She had enormous, firm tits pointing at me while she was offering sightseeing in Moscow tomorrow.
I think I love my new job; it’s like being a rock star on tour, armed with a healthy expense account (though my boss said he wouldn’t pay the expenses of hookers. Just wondering if he was serious or it is just another of his Scandi jokes.), being part of the jet set society, becoming familiar with many different cultures and making friends in every country. Airport lounges, restaurants, bars and hotels. And girls. Loads of young beautiful girls and they all want a piece of your glamour. It is so cool. Actually, it will be because this is my first trip.

I didn’t understand before why people think working in television is glamorous. I had been a senior creative for years and I thought it was as boring as it gets. Underpaid, overworked, my creative genius is not appreciated and constantly under pressure of deadlines.

Let me tell you something very boring. When you are shopping around for heavily discounted car insurance you have to lie about your job. Anything will do apart from tv creative because then you find yourself in the highest, heavily penalised category. You are in higher category than Pete Doherty or any of the Premiere League footballers. The best if you say you are an accountant otherwise, you will pay an arm and leg and you will not be able to feed your habit of collecting unusual designer socks. And you are driving a family estate, married with children and so on as most of us. Most are but not all of us. There are exceptions like myself. This is my first mission, my first trip to Russia as the newly appointed regional creative director for an international tv network. I must admit I’m a bit anxious. I was thinking about what I know about Russia on the way from the airport in the big Merc with heavily tinted windows. The windows were so heavily tinted the driver had to wind the down when he wanted to make sure not hitting people on the zebra crossing. You need a Kalashnikov to do business here, as you are as an English speaking foreigner a potential victim of hookers, petty criminals and the deadly bureaucracy. It sounds pretty scary. I have to focus on the glamour.
I must admit I have not the faintest idea what a creative director does. The advice I got from my boss  was when he hired me was “Get the people behind you”. How do I do that? It might work better if I get behind the people. Or beside. Shall I pay compliments often or shots of vodka work better. How shall I tell them that I have a look at what they do I find it ridiculous? Shall practise the art of lying or just be brutally honest? What shall I wear? I don’t actually own a suit. I decided to go for an understated British, inner city cool. It will be a wee bit complicated to keep one’s cool in minus 30 in the harshest of Russian winter.
Never mind it is summer and Maria, my personal Moscow tour guide is pressing her erect nipples to my shoulder.

Contrary to my preconceptions I was greeted with much enthusiasm, Galina, the marketing director who we are getting on well from the start is a former music television exec and former catwalk model. She is very cool. We have the same taste in music, in art and we both love watching British comedy series. She is intelligent, knows Shameless and Little Britain. Galina is six foot tall, slim with reasonably big blossoms. Not a bad start.

After the dinner with Galina I checked in the hotel, a high rising concrete block with cell size rooms. In the cathedral size lobby I was stopped and offered massage 4 times in 3 minutes by beautiful young girls with heavy make up. Why massage? It is probably a Russian tradition like sitting in the “only men” sauna and whipping yourself to oblivion. Why massage, why not a blow job?
The hotel is called Cosmos it has seventeen hundred rooms, moustachioed military type female receptionists and kgb trained rugby players preventing you to get in the lift without identification. The room smells of disinfectant and looks dirty with a dated decor and with a huge mirror front of the bed. Nice.

Today is Saturday and Maria, the sales manager from the office will take me around Moscow. I am a paid tourist on expense account, wined and dined and well entertained by a pair of beautiful pointy tits. Did I say I love my job?

The city is pretty dreadful, mixture of East and West, future and past, wealth and poverty, the wild capitalism of the late nineties century and can smell the communist past as an unwashed, smelly armpit. I have not seen so many different shades of grey - depressing concrete blocks, one after another. It is a showcase LeCorbusier’s worst nightmare, he would deserved to be electrocuted. The buildings come in the oddest shapes and forms, tractor, locomotive you name it. It is so dark.It is like being on a film set of some weird black & white sci-fi.  Here an obscenely colourful shopping street decorated with massive neon signs called the New Arbat, there a railway station decorated with frescos . Crossing the streets to the local supermarket is the equivalent of small family trip as some of the roads in the centre have sixteen lanes.

And the people…Oh, they are sort of over the top either badly dressed and unshaven, on woman it is particularly disturbing or noveau riche wearing only designer labels and driving huge and expensive cars and super model looking girlfriends. My first impression this city is unnerving, with hidden drama and danger.
My tour guide doesn’t wear a bra and occasionally her erect nipples touching the bear skin on my arms. But I keep my cool and listening to her chirpy chatting as she is explaining the history and beauty of Moscow with great passion. Looking at her face, she must have some Asian blood in the family in her family but she has the body of the typical fifties pin-up girl.
I just wondering what the extent of welcoming the foreigner in Mother Russia and if I am going to get any tonight.

Honestly, I am not the typical womaniser and always been a bit on the shy side. How other people do it? Shall I invent her for a romantic dinner and just pop the question? Or invite her back to my room and then start kissing her neck? Or stroking her hair or shall I just ask her permission to do it? What if she takes it the wrong way and I wake up the next morning somewhere in the Gulag? How does it work? I have never shagged a foreigner not to mention a Russian. I am confused she is very animated, flicking her long, dark, shiny hair a lot and pushing her tits forward. Is it a yes or no? Or is she a maybe-baby? Ok, let’s gather some intelligence and might get the answer.

By the way, I found a funny clip on youtube, it is called Indian Nipple song.