Date: Wed, 14 Oct 2020 11:59:06 -0400
From: MC VT
Subject: The Cossack Gay Adult-Youth

The Cossack
©MCVT2017  October 13, 2020

What we take, what we leave, all are immigrants leaving trails of our
lives.

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Taught me he was Cossack, it meant "free man."  His eyes were deep-set, and
so blue, light blue like before the sun peeks from behind the smoke stacks.
Pale skinned, and his hair--what hair!  His entire body was furry, seemed
longer, thicker than Papa's.  Rubbed my face on his chest as he told me of
his family being great horsemen through the centuries, protectors and
defenders.

"Cossacks aren't peons, we're fierce warriors."  Wide chest rumbled with
his deep voice.  Papa rolled his eyes and smirked.  In my mind, I could see
the big furry man leaning forward in saddle, racing across the wide
steppes, his thick beard streaked with red waving over his shoulder as he
pulled out his rifle.

Nights, they made frantic love, my papa and the Cossack.  Ancient metal
frame bed screaming and beating the wall.  Neighbors long since gave up on
them shushing their lust.

Stayed days with Rula down the hall.  A kindly lady who looked like the
peeled potatoes she boiled--pale and round.  I started school in a
remodeled munitions plant wearing other children's clothing.  I balked at
the skirt and sweater until December's wicked winds sliced through my soul.
Learned children wrapped themselves tightly in whatever they could find.

...

Papa and his Cossack worked for the state, like everyone.  They saw no
benefit, no improvement, after losing family and friends.

Tired of cabbage stewed with salt and lard, half-mended shoes, power
outages, bad water and curious about the outside world, they
surrendered--the Cossack and my Papa agreed the revolution had failed.
Just another feudalist system with different names for the poor.  "It was
better before your mother passed; better during the revolution."

The Cossack used a word.  I thought he said deflect - a foreign word.
Found out later the word the used wasn't deflect but defect.  Were we
defective somehow?  Uncomfortable feeling to be defective, broken, useless
like our lives in Yekaterinburg.

That night, I remember well.  Allowed to stay up late while they packed.
Papa and his Cossack stood in front of the heater, dancing together,
embraced until they got excited and dropped their pants to the floor.  I
stood on the warm cloth around their feet, holding my Cossack's thick leg,
rubbing my cheek against his hard muscles, his thick, rough hair until
their treasured liquid shot and dripped.  The smell of them, the feel of
muscles moving and their breaths, their kisses were singed into my small
mind as happiness.

...

Escape: Can't remember much but being on a grimy, gray train, then a big
ship for a long time.  Hot, below.  Windy on deck; sea birds shrieks, two
shades of blue met in the distance making a horizon.  Atlantic Ocean, flat
and blue.

Salted cod and potatoes every meal; eating with men as big as the Urals
loudly calling for more.  Papa shot me glances when I looked at my bowl,
"Be grateful."

Papa explained we were free now.  He told me the air was sweeter with
freedom.  Wasn't sure what that meant for me; air was air.  Hot or cold, it
was just air to me.

Cossack lifted me to the railing to see the whales.  His beard tickled my
skinny legs, his hands held my hips tightly.  Sometimes he kissed my lips
and called me "rosebud."  His affection stayed the same, a steady comfort
on the rocking ship.

Nights I slept on the narrow hammock above them.  Russian love, Atlantic
love, hammock love is a grunting, shoving exercise.  Hearing them caress,
excite and kiss each other, my lullaby asea.

...

"Bway-nos Aee-res, Ar-jin-teenah."  I'd seen it on a map in yellow, the
inlet was only an inch long.  Our ship kept going and going past the
buildings and docks, I thought we'd never moor, but finally we were on dry
land with our one bag.

Russian ex-pats met us smiling, speaking our familiar words.  We ate with a
family that night, and I had a real bath, in a real tub with pink soap.
Again, wearing another child's clothes, I was ashamed and embarrassed.

"Be grateful."  Papa was thankful for every small help they offered.

The Cossack held me on his lap till I fell asleep while Russian voices
cursed the regime.  Out the window I heard music, voices of people all
speaking sounds I'd never heard before.  The big man's arms, his breath and
hands held me against his chest.  I felt his laughter as dreams came.

...

At school, I learned their language and grew taller though fruitlessly
sought the feeling of being an Argentine.  Papa and his Cossack found work
quickly, they were proud union members.  We had plenty of good food, beer,
a drink called mah-tay in the mornings.  I adapted to my new ways quickly.

Spanish came easily to me.  Yes, it was very structured, many rules but
they were easy rules, made sense when you considered how far that language
had traveled.  Perhaps it was because I was akin to the Spanish language,
picking up rules and funny ways along my journey.  I came to feel affection
toward its sounds.  Soon, I was translating for my Cossack and Papa.

The other Russians helped us find a place to live.  It was different--our
own bath, kitchen was filled with equipment and though I had to sleep on
the couch, my Cossack and Papa let me in bed with them often.

