Russian Dolt (Patreon)

Hank and I had a somewhat sprawling collaboration in The Performance Review, which started around a photo he selected. We then made a story around that, with way too many revisions. He was very much into collaborating around a sequel, where his main focus was to write sex into the story. I tried a bit to figure out what a good story would be, but couldn't find anything that excited me. I did however like the idea of me writing a transformation story frame and for him to fill in the sex parts. I wrote something for him to expand in October, and then nothing happened. We chatted occasionally, but the google doc had only a few more sentences added to it. After more than a quarter I was getting tired of waiting, and worried about him as he had medical issues, so I told him I would make some small changes and then publish it. Only like a day later did he publish his version titled " From Russia With любовь", which had exploded in size and was for the most part great additions. I decided I wanted to spin my version of his version, so that became The Russian Dolt I published. He had changed from the placeholder photo I had chosen into photos of the the Russian Olympic bronze medalist in figure skating Vadim Ivanov. Great choice. I did Photoshop them slightly so he has ear studs in all photos.

It has been pointed out to me that the ending was a bit predictable, which to some degree was intentional. I think I'll address that with some sort of a sequel.

An Exciting Evening

This is the beginning and end I wrote.

I was just about to give up and head back to the hotel. 16 years as a sales representative for the South East Asia region, and I know pretty well all the regional variations on prostitutes. Here in Manila a Russian girl would be at least twice the price of a local. A Malay girl would be at a discount. But too much of the same thing grows boring, and that’s why I was out in the bars instead of just calling an escort to the hotel for a “massage”.

I didn’t really know what I was after, which I guess was part of the problem. Threesome? Some athlete doing tricks for me and on me? I’ve heard that in some countries the olympic team earns some side money in brothels. That would be something different at least, but so far nothing I had found had really yanked my dick. I was getting close to the end of a so-so whiskey when I was approached at the bar by the man.

He was younger than me, 25 perhaps, and looked very Russian. Buzzed hair, bare chest, gym shorts, flip flops and the don’t give a fuck attitude that their entire nation has adopted since they lost the cold war. He smelled of smoke and cologne. I didn’t want anything to do with him.

- I overheard you speaking of freak sex, yes?

The accent was heavily Russian as well. This could be exactly what I was after, but it could also end up with me robbed in a ditch.

- What’s it to you?

- We have proposal. Have you had sex as not you?

Despite the hot and wet climate, I could feel the heat radiate on my other side as a furnace of a man stepped closer to me. I turned my head to the other side and looked right into a black tank top filled with a huge man. I looked up at his face and he made a silent nod. Perhaps not as stereotypically Russian, but still very much old Soviet stock, and presumably lots of old Soviet hormones. His muscles had muscles.

- I don’t understand. Sex as not me?

- We have a thing that lets you do sex as if someone else. Understand? You could be me?

- I could be you? Who would you be?

- I would be you, for short time. Very short. Then you as me could do dangerous things. Nasty things. But safe for you. When finished you are you and I am I.

I was thinking really hard on how this scam worked. Was this just going to trick me out of 5000 pesos, or was the end goal to rob me completely? But the setup was intriguing. Perform sex as someone else. There’s a lot of things I haven’t tried out of fear.

- What kind of nasty things?

- Many different things. You chose. How about fucked by a wrestler?

He gestured towards the tower of meat on my other side. He surprised me. I’d never had sex with a man before. Never even considered it. I was about to protest how I wasn’t a fag, when a small little voice at the back of my head whispered “damn right, but perhaps he is”. If I was going to be someone else, then why not go for something completely different. Something I would never put my body through.

- How does it work? How do we do it?

- We put your body somewhere safe. To keep your mind off it. Then we swap. When you are done we swap back. 3000 per hour.

Twenty minutes later, if even that, we were all three standing in my hotel room. The lobby was almost completely deserted, but a night manager gave us a disapproving look on our way to the elevator. On the way up I made a quick approximation of what everything I brought was worth. I only had my carry on, some clothes laptop, cell phone and my travel wallet. If I was completely cleared out I could stay an extra day, have the cards blocked and reissued, use insurance to buy replacements and be on my way. Not much to lose really.

The big hunk of meat was Boris, because of course his name would be, and didn’t speak any English. The half naked man was Mikhail and he was now explaining more in detail how we would do this. He had a handcuff with a really long chain, so I could be cuffed to the bathroom water pipe and still make it to the bed. This would allow Mikhail, in my body, to stay in the room, watch TV, use the bathroom, whatever, while I was out in his body. I was full of doubt. Step one can’t be that I chain myself with handcuffs to the bathroom pipes while two strangers are in the hotel room. Mikhail saw my hesitation without me saying anything.

- You want to see first, yes?

- Please.

