Dmitry


Dmitry in Moscow, Russia

Born:1968
Height:5'10" - 178cm
Weight:160# - 73kg
Eye color:Hazel
Hair color:Black
Hair type:Wavy
Hair length:Falling on shoulders
Sexually attracted:To men in general
Primary sexual interest:  Sexual intercourse as a warm conversation.
Relationship status:In an open relationship
Personal website:http://longhairgay.narod.ru/03dmitry.html

I just think there should be somebody from Russia in this list - why not me? We have in Russia th site of the same kind though very modest yet, only 10 members; you're welcome to visit us: http://longhairgay.narod.ru/

As for me personally - I'm rather well known in my country as a gay poet, literary criticist and publisher. Let my poem in English translation speak for myself:

I failed to take you, though you wanted it so much,
Begged for it, with your strong fingers
Pulled your buttocks apart,
So that it’d be easier for me to enter;
And I couldn’t get hard any more – because of exhaustion and not enough sleep.
Because of the fear that it would hurt, your first time,
Because for the two nights and the day between them We’ve been making –

– took a room on your ID (its triple price for Russian residents);
I had the idea to pull the mattresses from both beds
Down to the floor – a king size hand-made –
So that you didn’t have to, being about six feet tall,
Bend your legs during short spans of sleep;
You had the idea to put the squalid table lamp
Behind the blinds, so that with the soft Reddish light –

– with annoyance
I pulled off the useless condom, sticky with camomile hand cream,
kept saying “sorry, it’s my fault, just can’t, too tired”;
you smiled once again: “Now you have the reason to come again.” –
and I leant back, so that, while giving in,
I could see your face: eyes squinted tensely,
sharp cheek-bone line with three-day bristle, lips brokenly griped
a second before the last hoarse –

– nine a.m. was the check-out time,
I set the alarm in my cell-phone but couldn’t fall asleep,
while you curled up, pressing your head to my chest;
we dozed off by turns, and once, when you thought
I was asleep, you whispered:
“I don’t want to part with you” –

– midnight in Bryansk,
the Russian border, passport control, and for some reason
there is music at the station, the trackman’s crow-bar
clinks shunting the switch, a lantern from the platform
gives light to the guy on the lower berth who is finishing his paperback;
across the aisle a plain cadet is undressing,
the pattern of his chest-hair repeating yours;
oh now I would —

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