, and I didn’t have to do anything special for you to like me. I didn’t have to impress you. I didn’t have to buy you a drink. You like me because I’m a good guy; you like me because I understand you; you like me because we click. In fact, it would be strange if you didn’t like me,” I said running my eyes through her deliciously beautiful legs that were comfortably folded on the couch next to me.
“So, initially, I thought that my future wife will be a gorgeous Brazilian or Colombian, but after spending time here, I think I know that my wife will be from my own culture, a nice Russian or Ukrainian girl,” I said.
“Honestly, you really have no idea how great it feels to be able to connect with you. The way we’re sitting here and talking, this effortless feeling, that’s something I couldn’t do with a single woman in America in all my years of living there.”
“How do people communicate in America, then?” she inquired, looking puzzled.
“Great question. I think it’s because in America people view each other as sworn competitors instead of amiable companions. There’s this pervasive dog-eat-dog mentality among people, and the relationships between the sexes is no exception.”
I tried my best to come up with a logical explanation. Other than that, I was stumped.
How do people really communicate? Do they really communicate?
I realized that to answer that question, I needed to redefine what the word “communicate” really meant.
None of that mattered now. I was over five thousand miles away, away from America, away from feminism, away from masculine and ball-busting women; away from a world that tries so hard to change the way things were intended by nature.
I was spending quality time with an amazing woman, with whom I was seemingly connecting on many levels.
I leaned over and gave her a kiss. She reciprocated as though she was patiently waiting for it all along.
It would be an amazing night.
It felt great to be back home.
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