The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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Entering the left turn between the Station and Loony Park I heard my name called out loud. Over the Station square, Olga was dashing in her red mini-skirt. The coach was right – that's some physique!. I throttled down and let the scooter come to a stop…
She ran up with not a whiff of panting and let me have it – it's three days since I'd disappeared no one knew where and if I did not want going out with her I didn't have to she didn't care because yesterday she got a telegram from her mother inviting for a telephone talk with Theodosia and she said that's enough for staying and she had to go back in two days but I didn't care I rushed to the Seim with my fucking friends who were more dear to me than her and she was just a fool to think she had found someone she could trust and if I needed her the slightest bit I would stay with her right now.
After the cold condensate shower so torrid a squall, and her pending departure and the rise of incipient hope—hey, she might let have it off for a farewell, eh?—had their job done. I only begged for a couple of hours – to take the scooter to Vladya's khutta and go to change before our meeting at the Park…
Sure enough, my friends returned from the Seim by 17.20 local train, after they combed the entire sand spit in search of scraps that they had so improvidently scattered hither-and-thither at the orgy the night before. Who but I could understand them better? Once I also almost fainted from hunger on the Seim.
They stopped talking to me and boycotted for full 3 days. And who but I could understand them better? You couldn't boycott a dude for longer than 3 days if you played dances with him and your only means of communication was thru disgruntled Chuba.
(…you can imagine nothing meaner than the betrayal of your chums… Yet, from all the mean deeds in my life that particular one, for some odd reason, I regret the least. Although, of course, I am sorry.
"A skirt chaser, a dishrag, he betrayed his homeboys for a piece of the smelly hole, betrayed for a ho!" would say 95 percent of real bro guys… well, okay, it was overdone – 93 percent is the exact number.
And I would understand them. Moreover, I'd fully agree with them. But most of all I would pity the poor boobs. Too bad luck, they had not come across a woman for whose sake it's worth betraying…)
Now, Olga.
Her breasts certainly lacked the yummy splendor of the melon-like treasures by Natalie. And the nipples were not jutting rigidly as prescribed in the literary tradition to the mentioned parts in the virgin anatomy. Yet, on unbuttoning both her blouse and my shirt to press her topless chest against mine for the first time (she did not have a bra on that occasion after dropping for a sec into the dark khutta yard) I was stunned by the immensity of the sensation caused by the naked female flesh.
The fact of her breasts being small and the nipples not too stiff she explained by diving from a cliff after rapans in the sea which happened to be too deep there and that’s why at the hospital they had to pierce her breasts.
(..some whopper for of a gaping sucker’s ears? I have no idea.
As a champion dupe, I believe anything they tell me. Faith, I mean it, while listening, I believe anything at all from whoever they be.
And because of my fundamentally delayed mental processing, the logical evaluation of the bullshit they fed to me takes place the following day if not later.
However, at that period I did not care for no logic – be it rapans or other fish. It's only now I feel curious at times – what kind of crap could be them those rapans? But then I'm too lazy to go Googling after them…)
Yet, the most captivating feature about her was her legs.
(..the sexual revolution was raging then all over the world reaching its apogee, and the laws of revolutionary times have no mercy, moreover, the laws of revolutionary fashion.
In modern, democratic times, you can wear whatever you want – be it maxi or midi or unisex. You can even choose to spend all of your life in sportswear and have no problem about it if only the pants legs bear those nice stripes from Adidas.
The sexual revolution established the dictatorship of mini all over the world so that if you considered yourself a woman, you had to bare your knees. The law was simple and short – either your skirt is for at least two inches above your knees or go and join the pack of pensioner lady-oldies idling on the common bench in the yard.
Dura lex, sed lex…)
Olga's mini was 10 inches above her knees. Therefore, when getting seated she chastely dropped her hand between her sportingly ripe thighs so as not to flash her panties. And on that bright and shining sunny day, when I stood next to the Under-Overpass tunnel and stared at her skipping in a nimble athletic style down the stairs from the Plant Park, flashing her yellow sports haircut and the ruby-red mini of hers, it became so clear to me that I was born in the epoch really worth to be born into.
A flick of the breeze tossed up the loincloth of her mini and she, on the run, sat it back with the everlasting gesture of Marilyn Monroe from some other, pre-revolutionary era.
(…at the like moments all the rapans in the world and hungry bros chewing the scraps of dry bread sprinkled with fine riverside sand can go to hell for all I care!
"…two legs…though sad, and cold, and wearyI still remember them…"Or, as