From his pocket he pulled out two thumb rings. They were plain iron rings with no inlays, but with engraved symbols running around them, giving them a brutish look. He gave me one.

- Sit down. Put it on, right hand.

I did as he told, and nothing happened. He sat down next to me on the bed and unceremoniously slipped on his ring. Instantly everything shifted a few feet to the side, when I suddenly looked out of his eyes instead of mine. It felt amazing. His body was in such a great shape. I ran my hand over the buzz cut stubble on my head. Just as quickly as I had jumped into his body I was back in mine, looking at my hand having just removed the ring.

- You can see it works. You want to continue, yes?

I sure did, put the ring back on, and I was back in Mihails body. Mikhail patted me and got up. It was so trippy to see my body moving next to me. He quickly locked the handcuff on to his left wrist and then stepped into the bathroom to attach the other end. He then stepped out again and gave me the key.

- Here, keep this safe. My suggestion would be to put it in the room safe, so you don’t lose it in the excitement.

To my shock he was talking fluent English now, without any accent. “I will do” I answered, sounding like Mikhail in voice, accent and bad English. I put the key and my wallet in the safe. Boris ushers me out of the room, almost impatiently. As the room door clicks shut I realize that I’m standing outside of my room with no key, no ID, a different body, and together with an oversized hunk of meat that doesn’t understand anything I’m telling it. I have a second of panic, until I realize that I can at any moment just remove the ring and appear back in the room. I can open the safe, unlock the chain and pretend like nothing had happened. Talk about safe word.

INSERT STORY HERE

I was utterly confused when I woke up in the hotel bed, but then remembered the whole body swap thing. I clearly was still in Mikhail’s body, because I could feel everything that had been done to me. Wait, why was I still in Mikhail’s body? I got up from the bed while the whole body was screaming in agony. The bed sheets were pretty much ruined by the disgusting discharge. I shuffled over to the mirror.

Young, muscled and well hung were about the only positives. The rest of the body disgusted me, more so now than when I swapped into it yesterday. I was naked except for the thumb ring and a cock ring. The dick and balls had a dangerously purple color. I tentatively touched the dick and pleasure tinged pain shot through my body. I understand that Boris and Mikhail want to put on a show, but I’m getting tired of this immersive experience shit. I reach to remove the thumb ring when a sudden fear comes over me.

I have no idea where my actual body is. When I remove the ring, where will I end up? Strapped to a cross in a BDSM dungeon? In a Phillipino jail? I let my eyes glance over the room. There is a pile of Mikhail’s clothes on the floor, but everything else is as I left it. I open the wardrobe. The safe is open and empty. Fuck! This was a sting after all.

I’m hungry, thirsty, hurting, horny and has a god awful craving for a smoke. Whatever they’ve done to my body, it can’t be worse than this. I remove the ring. Nothing changes.

From Russia With любовь

This is the story Hank published.

I was just about ready to give up and head back to the hotel. I’ve spent 16 years being a sales representative across Southeast Asia, and I know all the regional variations on the prostitutes fairly well. Here in Manila, a Russian girl would go for at least twice the price of a local. A Malay girl would go for a discount. But too much of the same old thing grows boring, and that’s why I was out in the bars tonight instead of just calling an escort to the hotel for a “massage”.

I wasn’t sure what I was after, to be honest, which was part of the problem.  Maybe a threesome?  A gymnastics girl doing tricks for me – and on me?  I’ve heard that in some countries the Olympic teams even earn some side money in brothels. I’ve never found it myself, but that would be something different at least. So far nothing I had found had really turned my crank. I was polishing off a mediocre whiskey when I was approached at the bar by the man.

The guy was younger than me, maybe 25, and looked very Russian. Buzzed hair, tank top, tight jeans, flip flops, cheap tats and the don’t give a fuck attitude that their entire nation has adopted since they lost the Cold War. He smelled of smoke and cheap cologne. I didn’t want anything to do with him.

“I overheard you speaking of freak sex, yes?”

The accent was heavily Russian as well. This could be exactly what I was after, but it could also end up with me robbed and dead in a ditch.

“What’s it to you?”

“We have proposal. Have you had sex as not you?”

Despite the hot and wet climate, I could feel a wall of heat radiating on my other side as one real furnace of a man stepped closer to me. I turned my head and looked right into a black tank top.  It was filled with a huge pile of meat. I looked up at his face and he made a silent nod. Perhaps not as stereotypically Russian, but still very much old Soviet stock, and presumably lots of old Soviet hormones. His muscles seemed to have muscles.

“I don’t understand,” I said.  “Sex as not me?”

“We have a thing that lets you do sex as if someone else. Understand? You could be me?”

“I could be you? Who would you be?”

“I would be you, for short time. Very short. Then you as me do any things, dangerous things. Nasty things. But safe for you. When finished, you are you and I am I.”

