“Ivan this has to stop,” I told him. “You can’t expect the girls to bump and grind to Rimski-Korsakov’s music even if it is titled Sneguroč...a. What is it with you and that dame?” “When I was a kid we had figurines of her decorating the Christmas tree. I spent hours gazing at her and now comes an opportunity to have an orgy with her. Don’t be jealous Sandy but it is a boyhood dream come true.” “Okay, but stop with the music already, it’s driving us all nuts.” On Christmas Eve I got myself ready. The first time, she’d been with her girlfriends, and had managed to convince them that her state of inebriation led to the kisses she stole as the night grew closer and closer towards morning. The next time she’d gone alone, needing the anonymity to reinvent herself or, more accurately, to become who she was. That night, there was no hiding her true self. She danced with the other girls there, the music too loud to be conducive to conversation or even the exchange of names. She never had to. More

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