Lada Ivanov’s god knew she deserved some slack when interpreting “morality is in the eye of the beholder.”
Despite her horrendous upbringing, Lada, a name meaning goddess of spring and love, exhibited good moral fiber, but god feared her principles were going south. “Lada was being corrupted by her fate and real-world surroundings.”
When she walked into a room, people noticed. Heads turned. Conversations halted. Salacious thoughts entered minds.
She was beautiful, and she carried herself with the grace of a Noble. Far from it, Lada was raised by whores.
Throughout her life, women called her a bitch because “no one that gorgeous could be nice,” and men wanted to penetrate “every fucking part of her voluptuous body.”
Her beauty developed early. Even as a nubile child in the brothel, the Madam, her mother, had to “knock some balls to Siberia” when she caught patrons eyeing her innocent child.
On Lada’s 15th birthday, her mother threw a lavish celebration, inviting the crème-de-la-crème to her Moscow establishment and auctioned her off for “deflowering” to the highest bidder. “Morality be damned,” she laughed, while raising her Champagne toast to the lechers. “I’m a business woman whose investment is ripe for the taking.”
At 18, Lada escaped the brothel life with the help of a kind patron and Russian diplomat, Dimitri Voluntov, who forged papers so she could accompany him and his family to a diplomatic post in America. Intelligence and street smarts on her side, she settled in as their nanny and hoarded her money.
Dimitri, her “savior and mentor,” recognized that Lada’s beauty and intelligence would destroy her if she succumbed to the flatterers and insecure of “Capitalist America. You must protect yourself; get an education and remain independent, at all cost. Promise me,” he said, as he handed her $100,000 in cash. “Use this to further your education. It’s the best advice I can give.”
With trembling hands, Lada caressed Dimitri’s kind face, tears dropping to her lap. “No one has shown me such kindness. Why me, dear Dimitri?”
“I broke whenever I saw you in the brothel — an innocent child seeing life at its most prurient. I wanted to distance you from it all. Yet, here I was patronizing your mother’s brothel. Finally, I looked in a mirror and saw myself as a wretched, lascivious man who took whatever I wanted; never you, but still… your situation made me change.”
“That means I can change too, Dimitri. I’ll take your gift, and work hard in school, all in your name. Morality can come at any age, right?”
Twelve years later, Lada, a vice president of one of the largest public relations firms in Chicago, was called into President Wynn Mimms’ office, a frequent occurrence.
“So, how was your trip to New York? I heard you were late to the morning meeting with clients.”
“I was 32 minutes late because my wake-up call didn’t come through. I apologized profusely — even called down and alerted Suzanne, the executive secretary, that I was running late. When I arrived, everyone was enjoying their breakfasts and working the room. I didn’t sense any hostility.”
“Well, Joseph Aspinwall, the chairman of Global Mutual, called me this morning, claiming you had given him the best fuck of his lifetime the night before and that was the reason you were MIA.”
“I’m not even going to honor that with a reply,” Lada, voice shaking, said. “You have the report on your desk. They signed a multi-million contract, and we got everything we wanted. You decide.”
I will decide you cunning bitch. You may think we got everything we wanted, but “we” doesn’t include me. I want you, and when the time is right, I will have you — every delicious part of you.
Lada contained her rage, still reeling from Winn’s behavior. She left the office quickly, barely hearing his parting comment — “Next time, pack an alarm clock or use your fucking phone!”
She knew in her heart that Wynn Mims would stop at nothing to bed her himself. The rules of the game are Olympic now. Mr. Mims must one-up Mr. Aspinwall’s claim in order to save face and prove to himself that he’s number one stud! Please answer my prayer, god.
“Marcie? Lada here. Call me when you get this message. I’ve talked to Poppy. I need to talk to the two of you. It’s important — meet at Slim’s at 7 p.m. tonight?”
Slim’s, an attractive meet-and-greet neighborhood bar nestled in Chicago’s Blues District, was the three best friends’ hangout. They called themselves the “Second Go-Arounds,” because they never ordered more than two rounds of drinks out of respect for intelligent conversation.
Lada, the first to arrive, waited at the bar and thought about the significance of the day. She laughed, thinking of the irony of Slim’s address, 101 Trust Avenue. Yes, my friends are trust-averse, but I’m the worst. Do I dare open my heart to them? I must do something, but what? Please hear my prayer, god.
No one knew, not even her three best friends, about her hellish upbringing and how her beauty haunted her. It was getting harder and harder to sugarcoat her life. Hell, even priests who listened to her fucked-up past cried. Her beloved Dimitri died five years earlier of a stroke. She had no one to talk to, and her diabolical cynicism threatened her moral fiber.
While caressing the icy wet martini glass, she revisited this most recent occurrence of disrespect and sexism. She justified her growing belief that moral behavior is personal and subjective. The precise timing of my decision will be a powerful influence on the choice I make, and I think I’m ready. Please hear my prayer, god.
“Lada,” shouted Marcie, over the din of gathering imbibers chasing away five days of grueling work. “Let’s get a table before the crowd multiplies.”