Learned to rub my bird, my sensitive skin on Cossack's face to feel the
sharp sticks of his wiry beard on my eggs while my tiny rod pressed into
his lips.  Skin burned and throbbed when his hands grabbed my rear and
pressed me into his face hard.  So different from the soft tongue and
gentle suction I felt between his lips.  I wanted more and my body couldn't
take it, lightning-fast pleasure rammed through my form and I fell weak.
His hands, Papa's hands put me between them gently.

...

So much music and dramatic dances, fancy clothes, beer halls, and bright
colors in BA.  Politicians had big rallies, busses came for the workers,
everyone in my school went to hear them.  Bands playing enthusiastic
marches, people chanting; stirring times in a new homeland.

I was grateful and still felt outside, distant in some ways.

In school I learned that opportunity was luck.  I didn't have to drive a
truck like Papa or haul boxes at the port like my Cossack, I could sell
what I put in my brain.  School put my stock and trade in my mind.  I
wanted to be able to take care of Papa and our Cossack, following the old
Russian ways.  Their heavy work wore on their beautiful bodies.  My Papa
became thin with dark circles around his eyes.

...

When I entered my seventh year, Papa became weaker, he began staying home
some days.  The Cossack tried taking him here and there, not always to a
clinic.  Slowly, and quietly, the Cossack took my father's place, providing
for us as Papa's body withered.  In the winter Papa died.  My young man's
Spanish, still heavy with our accent translated for a tearful Cossack as we
arranged the funeral, went to the union office and I stood straight, tall,
yet bewildered in shock, stuttering with sorrow.

A few Russians and two union members came to lay Papa to rest.  Beside the
Cossack, I shook hands, wiped my face and within moments Papa was gone.
Forever gone.  Hard on new immigrants to face the future when a close one
leaves.  Our income dropped by half; my orphan's stipend wasn't much.

...

"How did Papa die?"  I bravely asked the Cossack.  "Consumption?
Tuberculosis?  He didn't cough."

The Cossack took me in his arms.  "Chinese, well--medicine from Asia killed
Papa, but not at first."  He held me closer.  "He missed our homeland, his
family more than he loved his freedom.  He took the medicine to ease the
pain of loss.  `El opio.'  It took his pain first, then his mind and body."

I'd heard about the places, backrooms and secret closets where people
smoked opium; judged the people there to be oafs, outcasts.  Papa went
there?  He was my hero, brought us far, faced strangers and their strange
ways easily, it appeared.  It was a sham, Papa hid his pain, lied to me.
Suddenly I felt defective, not enough to calm Papa's heart.  My Cossack
held me as I deeply mourned my Papa's life, the brutal truths I told
myself.

Sensing the depth of my distress, he kissed my forehead, "Papa sends his
love, he'll always send his love."  He took me completely that night, the
way he took Papa so many nights.

I turned my head away, at first while he undressed me gently, tossed his
clothes on the floor.

Hard slap to my thigh, "I begged him, promised him anything to stop.  Oh,
so many times, my sweet, I begged him. You think I don't hurt like you do?"
He mumbled something about missing my father who was his very heart, "This
is what he left us."

Grabbing my sobbing body, he bent me over the side of the bed where we'd
slept together, roughly parted my legs, exposing me.  Felt his silent
brushings, what he and Papa called the mighty Volga as he prepared me.
Softly wailing, crying, his left palm pinned me firmly to the bed, his
thumb roughly pressed against my hole. So fast.  His thumb circled my
muscle, stretching it.

Tears hit my back, he leaned to kiss my neck.

Beard scratched my skin, lips grazed.  Thumb removed, I felt unsure and
weak.

"God, I loved him."  Weepy, jerking breaths as head of his thick shaft
touched the sensitive skin of my cleft.

"God I loved him."  Poised at my bottom, he pressed.  I grunted through the
pain of being opened.

"God I miss him."  Thrust pushed pain through my torso.  Hard.  Fast entry.
He stopped and wailed.

Burying my face in the sheets, I cried.  Cried through the pain.  Cried
through the rough, gut-splitting thrusts.

Cried with the image of my father in my head.  Cried that he'd never loved
me this way.  Cried for myself as the Cossack assaulted me until a strange
sensation began.

A feeling of comfort, excitement slipped through my entire body, flickering
sparks across my skin.  I moved to feel more; the image of my father
vanished as the Cossack grabbed my shoulders tugging my rear hard toward
his groin.  Burn continued around his hefty shaft; he plunged again and
again, deeper each time.

Hands grabbed my hips, felt like I was splitting apart inside.  With each
ram, he moaned, more tears falling.  Pulled me off the edge of the bed,
reached around my narrow body and began pulling on my shaft, hard.  Tugged
my balls, "My beautiful boy."  He whispered, shoved deeper, held me
tightly.  I wriggled, trying to get away, it hurt.  Couldn't.  Impossible
against his big hands, his arms.

I felt it.  His discharge came in pulses.  Hot, salving the splitting pain
inside me.  Lost control of my breathing for a while.  Seemed like he'd
never let go, never stop.

Pulsing ebbed, dripped down; condolences completed.  Felt his beard on my
butt, he was kissing me.

"God, I miss him."  He fell on the bed beside me as the familiar smell of
his sex filled the room.

