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| Russian Roulette |
| Anything goes in the new Russia, a decadent
winter wonderland of orgy bars, drug-pushing grannies, missing
warheads, plummeting rubles, and two-headed chernobyl-mutated
fish. Ready to join the party, comrade? Maxim Note from the Webmaster....this story
on the Duck was part of a larger story on Russia that appeared in Maxim.
Non-Duck information in the article has been deleted, but the Duck
article below is exactly as it was written. Whoever you are, and wherever you’ve gone, you ain’t never seen a club like Moscow’s Hungry Duck. The lights pan over the glistening body of the male stripper; his family jewels are safely encased in a gold-sequined G-string. Teenage girls have packed themselves against the stage in numbers that would break any U.S. fire-code regulations — but this is Moscow, and there are no such restraints. “Shake it, Sergei!” the D.J. barks in English, and the glittering Adonis hauls a girl out of the audience and onto the stage. In one swift movement, he rips off her blouse and starts sucking one of her breasts to the beat. When another dancer struts out, many in the audience have to be physically restrained to keep them from offering themselves up for sacrifice. Just another ladies’ night at the Hungry Duck. Here’s how it works. Three times a week, the doors open at 7 p.m. to any girl who’s 18 or older and willing to fork over 10 rubles — about 60ў. Inside, the potent mix of Chippendales-style dancers and endless free drinks drives women into a state of rapture. Outside, a testosterone-laden army of men piles up and pays about 6 percent of their monthly salaries for the right to barge in the moment the ladies-only festivities are over and take advantage of the boozed-up sea of female flesh within. Expatriate American men boast of having to walk no farther than the front door before they’re forced to peel drunk, insatiably horny girls off them. I let my girlfriends talk me into a night at the notorious Duck. I thought, What the hell: I’m here, I might as well see what the fuss is about. The Hungry Duck is one metro stop from the Kremlin, kitty-corner to the old KGB headquarters. At the door, a Notorious B.I.G.-size guard — with a breadbox-size gun cradled like a baby in his arms — stopped us and said he’d have to undress us to confirm that we were in fact female. None of us knew how to respond; he did have that gun. But after a moment of unsteady silence, we just smiled and walked in. We were early, so we scored a good scoping table and watched as hundreds of girls oozed in to fight over the stools just outside the large ring-shaped bar, where a high table served as the stage for the debauchery to come. It was like a bad sorority movie: With their halter tops and skintight pants, sheer shirts and mini-miniskirts, these girls were ready for a night of…well, something. Foreplay The D.J. started spinning hormonally charged, sexy dance music, and the sea of girls started getting drunk fast. Before an hour had gone by, everyone was dancing, grinding, and what have you. Yes, we got into it, too: I was up on the bar with my girlfriends, improvising the lambada and bumping butts. No offense, but I can’t explain the thrill and freedom I felt having no men around. It was great. Hundreds of girls, half-dressed and dancing like mad and not giving a damn what they looked like. We were just a happy, sweaty sisterhood. The act At eight o’clock, the lights suddenly dimmed, and everyone excitedly scattered back to the stools and tables they’d claimed earlier in the evening. And the striptease began. The five dancers were pretty impressive-looking: I later found out they’re among the highest-paid models in Moscow. But I just didn’t get it; personally, I really don’t see the sexiness in gold-sequined G-strings. The rest of the crowd, however, seemed more than pleased. The pixie blonde beside me nearly burst my eardrum when “Andrei” ran a thumb along his waistband. “Da! Da!” she cried, and Andrei tossed a pelvic thrust at her. The climax After about 20 minutes of gyrations, the dancers began picking girls to bring into their act, and the action really started heating up. Girls begged to be pulled onto the stage, where they were systematically stripped, licked, and fondled by the hands and tongues of the dancers for all the crowd to see and cheer. Cunnilingus was the least of it: It was an absolute Roman orgy going on up there, with half-naked girls mauling these dancers, and vice versa, to the throbbing beat of the music. It was too dark to see, but there may well have been de facto fucking going on. The postcoital smoke After a solid hour of stripping and licking and dry humping and lord knows what else, the Hungry Duck let in the guys who’d massed around the gates like sperm outside an egg. And yes, I suppose if I were a horny man who just wanted to have no-strings-attached sex, I’d pay more or less whatever it cost to get in. My God. But I’d fill an extra suitcase with condoms. AIDS is on the rise, syphilis is epidemic, and crabs crawl freely from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok. I wandered away from a lusty Canadian and his miniskirted girl and watched another woman make her way down an aisle, French-kissing four guys along the way. Must be something in the vodka. — J.C. |