Sliding her 70-inch frame off the high-top barstool, Lada threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, grabbed her lemon drop martini and followed Marcie to the furthest table, hoping for some privacy.
“You look especially defeated tonight. Guess that tells me how your week went,” Marcie said, concern in her tone. “Who was or were the bastards that deflated you this week?”
Marcie, a divorced attorney, knew the pitfalls of smashing good looks. Her former husband, an Adonis in the eyes of every woman he met, hung on his admirers’ every word. This preoccupation with himself ultimately led to their breakup. “But Lada was just the opposite. So many times, she told me she hated her looks, because they led men to the wrong conclusions about her.”
As Marcie led the way to the table, she thought how vulnerable my best friend’s judgment was to outside manipulation.
She chastised the day she ever dreamed of being “beautiful,” knowing intuitively it was at the epicenter of Lada’s misery.
“I hope I can help,” she prayed to herself.
Before they had claimed a corner table, Poppy, a gregarious psychologist, appeared out of nowhere, jarring Marcie from her thoughts.
“Geez Louise, Slim’s is challenging fire department code. If this keeps up, we’re going to have to find a less popular place. I love the energy, but I know you two prefer a quieter place.”
“Quieter, the definitive word,” quipped Lada, “is an oxymoron. Friday night and Happy Hour invite chaos, a means to an end. Everyone wants to wash away the hostile environment called work, and they anesthetize themselves with alcohol. I’ve bottomed out, and I don’t know how much more I can take. That’s why I called us together.”
Before either of her friends could react, a skimpily clad waitress wormed her way to their table. “Hey guys, the usual?”
I’ll have another lemon drop,” said Lada. “Make mine a Manhattan,” answered Marcie. “Give me a Diet Coke,” said teetotaler Poppy, who chose not to drink because of her upbringing by alcoholic parents.
The friends felt a special bond to their favorite server, Genna, a single mother working two jobs to buy food, pay for daycare for her 1-year-old daughter and keep a roof over their heads. She attacked her job with aplomb, despite the required Daisy-Mae attire, which hugged her curvy body like a skimpy, short wetsuit.
“Coming right up,” Geena noted, as she raised her loaded drink tray and pushed her way to the next table.
“I don’t know how she does it,” said Marcie. “She’s a real trooper. Always smiling. She’s amazing.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Lada butted in. “Geena has problems, as we all do. She just tucks them away, like pin money she can’t afford to spend.”
“Wow, your cynicism speaks to a very bad work week,” exclaimed Poppy, morphing into her counselor role.
“That’s what I was trying to get to, before you showed up,” said Marcie. “Let’s make this Lada’s night and put our brilliant minds to devious, delicious solutions. I say we throw morality to the wind and blow off the good little girl rules that ‘society’ still expects women to follow. Let’s drink to that.”
“Cin Cin.” “Skoal.” “Salud and happy days,” they toasted.
Just as their round of drinks arrived, Geena dropped a handwritten note from Slim into Lada’s hand.
“Love, you look miserably unhappy, so I’m offering you the private dining space I reserve for Thursday night poker games. You and your friends can strategize whatever it is you’re scheming, and I can check up on you occasionally. I’ll make sure Geena does too. Smile, you’re beautiful.”
The friends let Lada read the note privately, until they noticed one, then two tears settling on her exquisite cheekbones.
Lada threw the note to the tabletop along with a $20 tip, and sighed — “even my only male friend Slim must add beauty to the equation. Come on girls. Let’s get out of here.”
Right behind you,” they said in unison. Lada nodded at Slim as they passed the five-person-deep bar. “Catch you later,” she said, as Marcie’s tight grip on her arm jolted her forward.
Free of the high pitch of developing drunkenness, the three huddled under the awning of Slim’s and discussed where they would go.
It was 9 p.m., the bewitching hour for early Happy Hour hookups eager to take their mating game to the next level. “Forget popular restaurants,” Marcie said.
“I know a Thai place,” Poppy threw out. “It’s Zen-like, frequented by early-to-rise enlighteners, who meditate rather than talk.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Lada. “I need everyone’s mindfulness regarding what I want to tell you tonight.”
“Let’s flag down a taxi,” Poppy added. “Chicago streets, at this hour, are a lighted ribbon-way of mass confusion.”
“I’ve got this,” Lada shouted above the fervid pitch of happy hour drunks stumbling out of Slim’s.
She pressed her index and middle fingers to her tongue, and the shrill of a whistle alerted cab drivers three blocks away.
“Music to Meditate by” filled the uncrowded, candlelit restaurant, served by students from the neighboring Tai Chi school “Perfect,” Lada nodded to Polly.
Once they sat, everyone deferred to Lada, who couldn’t see their hands twisting, their toes curling under the table.
“I’m facing a moral dilemma that could cost me my future; even send me to jail or kill me. I cannot face this alone. Will you listen and not judge until I am finished?”
In unison, they responded “absolutely,” as they reached for her hands.
Lada brushed through the facts, as if she were reading her obituary. Born in a brothel; father unknown. Raised by whores; mother arranged to deflower her to highest bidder on her 15th birthday; became a high demand prostitute until age 20, when her patron saint Dimitri bought her from her mother and took her to America as his children’s nanny.
