Turns out it was only because I had never met this hunk of a Russian man.
Not only was he drop-dead gorgeous (literally - the bartender died shortly after, idk why, prolly Putin's looks), but he was also so charismatic and energetic.
He was an excellent dancer. He spun me right round, baby right round, except I didn't know whether I was Dead or Alive. Honestly, I wouldn't have minded being either, as long as I was in his toned and sculpted arms.
He spun me, then suddenly pulled me closer to him. I could smell his enticing vodka breath and see his enigmatic blue orbs that reminded me of a Siberian winter. His nose was like a toboggan and his eyebrows were non-existent. In fact, as I stared at him right then and there, I began to rethink a lot of things, and my world tilted on its axis. For one, maybe I should call my secret lab and tell them that instead of making 1500 Angela Merkel clones, they should make 1000 Angela clones and 500 Putin clones. That was how beautiful I found him. I was also about to rethink my plans to eradicate all men, but my thoughts were cut off when I saw just how close his beautiful moon-shaped head was to mine.
His receding hairline was shaped like a smile, and soon I felt myself smile, because he wrapped his chiselled Russian arm around me. His other arm lightly caressed my thinning, ageing hair. I felt like I was in heaven:
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I stared deep into his pacific ocean eyes, and he smiled a cute Russian smile, revealing his hot dentures. His face inched closer to mine, and my heart started palpitating in my voluptuous chest. It felt like the last time I was rushed to the ER because I thought I was about to have a heart attack. (Turns out I overdosed on menopause meds but we don't talk about that.)
I smiled back at his full-moon face. And then he kissed me. Russian president, Vladimir Putin, kissed me, Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany. You bet your sweet ass I kissed him back. It was magical. It reminded me of all things that made me happy; drinking beer while committing tax fraud. Speeding on the Autobahn in my limousine wearing gangsta shades. Forcing my Slavs - sorry - slaves - sorry - helpers - to feed me Kartoffelpuffer. Abusing my now ex husband Joachim by hitting him with a - wait, no. Leave the ex man out of this. Only Putin can now enter me. Sorry, I meant, enter my mind.
Now, I cannot tell you much about how the night progressed as I am indeed an elite woman of dignity, but I can tell you one thing: the P in Putin stands for passionate.