I was thinking really hard on how this scam worked. Was this just going to trick me out of 5000 pesos, or was the end goal to take me for all I was worth?  The setup was intriguing. Performing sex as someone else… I’d certainly never tried that before.  I didn’t want to let fear hold me back, in part because I knew, loathe as I’d be to admit it, that it often did.

“What kind of nasty things?” I finally answered.

“Many different things. You chose. How about fucked by wrestler?”

He gestured towards the pillar of meat on my other side. That surprised me. I’d never had sex with a man before. I’ve never even considered it. I was a Kinsey 1 on the spectrum and certain of it.  I was about to protest how I wasn’t a fag, when a small little voice at the back of my head pointedly said “Damn straight, but apparently he is a fag.”  Well, if I was going to be someone else… then why not go for something truly wild and different?  Something I would never put my own body through…

“How does it work? How do we do it?”

“We put your body somewhere safe. To keep your mind off it. Then we swap. When you are done, we swap again.  3000 pesos per hour.”

Twenty minutes later, if even that, the three of us were standing in my hotel room. The lobby was deserted, but a night manager gave us a disapproving look on our way to the elevator. On the way up, I made a quick estimate of what everything I brought was worth. I only had my carry on, some clothes, my laptop, cell phone and travel wallet. If I was completely cleared out by these guys, I could stay an extra day, have the cards blocked and reissued, use insurance to buy replacements, and be on my way. Not much to lose, really.

The big hunk of meat was Boris, because of course he’d be a Boris.  He didn’t speak any English. The sleazy guy in the wifebeater was Mikhail, and he was now explaining the details of how he proposed we do this. He had a handcuff with a really long chain, so I could be cuffed to the bathroom water pipe and still make it to the bed. This would allow Mikhail, in my body, to stay securely in the room, watch TV, use the bathroom and such and such while I was out in his body. I was full of doubt. Step one really can’t be that I chain myself with handcuffs to the bathroom pipes?  Mikhail saw my hesitation without me saying anything.

“You want to see first, yes?”

“Please.”

From his pocket he pulled out two thumb rings. They were plain iron rings with no inlays, but with engraved symbols running around them, which gave them a brutish look. He gave me one.

“Sit down. Put it on, right hand.”

I did as I was told, and nothing happened. He sat down next to me on the bed and unceremoniously slipped on his ring. Instantly, everything shifted a few feet to the side, and I suddenly looked out of his eyes instead of mine. It worked.  It felt amazing.

His body was in such great shape. I ran my hand over the buzz cut stubble on my head, feeling the prickliness of it against my palm. Then, swiftly, just as quickly as I had jumped into his body, I was back in mine, looking at my hand.  Mikhail had just removed the ring.

“You can see it works. You want to continue, yes?”

I sure did.  I could scarcely believe this technology was legit.  How, who, and via what?  I put the ring back on, and wow, the rush.  I was back in Mikhail’s body.

Mikhail patted me and got up. It was so trippy to see my body moving next to me. He quickly locked the handcuff to to his left wrist and then stepped into the bathroom to attach the other end of the cuff. He then stepped out again and gave me the key.

“Here, keep this safe. My suggestion would be to put it in the room safe, so you don’t lose it in the excitement.”

To my shock, he was talking fluent English now, without any accent.

“I will do,” I answered, immediately laughing a dumb Russian laugh.  Wow, how stupid my own voice sounded.  I sounded just like Mikhail in voice, accent and whacked English.

Whatever reconfiguration happened through this technology, the vocal box retained the same processing structures, and the interface with the mind – from thought to vocal expression – must be altering accordingly.  That really surprised me.  I suppose there’s so much brain-body interface in our complex bodies, as the mind really does keep so much of everything running, and this technological marvel must have been developed to maintain that more natural, original effect.  I wondered what else would be different, what else this body I now inhabited might be made of.

I put the key and my wallet in the safe. Boris goes and ushers me out of the room, almost impatiently. As the room door clicks shut, I’m realising that I’m standing outside of my room with no key, no ID, a different body, and next to this oversized hunk of meat. I remind myself that I can, at any moment, just remove the ring and appear back in the room. I can unlock the shackles on my own body and pretend like nothing had happened. I’ll put in in the safe like Mikhail suggested, I think.  And there is no safe word tonight, I realise, chuckling with Mikhail’s voice at my own internal pun.

So wow, getting accustomed to it, finally taking a breather, was a revelation.  I could tell my first thought was spot on: this bod was in great shape.  Mikhail’s body really did feel vitalizing.  It was lithe, almost sprightly compared to where I was at normally.  Toned and packed with just enough firm muscle to have a bit of a swagger, it seemed.  As I strode down the hall, I ran a hand through my buzzed hair once more, feeling the spike of the flat cut against my palm.