After a few moments, "Why did you call me `your beautiful boy?'"

"Don't you see?  You have no more family.  My family is buried with yours
in Russia."

Before I could ask any more, "You're mine now.  A boy needs a father."

Profound gratitude.

...

I continued with my schooling, more determined to erase all of our
homeland, everything that broke Papa's heart.  It wouldn't break mine; it
wouldn't break me.

A university scholarship was one of the union benefits I hadn't considered
using.  My Russian language wasn't polished, my English was rudimentary and
my Spanish was excellent, only a slight accent as I applied to attend the
university as a Spanish major.

Frightened about rejection or reprimand, I asked my teachers for letters of
recommendation.  Floored when they offered to help with the paperwork.
Finally felt some acceptance in my second homeland.  My Cossack was so
proud of me, told all his friends, and read the letters out loud to them; I
blushed and grinned.  He was telling them that one of us, a Russian, was no
longer an outsider.

He was giving them hope.

We had beer on Saturday night, danced to the radio and ate sausages with
soft, white rolls, lived like kings.  We were tsars of our tiny realm that
year.  I didn't realize it, but we were free, riding across the steppes of
our world with more hope, opportunity.  Came home to each other for the
comfort of peasant's Russian in our ears, wrapping our hearts; sweet
comfort in our bed.

...

The Cossack bought a car when he obtained work in his union office, wore
suits and shiny shoes.  We moved into a larger apartment.  He told me that
packs of single immigrant men were considered dangerous by the
society--troublesome rabble-rousers. Many Russian-Argentinians shunned us
as we wanted no dealings with their marriageable daughters.

Soon my Cossack brought a Polish lady into our home, a brusque woman though
kind to me.  My life was altered permanently when she gained weight with
child.

I concentrated on my degree and became an excellent interpreter, but
preferred the silence of translating; only keys clicking, coffee pot
gurgling while my text flew around the country to printing presses.

Seemed every other person in Latin America was a poet or philosopher.  The
quality of my work increased through the variety of writers and I became
known as the best translator in the region.  No longer had to send out my
CV, editors came looking for me.

Without hesitation, my Cossack father wrote me a check for an airline
ticket to America.  Though he'd cursed capitalism for years, he encouraged
me, "Your Papa and Russians around the world will be proud.  Go."

...

Wasn't anymore ready for Los Angles than I was Buenos Aires until I found
that signage, instructions and Spanish was everywhere.  Incredible!  Long
days of sunshine, nights at a word processor, I worked for the best
writers, the most prestigious publishing houses and earned plenty to buy a
small place for myself near the beach.

From my severe background, I was never comfortable mixing in the nightlife,
playing the beautiful boys on the beaches, in the bars.  For diversion, I
quietly took a part-time position at a local community college instructing
classes in Spanish.  Easy work, and my students were a constant, humorous
diversion with their mispronunciations.  They came and went, a few shone
with promise, not many.  They needed a year of foreign language for
graduation; no passion among the Computer Science majors.

...

During my third semester of night classes I found myself sitting ay my tiny
desk in a miniscule office, recording grades. Tap at the door,
"Mr. Vasiliev--do you have a moment?"

"Come in." Scruffy student entered.  Wide-boned, skinny, scraggly beard,
looked homeless.  "Mr., uhm, excuse me, I've forgotten your name."

Soft-spoken, timid, head down, like he was ashamed of something.  "I'm
Nick.  Thursday night, always sit at the right side."

"Oh, yes.  Yes.  I know your face."  I smiled.  His grades were excellent,
spelling, grammar, pronunciation, even his diacritical marks perfectly
placed.  "How can I help, Nick?"

"I'm applying to Berkley.  Would you consider writing a letter of
recommendation for me?"  He explained that his mother had pushed him to
apply for scholarships.  Hard to get him to explain his situation, he
mumbled something about single-parent home, lack of funds...  Topics I knew
though said nothing.

"Get some coffee and we'll get your recommendation printed out in a few
moments."  I nodded at the coffee pot.  "Cookies in the drawer below."

He helped himself as I cleared my screen and brought up a blank page of
stationary, "Who should I address this to?"

"There's a lady in the registrar's office."  Dug around in his backpack
pulled a file folder out, looked at me as he opened it, "Thank you, I
wasn't sure...."  Hair on his arms was bleached by the sun, like strands of
golden silk.

"Glad to help."  His eyes caught mine.  Blue, pale blue like summery skies
over the pampas.  "Let me know if anything on your application stumps
you--we'll work it out."

He nodded.

As his head shook, he appeared as though he were in saddle, riding across
the steppes.  Overwhelmed with the sudden rush of memories.  Feeling
incredibly loved my entire childhood--so deeply loved slammed my heart.
I'd survived my losses to succeed.  Fell silent and stared, eyes burning.

"Sir?"  He asked hesitantly.

Shook the ghosts from my head.  "Your full name, Nick?"

"Nicholas Kozak."

"Nicholas," My fingers touched keys, "beautiful name, Kozak.  Comes from
the name Cossack.  Means `free man.'"

"I know.  Best of what my father left me."  He replied in perfect Russian.


End.
Cossack