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About the author:
Ida Tornovski was born into a politically divided Europe. Writing only in English now, she spends her time between the ‘Old Country’ and the United States. She denies that her stories have anything to do with personal experience…but who knows. She’ll never tell; except perhaps through her titillating spicy tales told with wit and a healthy dose of sarcasm in the arena of life, lust and love.
Here is a short sample from the book:
It’s been so long that I don’t recall how he and I actually met. All I can remember is that we did meet, that it was during a frigid Leningrad winter, and that sparks flew. There were problems, however. He only spoke Russian, a language I did not. No matter how much I tried in German, in English or in French, the only thing I received back was a broad Slavic smile and an unmistakable thrust from the hips.
In want of warmth and privacy, Pjotr (an easy word to understand) bought two tickets to the movies. We settled in for the four hours of the Russian classic, Тихий Дон. I had read Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov’s Quiet Flows the Don in German with the rapture of a young romantic. It was a sweeping epic full of drama, yearning and Mother Russia. This propaganda-laced Soviet film hardly resembled the writer’s ambitious work. For that, I did not need a translation.
What could easily be translated into any language was the hand making its way up my skirt. While I was not averse to a little titillation, I was nevertheless embarrassed. Prepared for the icy wind coming off the frozen Neva, I was wearing woolen snuggies, a turn-off in most languages.
I was in for a lesson in perseverance. There was little that apparently dimmed a Russian’s ardor. Frustrated by a full theater and cumbersome clothes, we signed that we should meet again. As this was a Thursday, I indicated that he should wait for me in front of the theater the next Thursday. To me, it was a clear ‘Same time, next week.’