Is this how fags felt, I wondered?  Are these sort of bodies part of where their pride and sex drive comes from?  I hadn’t given any thought before to the idea that men who are attracted to men might find their own bodies hot, too.  I looked down at my forearms, noticing the fit power in them, the veins lightly popping.  It did look good to me.  I could feel queer thoughts, as I thought of them, which I knew probably wasn’t the right term.  Fuck if I cared, and now that I had this body I’d think of myself as a fag instead of whatever p.c. term it might be.  It could be very hot to play the gay, I thought.  And looking at my arms, I felt an erotic buzz.  I was starting plump up a little.  I was legitimately turned on.

“In Soviet Russia, you not find faggot.  Faggot find you!” I said out loud, laughing, thinking that I sounded even dumber than Mikhail did in this voice.  One of my favorite jokes finally had a body worthy of it.

I suppose Russians didn’t usually make such a classic Russian joke, did they?  Or did they? This really was the most out-of-body experience I’ve ever had, quite literally. Talk about risk / reward payoff. I had to do it again.

“In Soviet Russia, big dick find you!” I found myself slurring, stupidly, and just hearing the ridiculous accent come out of Mikhail’s mouth, a mouth that was mine for the time being, made me snort with laughter again.  I didn’t expect that the first few things I’d be doing in this body would be laughing my ass off.  It was truly surreal.  But it was hilarious, I mean, wow.  Maybe it was my way of trying to find my sea legs after such radical change.

“Boris,” I say, my voice reminding me of some squirrel and moose thing – Natasha – Rocky and Bullwinkle – I can’t get over this accent –

“Boris, where is room?”

I find that I almost have a feel for the way the Russkies talk, I think, and that if I just roll with it, I’ll be able to work with it almost effortlessly.  Boris starts leading me down the hall, and there it is, unlocked, as he goes in first.  I follow.

First thing I want to do – first thing I do do, actually – is swagger on over to the mirror.  Yeah, I pretty much look amazing.  This body, or whatever sense of sexual desire is in this bod, recognises male beauty in a way that wasn’t apparent to me at all as a straight guy.  This body is fit, it is toned, it is more tanned than I would have expected from a Russian guy.  He must have been in The Philippines for a while now, I figured.  The tats, which I thought looked like cheap pieces of shit from a budget tattoo parlour before, looked masculinising, tough, sleazy.

I looked like the mirror image of a guy who lived to fuck, drink, smoke and party, I thought.  And I could feel that I was craving a smoke, too.  But man, that mirror… I was boned, totally erect over a man for the first time in my life, even if it was just the man in the mirror.

Mikhail had been wearing that rich brand of underwear to try to act like he was worth something, I suppose.  What’s the name of it?  I can’t even remember, not being an underwear type myself.  To me, despite whatever he must have spent, the briefs and tats all just made him look cheap and sleazy.  But I liked it, it’d be perfect for tonight.  I fully intended to take advantage of it all, go out for a while, have fun and bring someone back tonight.  If things stayed chill, I was ready to fuck.  Boris looked bored, and wasn’t even really watching me, so I was guessing things were cool.

“The safe,” I then remember, and fumble over to it, doing well in this body but all the excitement, more than anything, has me a bit jittery.  I go over the code again and again in my head, knowing I didn’t want to have to risk having to go down to the hotel desk to provide proof that I belong in this room later if I might be drunk enough to forget it.  777555, not a hard number.  Lucky sevens, I think, smiling to myself.  777555, 777555, 777555, I think.

I know Mikhail had blurted something out earlier about “Fuck Wrestler,” which I presumed meant Boris.  And I had been thinking maybe I’d do that, initially, not really being sure what I’d do, doubting, mostly, that this was even possible.  But now that I was attracted to men, I really just don’t think that Boris’s type is my type.  Or this body’s type.  Or whatever.  He doesn’t seem to be into me, either.  I like the look of Mikhail’s body for sure, and it’s almost mesmerising to me… breaking away from the mirror is a bit of a challenge, I notice, as I put my tank top back on.  Maybe the old line about Narcissus isn’t so far from the truth after all.  

“Boris, I want to go to bar,” I say.  “Gay bar.  You know where?”
“да,” the oaf answers.

And I understand it, I realise.  “Yes.”  I understand it in a fluid way.

Can I speak it, too?

“Вы можете общаться со мной на русском языке?” I blurt, thinking my own words sound like something an insect would come up with.  They buzz.  They sounds slushy, and they sound like shit.  I really don’t know how folks can speak such an ugly language, how anything could evolve in such a strange way.
“да, но мы здесь не для того, чтобы разговаривать всю ночь. отпусти нас.”