“His actions portrayed the meaning of his name — having a deep desire to serve humanity and give to others by sharing money, knowledge and experience,” Lada explained. “He saw me as a worthy person, and in return, I vowed to become the honorable person he became. I promised to never do anything immoral, and I reconciled the past was a nightmare gobbled up by all the boogeymen of my life.”
“Whew, I need a drink,’ said Marcie. “I do too, and I don’t even drink,” added Poppy. “How about a nice round of Chi tea?
Remembering their two-drink rule, the three close friends agreed, and each collected her thoughts.
“Let me see if I am hearing you right,” Poppy started. “You want to make someone pay, maybe even murder, but you are bound to your promise to Dimitri and yourself?”
“Exactly,” Lada confirmed.
“So, we must devise a way to get back at the bastards that is not criminal?” questioned Marcie.
“Ideally.”
“Is there a drug out there that makes men impotent for life?” Marcie asked. “Probably not,” said Lada, “considering men run the pharmaceutical companies.”
“You could kick him fiercely in the balls, render him damaged forever,” laughed Polly. “Wouldn’t that be assault?” Marcie asked. “Yes,” they agreed.
“Whatever we come up with, it must be devious; cunning; so unexpected, Wynn Mims will never ever see me in the same light again. I think my beauty, as much as I hate it, disarms him. He acts big, but that’s a cover-up for all his inadequacies,” said Lada. “I need to scare him shitless, and he has to believe I will act on it.”
The three friends threw around ideas, ranging from the outrageous to the mundane.
“I’ve got it,” screamed Lada. She vividly described her idea to her friends. “You really want to do that?” Marcie asked. “Yeah,” said Polly. “That’s forever — well, maybe not forever, but painful and expensive.”
“It’s perfect,” said Lada. “That bastard will creep out, too afraid to ever try sex with me.”
Once the plan was shared and its edges smoothed, they called it a night. Lada vowed to report back as soon as it was done.
Lada called in sick Monday, knowing that Mr. Mimms was probably gloating, thinking he had gained the upper hand in their last conversation. Anything but the truth, thought Lada.
Prepared, she walked into the shop and showed the owner what she wanted. “You sure that’s what you want?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s exactly what I want. Any problems?”
“You got it lady. Follow me.”
The next day, Lada called in sick again.
“This is Lada Ivanov. May I speak to Joseph Aspinwall, please?”
“Lada, what a pleasant surprise,” Aspinwall answered.
“Mr. Aspinwall” — “Please call me Joe…” “Well Joe, I wanted to thank you for steering the board toward a unanimous vote on your next public relations campaign. I hope you will call me the next time you are in Chicago. I have something special planned.”
“Count on it; perhaps next week?”
“I’ll look forward to your call,” Lada said, a mysterious smile on her face.
One down; one to go.
Lada next called Wynn Mims’ office. “Mr. Mimms, this is Lada. Yes, thank you. I am feeling much better, so good, in fact, I’d like to propose a dinner tomorrow evening. I want to apologize for my insolent behavior the other day.”
“I was hoping you’d realize how up tight you get under stress. I look forward to it. Is 8 p.m. good? I will have a driver pick you up, okay?”
Lada took special care dressing the next morning. She chose a high neck, red knit dress with an extended zipper down the back and a killer pair of Jimmy Choo black patent stilettos — classic but revealing. Pray for me, god.
She stayed busy all day, even stayed a bit late going over her game plan. She thought of her two friends, knowing they were as nervous as she, and she gave a special blessing to her Dimitri. “This one’s for you, my patron saint.”
The driver delivered her back to corporate headquarters. “Whoever he is, he’s a lucky man,” he said, as he helped her out of the car.
“No, I’m the lucky one.”
Lada walked in, as if she owned the universe.
“You look ravishing,” Mimms gushed. “How about a drink?” “A lemon drop martini, if it’s not too much trouble.”
As Mims glided from the bar, a few drops of the overfilled martini dropped onto the executive dining room’s Persian silk rug. He reached for her. “You can’t toast sitting down. Take my hand.”
Setting the drink down on a nearby table, Mims and his heavy, alcohol-laced breath, pulled her in, while reaching for the convenient back zipper. I know you want this,” he exhaled. “Oh, you have no idea,” Lada responded.
One slide down and Mims released the zipper from her muscular back. The slip fell easily, because Lada offered no resistance.
“Let me look at you,” pushing her out to arm’s length. “God, you are beautiful.”
Lada slipped off her bra, allowing Mims time to relish what was coming. Her red silk thong drifted to the floor, as he unzipped his pants, showing a gargantuan hard on. “You’re going to enjoy this,” he breathed heavily, as he directed her to a gleaming conference table. Roughly, he turned her to her backside.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s my surprise to you.”
Just above the dimples of her buttocks, in bold black letters, was the message — a tramp stamp clearly tattooed: FUCK ME AND YOU DIE!
This article appears in Mar 28 – Apr 4, 2019.