vari tokyo cafe. www.pixabay.com
Chapter 8:
So. Nails.
In Germany, all women look at a man’s nails on the first date, and this determines how things will go further. They are not interested in what’s in your head, what kind of family you come from, or your level of intelligence—it doesn’t matter.
Nails matter more.
An elderly and very unattractive Russian woman once told me that she had been on a date and, having seen the man’s nails, immediately refused him—even though he had invited her to a restaurant. She is very unattractive. I think she should be praying that anyone pays attention to her at all—anyone, even someone without nails or with black nails. Looking at nails is one of the symptoms of the virus. It also reveals the woman’s level of intelligence—absolute zero. I was recently told that they look at nails to determine whether a man is nervous or not. But nervous disorders can also be treated with smoking, alcohol, and heroin. Some men twist prayer beads in their hands. Others bite their lips.
What do nails have to do with it?
Here’s what. They determine your status by your nails—your financial status. They immediately see whether you work in an office or on a construction site. Based on this input, they calculate their prospects with you—namely, how much money they can expect. A man with unkempt nails has no chance. A man who works at a factory or in a warehouse has absolutely no prospects. Maybe this is the prostitution we don’t see? Maybe this is how we are robbed?
And if on the first date you admit that you are divorced and pay child support, you will be blocked instantly. All your money must belong to her—not to your children, and certainly not to your ex-wife. Have children and work in construction—goodbye, handsome. The next day she will be examining other nails and asking questions about children, possibly in the same restaurant.
So, that Persian princess was studying my nails too. The first sex was mediocre, without spark. Everything felt as if we didn’t really want it. We were always heavily drunk. Her body looked like it had been through a war—scratched, scarred. Her breasts were clearly done long ago and cheaply. Scars ran downward from the nipples and distorted their shape. One nipple looked up and to the right, the other down and to the left. Once I kissed her deeply, and afterward the left side of her lip drooped strangely. I told the beauty to fix that sagging silicone piece.
Physical flaws were abundant (I’m leaving a lot unsaid): scars, crooked breasts, bruises, a voice worn down by drinking. But on the first date, she examined my nails very carefully and said, “So-so, acceptable.” Searching for wealth while offering expired silicone in return.
I was accepting the new conditions of my “happy” life in Germany. Because of a remodeled nose, my goddess snored terribly at night and didn’t let me sleep. This went on for three months. One day the Persian beauty told me that she was my last chance in Germany. Then there were several scandals because of lies on the phone. During one of them, I told the beauty to learn how to speak to a man and to call back when she calmed down. She called several times, but I didn’t answer. That was it. Goodbye, Persian princess.
A few months later, I would meet a pretty girl—but as soon as I learned she was Iranian, I immediately ran off in an unknown direction. Many readers might think: but she’s not German. No, not German. But she grew up here and is severely infected with the virus.
Once, my Persian goddess and I were dreaming about how we would live together, and Denis imagined that one of us—say, Nyusha—would bring us coffee in bed. She immediately asked, “Why me?” The beauty doesn’t know how to cook, wash, or clean. That is, she knows how to do nothing. And she most likely wouldn’t bring coffee either.
But she is a master at extracting money. Once, Nyusha asked me what we would do for her birthday. I said, well, probably celebrate at your place—meaning Riva (the restaurant), where she practically lived and knew everyone. The queen said, “We’ll need to set a table.” I agreed. The table, of course, would be at my expense—the boyfriend’s expense, a non-German’s. Such schemes don’t work with Germans. It could have cost around 500 euros. That day was supposed to be our first sex.
And then, just a few days before, the cunning princess changed the plan and said, “I want to spend this day with you, my dear.” I immediately sensed something was wrong. We went to Roermond, in the Netherlands near the border. There’s an area with designer boutiques, and I spent about 800 euros on gifts there. Of course, for the princess, that was better—money spent on her, not on friends. Clever, agree?
While we were buying birthday gifts in the Roberto Cavalli boutique, she was jumping and dancing around me. When we left that magical fashion center, she said she had to get up early and that we needed to go back to Düsseldorf and then home. Beauty. But we were supposed to have sex now, I insisted. The princess replied, “No, no, I have to get up early. I have an appointment.” Question: why didn’t we remember the appointment before shopping? An attempt to get money without getting into bed with me. The girls in brothels are still far from that level—no sex, yet extracting 800 euros.
I made a scene, said I didn’t want anything anymore, and that I was going home. The clever Nyusha realized she had overdone it and that the client could disappear forever. She persuaded me to stay with her in a hotel. As you heard earlier, the sex was mediocre. I didn’t want her.
From the Persian princess—or possibly from the brothel—I caught Filatov’s disease, the Epstein–Barr virus. This virus is transmitted only through kissing. But in brothels, people usually don’t kiss. That leaves the princess. I thought I was going to die. The illness destroyed me for about four months. I am still sick. But in the hospital they found antibodies to this filth in my blood. My immune system, with great difficulty, is fighting it off.