There’s some male jewelry on the counter, I notice as I start to turn out the lights.  Dog tags, a pendant.  I pick them up and put em on.  Looks good.  Wonder if Mikhail walked around with that, normally.  The whole walk to the bar, I can’t help but act cocky, posture, feeling playful with this body.  Boris, as I find out by trying to chat him up, him being a man of few words, does have a pack of cigarettes to help me out with.  Soon I’m bumming a couple off of him, and as soon as I can get away with it outside of the lobby, I light up.

The guys walking around Manilla that we pass – some are kind of, I don’t know how to put it…not ugly, but not really attractive.  I’m not really drawn to the girls, I notice, but not the guys either, all that much.  Some of them catch my eye a little more than others.  I’m hoping when we get to the bar that I’ll find one of the Russians I’m expecting to be there.  Is that what my genes are hunting for, or is that what I’m just expecting I’ll find?  A Russian?  Would I be attracted to a German, a Frenchman or an American if I run into any?  Good luck picking one up with this voice, I think to myself, humorously, but this is a sexy body.  I bet I could pick up a lot of different kinds of guys.  Gays aren’t really known for being particular, I think, or at least they’re known to do a lot of depraved shit with anyone.  They aren’t like women.  They have it easy, so I should tonight, too.

The thought of trying to hit on a guy, though I’ve no clue how to do it, seems amusing.  I feel a tinge of nervousness, but then I remember that this isn’t my real body.  I can say anything.  There’s a wallet in these jeans and I flip through it.  Was that arranged?  There’s enough cash in there, 400 pesos, to drink for a while depending on the prices.  I wonder if Boris would loan me more, but how smashed am I really gonna get?  It should be more than enough.

Soon I’m in the bar.  I eye the field.  I spot my prey almost instantly.  Dark beard, full, thick.  Bomber sunglasses tank top, twists of tribal tattoo down one arm.  Wondering what sort of guy wears glasses in a bar, and I’m thinking, fag guys do.  And that’s you, fag boy, so hop to it.  And it is alluring, even as I know it’s done for affect.  I don’t care.  He’s hot. 

I don’t sit down by him right away, though.  Boris and I take a spot at the corner by the entrance.  Soon enough, though, I wink at him on the way to take a piss.  Why not?  Nothing to lose, man.

“Boris, you will be my cover man?” I joke, slapping him on the back.  I was trying to say “wingman”.  Then I remember this body speaks Russian, too.

“Борис, тебе это нравится?“ I say.
“ты хорошо проводишь время сегодня вечером, хорошо? если вы чувствуете себя комфортно и так как знаете, как вернуться в отель, если вы хотите повеселиться с мужчиной здесь, я могу покинуть вас и встретиться с вами позже, когда вы будете готовы снять кольцо.”

And that’s that.  Well, that’s all fine with me, because I was worried these guys might thing I’m *with* Boris or something anyhow.  Don’t want that crimping my game.  I’m totally comfortable on my own, too.  Fuck, it’s not my body.  Still can’t get over how liberating it is to just know it.

The night gets rolling, more folks are trickling in to the club, and Bomber Glasses and I are talking, finally.  He is German, but does speak English, some.  This body does the work for me, I think.  He’s into me.  I can’t help but be fixated at his beard, man, and the chest hair foofing out of the top of his tank, and he’s got a dog tag around his neck himself.  It’s all so sleazy and fucked up.  It’s weird, knowing that what once would have repulsed now allures.

Soon he’s buying me a drink.  I wonder if I’m attracted to powerful guys, as this is the first one who caught my eye out of the bunch, not that there were many to choose from at all.  He’s at least a good three inches taller than me.  Darker complexion.  Thicker hair, and of course that beard.  That chest.  Mine’s got just a little fuzz.  I start to wonder if Russians are a hairy people compared to Germans.  I I don’t think they really are, but some definitely are.  I don’t even usually think much about how hairy guys are.  Must be the fag in me for sure.  Wonder what mixing with this body for the night is gonna do to my mind, long-term.  You know, like what if it’s like the long-term effects of a powerful dose of shrooms?  That might not be good, depending.  It felt ok in the trial swap we did earlier, so clearly it reverts without any seeming issues, but I do wonder.

No time to be nervous, though, I want to get my money’s worth.

Now the guy’s looking at me, intensely, right in the eyes over drinks, and I’m feeling like maybe the gays have a point about wanting their public display of affection. I’m feeling like if this guy wanted to fuck out in the streets of Manila with me, I’d do it, not that we would as it’s a filthy city.  Definitely a chaotic place.  But by the time he’s kissing me, right in the bar, and I’m feeling his thick beard press into my jaw, and we’re speaking our stupid, malformed English to each other, all I can think about is the hard cock that might end up in my ass tonight if this keeps going well. I want this guy to come back to the hotel with me.

