It is hard for me to express in words the breathtaking, supernatural beauty of Fyodor. As I beheld his impossibly flawless body, golden hair that flowed like honey and innocent, unspoiled face, a face sculpted by God himself, a face that could make a garden of spring flowers look cynical and haggard, time stopped. He was by far the most beautiful human I have ever seen, in all my life. He was naked, sitting on a white kitchen chair, in an empty, white kitchen. He was singing quietly to himself, reading incoming messages from his live audience and saying “thank you”, rather solemnly when he received a tip. I wept. His beauty was painful to observe, it actually burned my eyes, like looking into the sun. Sitting at my desk in London, I put my head in my hands and sobbed for a long time. It was the nearest thing I have ever had to a religious experience.
When I eventually recovered my sight and the ability to read and think, I was able to see from the comments of his audience that quite a large number of gay men were having a religious experience along with me. Considering it is a brothel, I had expected the remarks of the audience to be crude or even abusive (and I later discovered that this is what happens in the rooms of many other performers). In this room, however, we were having church. The men said “you are an angel” and “we are in awe of you” and “we all love you” and threw money at him. Fyodor said “thank you”, in a Russian accent, and when the tips had reached certain, pre-set levels, he did sexual things. Things that I strongly wanted him not to do, because of his innocent face, his gentleness, his fragility. It was too awful, watching him perform these sexual acts. I wanted to pay him enough to stop working, at least for that day, wrap him in a blanket, make him hot chocolate, ask him what he thought he was doing with his career.
I sent a love letter to his email address, telling him everything, especially the part about the blanket, and I sent him an Amazon gift card because I couldn’t not send him a gift after the sight of him made me cry. He replied with an absolutely charming and impeccably graceful thank-you letter and we struck up a correspondence that continues to this day. He has a degree in sociology but there are not many jobs for sociologists in Russia, so he is a whore instead.
From this correspondence, and from watching him at work over the next several days, I learned many surprising things. One might have thought that anyone who broadcasts themselves doing sexual things for money must be quite brazen and, indeed, if one were to observe these boys and girls abusing themselves in a well-practised and professional way, that view would be confirmed. The willingness of the Russian boy to do crude things, along with his spectacular beauty and the undisguised religious worship offered by his audience made me think that he must be a very secure, confident individual despite his unexpectedly demure manner. Apparently not so. One night, he explained that he suffers from social anxiety. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. When has an amateur entertainer been so cherished and adored? He performs for 1,000 people a day and their love for him is unanimous. But apparently internet life is different from real life. Safe in some obscure corner of Russia, he believes, with some justification, that he will never meet any of the people who watch him do terrible things. In real life, he is afraid of people. He is afraid to talk on the phone and to meet new people. You see, if anyone on the internet is mean to you, you can block them or switch your camera off. In real life, you can’t switch people off and social interactions are out of your control. In this way, the new technology and industry of cam-whoring has created a new generation of little porn stars who will happily defile themselves on camera for hundreds or even thousands of people but who are intimidated by real life and afraid to pick up the phone. This simply could not have happened before the digital age. It was very interesting to me and it turned out to be useful preparation for establishing a relationship with Harry, to whom we shall now return.
**To Be Continued**