I have a new love. He's Russian, so we'll just call him Yuri. Heck, his name could be Stalin and I'd still find him irresistible.
He'll be single soon -- his wife is divorcing him, accusing him of serial infidelity. Bitter, gold digging bitch. From what I've read the guy is a saint. Generous to a fault (he just bought his twenty-two year old daughter an $88 million apartment in New York, and he didn't even try to negotiate a better price), and he has no criminal record (he was acquitted of participating in a plot to murder his business partner).
Oh, Yuri, I would take you away from those folks who don't appreciate you, and all I'd ask in return is that you buy me the nicest double wide in town. Nothing too fancy, no gold hubcaps, no diamond beveling around the bathroom faucets. Just a good location (I want to be near a Walmart) and maybe an occasional dinner out at the local Old Country Buffet so I can dress up. Who could pass up an offer like that? The whole deal will cost less than one of the toilet paper holders in his daughter's apartment, and I can be really good company.
I'm not looking for any great romance. My heart is cold these days. I don't break into a sweat anymore when I watch Mark Harmon close an impossible case on NCIS. Even when the episode features men in uniform. Nothing. Although I did feel a little tingle when I saw the Navy's recent "First Kiss" photo of two lesbians shoving their tongues down each other's throats to celebrate a homecoming. My heart literally went pitter pat when I thought about how the military brass felt watching that little spectacle, their little crew cut hairs literally bristling. Oy, don't ask. Don't tell.
But back to my Yuri, my sweet, generous Russian. Who knows? With a little soft lighting and sexy music in the trailer, a little borscht and some cheap vodka, and me in a hot little teddy from Walmart, anything is possible.
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