“You and I,” I say, between kisses.  “Go wild, with sex, you make sex with me.  Hot as sex,” I go, fascinated by the chest hair he’s got spilling out of the neckline, rubbing it with my fingers, playing with it, all as best as I can.  He’s ttrying to slobber on my earlobe and probe my tongue with his ear.  We’re making a scene in the bar, I know. I could care less. He strips my shirt off right then and there in the bar so he can see my chest. He’s playing with my pecs, rubbing the muscle, slapping my firm belly, slapping my firm biceps, gripping one as I flex.  “Flex for me,” he commands, and I do, all while he’s admiring the tight abs on this torso of mine.

We walk out the backdoor of the club, his fingers in the back pocket of one of my jeans for a bit, kinda helping steer me, as I’m rather sloshed.  He squeezes an asscheek through the denim and I love it.  He leans in for another kiss.  It’s a steamy night.  I need a smoke, so I light one up, buzzed up, feeling dreamy as hell, wondering what "nasty things” are actually going to be like.  A cock up my ass?  I could take one, fuck if I care.  Sounds glorious right now.  I wonder if I can feel that desire in my ass that they supposedly get?  Not yet, I think, searching my thoughts to see if I feel anything, and deciding that maybe it’s because I haven’t tried it, yet.  I want to try it.  This German guy, a man, has me feeling like a creature of beauty.  I feel beautiful in a way no woman has ever made me feel before.

The walk back to the hotel, well, I can scarcely remember that.  I remember wanting to be rather cautious the whole while.  Manilla is just loaded with chaos, deep pits and potholes you can step into, nothing in the way of sidewalks, not to mention motobikes and jeepneys.  The hotel was much too close to bother with a cab.

I remember thinking that the longer I stayed in this body, the more risk I was taking, but I’d come this far tonight and intended to finish it.  We didn’t set a time limit.  “When you are done” was the deal.  That made sense.  They’d want to give me time to fuck until I’m sick of it, presumably by dawn at the latest, and I would obviously want my body back.  This set of jeans didn’t even come with ID, and most of my few bucks had already been spent at the bar.

As for the sex, this guy was experienced. I figured as much, but found it out fast once we were in the bedroom together. I mean, I had scarcely latched the door behind me when he really flaunted his power, flipping me right around, pressing my back up against the door, passionately taking my jaw in his big hands and kissing me, licking me, tenderly and firmly, all at the same time.  It’s hard to describe.  He was even licking up my neck in broad strokes like I’m a fruit that’s ripe on the vine.  It was hot.  I suppose I must be a fruit, at least for tonight, haha.  I can smell the alcohol on his breath, on my breath.  I want to hear my dumb, hot, sexy Russian voice again.  I’m fumbling to get him out of his tank, which should be an easy move, but I’m drunk.

“Chest, man,” I say.  “You hairy, man.  You are hairy.  It’s hot.”  I sound like an idiot, I know, but it’s hot to hear my voice, too, my slurring, Russian voice.

”Yeah, boy,” he goes, feeling up my pecs.  I like being called boy by this guy.  Makes me feel young, sexy, which I am.  And I know it.

He’s practically ripping me out of my briefs and throwing me on the bed.  He’s got me naked, and he’s got coke.  It’s not my body, I think.  I know what to do, believe it or not.  So I snort up a line off the glass counter, walking over, naked, lighting up a cigarette right in the room.  Don’t see any non-smoking signs, at least.  He slaps me on the ass and I can’t believe this is me, just hanging out casually, naked with a guy who’s occasionally slobbering all over my lower jaw.

I snort another line.  I feel amped, like coffee, only crazier.  I take more at once than I ever would, normally.  With a cross-fade like this, I know it’s more dangerous.  Not my body, not my problem.

He’s wrestling me down.  I love the feel of my muscles pushing back against his, and I love trying to toss him, to pin him down, but he’s stronger.  We wrestle a lot that night, playful.  I’m so drunk it doesn’t really hurt even when he throws me to the floor and body slams me.  It’s just fucking fun, don’t know how to put it, that state when you’ve got adrenaline and passion and lust and a few drugs pumping through your veins.

Man, his cock is a thick one.  At one point I remember him shoving his hand in my ass, licking and slobbering all up in my crack, and I’m just on hands and knees, drooling, playing with my own dick as it flopped around and dangled down, pointing towards the carpet.  I’m on my haunches.  I remember him putting a cock ring on me, calling me his pet for the night, and at one point, fucking the living shit out of me.  It hurts and I yelp out, but guy knows what he’s doing, I tell myself.

