From the melancholy of Leningrad (now it is St. Petersburg) one could go crazy. All gay meeting places were either deserted, or there were the same people who were of no interest to me. Sometimes there was a feeling that in this big Soviet city you were the only one so crazy. And so, I began to pin all my hopes on other cities, at first on Moscow. After all, Moscow is the capital, such a big city, everyone should go there ...
I had a group of gay friends in Moscow. Together with one friend, I often went to visit them, especially during long Soviet holidays. There were in this company mainly intellectuals with a vague sexual profile. They engaged in mutual friction, touching, blowjobs, performed some incomprehensible sexual acts, etc. In general, they were of no interest to me sexually. Among them there were no men as such. These Moscow friends did not go to the city cruising areas, it was considered bad manners, they despised the men from the Caucasus, and so I visited these meeting places without telling anyone.
And these friends from the Moscow gay company ... most of them subsequently left for various Western countries. The fate of many of those who left was sad, even tragic. They all thought that there would find utter happiness in the West, and they could not imagine that many people would face mortal danger there.
In Moscow the main cruising area was located in the square near the Bolshoi Theater, i.e. in the very center of the city. Also queens congregated near the Marx Avenue metro station. I spent a lot of time there and not only there, I had occasional pickups, but not a single one left a mark on my memory. As always, representatives of the Caucasus, who were newcomers or lived in Moscow, helped out.
Once I was passing through Moscow, traveling all suntanned from the Crimea, and in the main Moscow cruising area I met an Azerbaijani. I spent the night at his place. In the semi-darkness of the room, he could not take his eyes off my contrasting white ass, my tanline, he admired it all the time. And he fucked me many times.
Once in Moscow I also had an affair with a Georgian. Outwardly, he was interesting, he made an impression. But over time, I noticed that his predominant interests were not masculine. His interests were mainly ballet, then also opera, mostly female opera singers. In addition, he knew by heart all the romances and songs of one sentimental female singer, he hummed them when we walked down the street. I soon rejected him. Apparently he died a long time ago. But his photo remained:
