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Russians, on the other hand, aren’t going to let a little thing like your disinterest keep them from being your boyfriend.I’ve had male suitors who kept calling for years after I stopped picking up the phone.You do not meet a Russian man, you are chosen by one.You could be sitting in a banya, or at a café, and a man walks by, puts a fruit salad on your table, and gruffly says, “Enjoy.” If you eat the salad, it is a sign that you would like him to come talk to you.But I’m not going to lie: Part of me was turned on. ”Suddenly, I wished my women’s studies professor from Sarah Lawrence were there.After the punching finally stopped, Anton walked up to me shirtless and sweaty, caked with blood and dirt, his arms outstretched in an unmistakable gesture of victory. Pistols at dawn seemed a ludicrous symbol of male egotism, and I longed for men in tailored suits, who solved arguments with Woody Allen jokes and New Yorker references.

I had female friends who had no idea they were apparently someone’s girlfriend.But what I mistook for a smile was actually a grimace. But then Anton hugged me, heat and sweat rising from his torso, his arms wrapped around me in a promise of eternal protection, inhaling me in that way men do to show they’re grateful that you’re safe.And in that strange and romantic moment I thought, “One day I’m going to put this in a story to explain my convoluted relationship with Russian men.”I should preface this story by saying that I am Russian.While I am all for slow, sensual, Barry White lovemaking, there comes a point with a sweet and simple Westerner when all the “Do you need a pillow?” “Does that hurt” “Would you like a glass of water?