At one point, I half cum, forcing myself to hold it back, not wanting the experience to end so soon.  “Try,” I said to him, stopping, getting up off my knees.  “Try not to cum,” I said.  I had pulled back, hard, using my groin muscles to stop it so I could save my load.  A minute later I was good to go again.  He was pushing me down, going for my armpits, slobbering and licking all over them.  I had no idea men did that.  I was shocked, but it felt great.

There were other surprises.  I didn’t expect to be gagging on his thick cock, or expect that he’d seemed to want to pleasure in making me choke on it.  But I sure as hell did choke on it.  “Spit on it,” he ordered, so I did.  “Lick,” he said, so I did, licking my own spit on his cock.  I’m slobbering up his cock as much as I can with my tongue, thinking that must be what he wants, the slobber.  It felt good to do.  I mean, what an iron rod, what a maypole.  This is better than eating pussy, I thought, better for sure.  I wondered if I’d feel that way tomorrow, realising I wouldn’t, so I’d better make the most of it now.  This would have just seemed sick to me yesterday.

“Fuck me, fuck hard, fuck my ass,” I say to him.  My ass had almost started to throb after getting fucked for a while, and it was starting to feel almost empty when it wasn’t getting fucked.  Crazy but true, like I wanted him in there.  I wondered if that was the prostrate being activated.  I could feel it, almost like a heartbeat or something, inside my ass.  “Put it in,” I said, wanting him to fuck me more, wanting to understand these sensations better.  My ass was sore and yet it just felt so good.  Fuck the pain away, and why not?

We took a breather and it was hard to even keep my hands off him for a little while.  I wanted to at least massage his shoulders, wrap my arms around him, stroke his legs.  If I didn’t have a life of my own, a successful, straight life, I could almost love this guy.  The feelings were just so intense, drunk as I was.  Probably the alcohol was causing the feelings, but did it matter?  He was so beautiful to me.  He made me feel sexy.  We knew what to do with each other, even as new and awkward as I surely was.  The dumb Russian voice Mikhail had was awkward, so fuck if it would matter if my technique was, too.  This was all for my excitement, not for the sake of the performance, I remembered.

How long did we fuck?  It must have been hours.  Time passes at such strange rates when you’ve been partying.  I remember my cock being sore, the skin rubbed raw, the thing just aching from the weight of the cockring, swollen up, but not wanting to stop.  I wasn’t sure if I could even get the ring off at this point, drunk as I was.  Fuck the pain.  “Harder,” I grunted at one part.  “Fuck me harder.  Deutschland!” I shouted, playful, in lust, this German sex king… my own command sounded like a woof.  I really was his pet.  But he was also mine.

I didn’t just pass out, I blacked out.  I blacked out hard.

I was utterly confused when I woke up in the hotel bed, but then remembered it all.  The body swap.  I clearly was still in Mikhail’s body, I knew, because I could feel it. I felt sore.  Wait, why was I still in Mikhail’s body? I got up from the bed while the whole body was screaming in agony. The bed sheets were pretty much ruined with semen and other fluids.  What a mess.  I stumbled over to the mirror.

Young, muscled, and well-hung were the bright side of what I saw. My head throbbed with a hangover. I realised this body disgusted me, even more now than when I swapped into it yesterday. I was naked except for the thumb ring and a cock ring. The dick and balls looked bruised, a dangerously purple color. I tentatively touched the dick and pleasure tinged pain shot through my body. I was still a fag, and a small part of me even wanted to play with this dick some more, as I was still horny.  But it ached and was swollen.  I needed to recoup.

I know Boris and Mikhail were basically showboating a lot of this from the get-go, but after all that, I’m really tired of this immersive experience for now. I don’t know where the German went. I don’t know if he even kissed me goodbye, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter.  This was the wildest trip I’ve ever been on, and definitely worth it.  But I don’t want to deal with this body.  I don’t want to be a fag any longer.  I reach to remove the thumb ring when a sudden fear comes over me, like I need to think this through.  I pause.

I let my eyes glance over the room. There is a pile of Mikhail’s clothes on the floor, but everything else is as I left it. I open the wardrobe to get the key out of the safe, thinking the smart way to approach this would to be to go back down the hall and find my original hotel room.  777555.  I still remember the code, thank you Jesus. I swing open the door and there’s the safe. It’s already open.  Empty. Fuck! Was this a sting after all? I sure didn’t open the safe last night, did I?  Did I latch the safe door latch properly?

If they key is gone, if this wasn’t the German’s doing, which I don’t think it was since I chose him and he really seemed to love me…  If this was Mikhail and Boris’s doing, then my body could be anywhere.  When I remove the ring, where will I end up? Strapped to a cross in a BDSM dungeon? In a Filipino jail? Who knows what sort of Willy Wonka arrangement these guys have in store for me? Hopefully this is just part of the game, or it’s something else that I’m not thinking of.  I’m trying not to panic.  I’m not feeling amused anymore.  I don’t want to know, honestly. I just want out.

