Formula 1 racers get acquainted with Russian girls using electronic applications.
When I arrived at the Formula 1 final, the first thing I did was open Tinder. And then I was transported from the Sochi airport to an alternate reality: in front of me was a team of Bans, Raphaels, Toms and yans with helmets in their hands, smiling with all their white teeth against the background of tiny sports cars. And no more churchkhela vendors, beach lifeguards, or barbecue chefs who have already become the heroes of my wet dreams. Bernie, so Bernie I actually ended up in Formula 1 by accident. I don't know anything about cars, let alone sports racing, so I wasn't at all impressed by the prospect of digging into the stadium bleachers and watching men in helmets whiz by in their rattling tin cans with motors for hours on end. Another thing is to look at these same men without helmets – this is interesting. I started flipping the photos to the right, and within the first hour I had collected a dozen matches on my phone. Amazing: hot guys in blue, red, and white suits with a bunch of logos on their embossed bodies wrote first. One thing upset me: there were very few adult men, very few. Most of the children are 18-24 years old. I thought that racing drivers were such Mature, imposing uncles with a trail of sexuality that fluttered a kilometer away. There were, of course, 25+ and 30+, but you could count them on your fingers. That's how I found out that racing drivers become already at 18 (on Xbox, do they learn to drive?).
The messages were not particularly original. "Hello", "How are you?", "What are you doing?", "Are you from Sochi?", "Oh, I would like to visit Moscow" – all in this spirit. Only one friend started talking about Dostoevsky and Nevsky Prospekt, for which he would like to visit St. Petersburg – as it turned out later, this guy was involved in organizing F1. "Bernie Ecclestone is my boss," he wrote. I didn't understand why I needed to know the name of his boss (a Threesome, maybe?), and I didn't say anything. Bernie so Bernie. No time to explain The heat started in the evening. The guys came back from the race, lay down on the beds of their hotels, and went-went. The boys were fast not only on the race track. The names of resorts and numbers of rooms where I had to go immediately started to rain down on my phone. No foreplay for you. No time to explain, as they say. After receiving the first such invitation, I laughed, was surprised at the second chat, and started getting angry after the third message. Some American after refusing to meet said: "Kamon, you have such photos! I can tell you're doing a great blojob." I'm still looking for signs of a great blojob on my Instagram – and I can't find them. I put the phone down sadly and wondered what was going on. Whether it's the dubious reputation of Russian women, or whether it's all the fault of a frenzied schedule of sports races. After weighing everything, I came to the conclusion that, in General, they are right: if you came to a foreign city for a few days and you still need to get a good night's sleep before an important business, then it is pointless to go on questionable dates with an unclear outcome. Here either immediately sex, or "come on, goodbye". Finish third But I had quite a long correspondence with one handsome man. I was flippant, he was persistent. But in the meantime, I tried unsuccessfully to find a night-time pharmacy in Sochi to buy medicine for headaches. This failure with pharmacies and made me wonder: here he is calling me to his room right now – and does he even have condoms? The answer was no. "How could you come to Russia and not take condoms with you?" my friend shouted, rolling with laughter on the bed of the hotel room. "How could you not set up condom vending machines in Sochi?" I echoed, wiping away my tears. Closing Tinder, I sighed: I'd rather have churchkhela sellers and kebab cooks – they're probably more romantic and gallant. The next day, I decided to give up on online Dating and went to explore the surrounding area. But the story with my would-be lover without condoms is not over. A new message from him came when I was completely detached from the worldly bustle high in the mountains: "I finished third and I have condoms." What a capable man: he managed to get contraceptives in Adler without speaking Russian! Meanwhile, my plane to Moscow was several hours away. When I got to my hotel through the traffic jams, I Packed my bag and ran to the airport. My plane was returning to a city where men rarely write first, where people decide to meet without specific goals, and offers to have sex are veiled in correct euphemisms.