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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. But what I mistook for a smile was actually a grimace. “What were you doing talking to that guy?” he asked. “Did I tell you you could talk to him?!”

Suddenly, I wished my women’s studies professor from Sarah Lawrence were there.

I longed for men in tailored suits, who solved arguments with Woody Allen jokes and New Yorker references. But then Anton hugged me, heat and sweat rising from his torso, his arms wrapped around me in a promise of eternal protection

You do not meet a Russian man, you are chosen by one.

While all men like a challenge, the average American man tends to stop pursuit once you indicate that you are repulsed by his presence. Russians, on the other hand, aren’t going to let a little thing like your disinterest keep them from being your boyfriend.

The American teachers at my language school had a phrase to describe dating Russian men. It was “No Means Yes, and Yes Means Anal.”

In Russia, having a man pay for you obligates you to absolutely nothing, just as having him walk you home means absolutely nothing. It’s just him doing what he needs to do, as a man, to take care of you, a woman. And before you start crying out sexism, what’s worse? To pay for a woman because women are less economically advantaged....

Ugh, sorry. I can't read any more. So much hamster bullshit. DO. NOT. GIVE. A. FUCK. ANYMORE. Enjoy being a 90 year old, never married, thousand cock slut still punching the clock at the fish guttery ladies, because none of you are worth marrying. AWALT