I’m hungry, thirsty, sore, feeling emotionally drained, horny, and I have a godawful craving for a smoke. Whatever they’ve done to my body, it can’t be any worse than this.

I remove the ring. Nothing changes.

I scream.  I punch the wall.  I scream ‘fuuuuuuck!’ until I’m sobbing on the filthy bed.  I’m reduced to a mess, not surprisingly.

That was almost six months ago, now.  Between my broken English in this body’s voice and the weak English of many of the folks around Manilla, I was lucky I was able to stumble back to the gay bar and meet another Russian guy.  I tried to tell him my story.  I’m not gonna lie, I was choking up again just trying to explain it to him, and the guy orders me a fucking vodka tonic!  A fucking vodka!  Like these guys are walking stereotypes, and now, apparently, I am too.

I realise I must sound like a nutjob.  A fag and a nutjob.  This Russian guy’s not believing me, even when I speak his language.  He thinks I’m crazy.  He just wants a piece of ass.  Bruised as I am, broke as I am, what options do I have?  So I’m all over the guy, trying to beg some cash off him in exchange for services, enough to just have some options for the short term.  Nobody’s ever gonna believe this shit.  I’m so fucking fucked, man.  There’s no way I’d ever be able to convince my banks, even if I had access to that info, that I’m not Mikhail.  I wouldn’t even be able to get back into the USA in this body.  Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?  Had I been that eager to try this out?  How stupid could I have been?

Getting out of this mess wasn’t easy.  I had to whore myself out a few times, beyond that guy, even, to be blunt about it.  When I wasn’t trying that, I was hooking up just for company and a friendly dinner, shit like that, not to mention the guy-on-guy sex that I now craved and found pleasure in. I tried to be judicious.  I tried to find the pleasure I could in it all. Many of the men I slept with were indeed attractive.  Not all.  A fag’s body, with a sex drive that won’t quit, a smoking habit, and a drinking habit…this was now the only body I had.  This was my body.  This is who I was now, and there was no getting around it, there was no way to try to even explain it to anyone, without seeming like a madman. 

I even tried to test the waters with my bank.  ID was out – look at this face, this accent, these fingerprints.  And banking was out, too.  I even managed to get a hold of my credit card company, one of them, and was denied access, told the card now has enhanced security precautions that were implemented.  She probably shouldn’t have even told me that.  He has my credit cards.  Who knows what else he has.  And I can’t get back into the USA with this face and no passport!  Unbelievable.  I want to make the fuck pay, as I remember my own name, of course, but who knows if he was draining my accounts or who he’d dump my body on when he was done.  There was no way right now.  I couldn’t call the limited family with this voice, could it?  I had just a no-good brother, a few aunts and my cousins, mostly.  If I convinced them this was me, proved it with facts and history, how could they get my body back?  They couldn’t.  I had been totally burned.

Eventually, I kid you not, just because Manila was shit and I couldn’t take it any longer, and I had to work with the body I’ve got now – I made my way to Russia.  Fairly well off Russian gay guy, bit of a rode-hard gent, pitied me when I started really trying to get to know him. He really worked to calm me down, promised he could get me through customs. I had to get so smashed on bourbon and butterscotch liquor while he plowed my ass in Manila, haha, but it wasn’t all bad.  This body responds. He wasn’t the sort of guy I’d ideally choose, grateful as I was, but I made the most of it.  And the cash, doing a striptease like I was his whore bitch or something, that felt good. Not gonna lie there. As desperate as I was, it felt extra good. Part of me almost felt that this still wasn’t my body, so it didn’t matter what I did with it. Reckless, I know, but still liberating, in a sense.

As for Russia, well, it’s fucking cold.  No shit, Sherlock. I mean way colder than most of the states, and the food is shit, comparatively, even though I eat well now.  I do know how to make a buck.  I got a flat of my own in the city, trying to save up some cash for starters, though it’s not always easy here.  I still look just as killer as the day I swapped with Mikhail, and I know how to milk that for what it’s worth.  But none of this is what I’d chose, if it were my choice, much as I’ve learned to love the feel of a nice thick cock in my hole.  Or my mouth.  I mean, I try to make the best of it.  It’s a fit body, the sex can be hot, and I make ok cash at times.  There’s a long life ahead of me in a body like this. I feel healthier than ever. Maybe I even love life more, in a sick way. The queerest of the queer, right?  Is that the quote from back home?  And what the fuck am I gonna do this winter when the weather really just drives me nuts?  Am I ever gonna try the family thing, write em a crazy letter, maybe, and try to get back into the USA?

Fuck, man. I don’t know. I really don’t know, man. For now, I just want a smoke.