Frustrated, my partners did what they usually do when they can’t solve their problems—headed out for a couple of drinks and a lap dance.
Within two weeks, these four, seemingly innocent, giggly babes had thrown the entire publication into absolute chaos.
In a two-week span, the girls had polished off 15 bottles of champagne and seven or eight liters of vodka. They loved White Russians!
Four attractive Russian girls, the Latore Niskey team, and a city full of booze. Until I heard this story, I thought the closest I’d come to a Russian caper was watching James Bond re-runs on TNT’s holiday movie marathons. By the end of it, I realized this adventure had everything: international intrigue, high-tech disguises, beautiful women…and yours truly.
When our Senior Staff put their heads together to plan the pre-launch party for Latore Niskey’s premiere night, they knew it had to be big, hot, and booming. What could be more outrageous than a group of girls prowling the crowd in nothing more than body paint?
So they scoured the city to find some lucky volunteers, but couldn’t find even one girl who was willing to get dolled up for their special night. Frustrated, my bosses did what they usually do when they can’t solve their problems—headed out for a couple of drinks and a lap dance.
While drowning their sorrows at Delilah’s, they bought a drink for a Russian dancer named Tatalia. She hung around for a bit, listening in on their conversation. After a while, she waved her friend Maria over, and the two of them began chattering in their native tongue. Our Senior staff members paid paid them no attention until Tatalia broke into English with the three words they’d never expected to hear.
“We’ll do it.” she said.
That was all it took. In addition to being gorgeous themselves, the ladies had a couple other Russian friends who were willing to go along for the ride. That brought the magic number to four. They even agreed to do a photo shoot for Latore Niskey, so we could share the joy with our readers! It seemed like the perfect plan.
Somewhere off in the distance, Stalin stirred in his tomb, ready to take his vengeance on America from beyond the grave…
Within two weeks, these four, seemingly innocent, giggly babes had thrown the entire publication into absolute chaos. Our Lead Editor was being hunted like an animal all over the city because the girls wanted to see their photos. Cary (does anyone know what the hell Cary does?) was driving the NJ turnpike to Exit 7A three times a weeks to pick up two of the girls, who worked at Great Adventure. Worst of all, in my opinion—they drank all our liquor.
In a two-week span, the girls had polished off 15 bottles of champagne and seven or eight liters of vodka. They loved White Russians! (Our Editor-in-Chief asked if the girls wanted a little Black Russian as well, but they seemed to know just enough English to not fall for his ploy.) It was a huge mess, but these Russkies were the only girls willing to be our main attraction for the Latore Niskey “Because I Can Mother Fucka” party. So everyone put up with their antics.
By the night of the party, we were willing to forgive it all. The girls were a big hit (even if they left paint all over the furniture in our office) with every guy in the place. We thought we could put the past two weeks’ worth of craziness behind us. We couldn’t have been more wrong.
If you listen closely while reading this, you can actually hear Stalin’s ghost cackling. I mean it!
The girls had been contracted to work the entire night, so we rented them a hotel room at the Sheraton where they could freshen up after the pre-launch party was over. They were supposed to remain in costume, and come with us to Deco for the after-party.
By the time we got there to pick them up on our way to Deco, they were already stripping off the body paint! Not much of a problem by itself…until you consider that they had brought absolutely NO CLOTHES with them, and neglected to check into their room. They were running around the lobby naked—NAKED!—before finally calling some random Russian guys to pick them up.
We didn’t know about any of this until we were told about it by one of the desk clerks afterwards. By then the girls had totally disappeared, and no one heard from them for a couple of days, when they came by to get paid for their work at the party.
Tatalia and Maria were never paid because they bailed early on the evening. Our Lead Editor paid Natalia and Anastasia because the other two apparently forced them to leave early.
End of story, right? No. A week ago, our Lead Editor is hanging out at Delilah’s in Philly—again—and this blonde dancer, who looks awfully familiar, starts waving at him. It was Anastasia, the nicest of the four, according to him. It turned out the other three girls were all sent back to Russia, and she began working as a dancer.
Anastasia had agreed to do an interview for this story, but then she too went missing in action. The last time I called, her voicemail picked up with a Russian guy saying, “Anastasia is not available to take your call…leave a message.”
The last time I saw our Senior Staff, they were in a rush (Ha-Ha! Get it?!) to meet some clients. Accompanying them was one of our Niskey girls—a Russian-born, Americanized brunette named Carla.
I haven’t heard from either of them since.
Photos and story Originally appeared in LDMagazine.
Photography by Latore Niskey
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