The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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Again?! What for?!. Her boobs were undeniably magnificent, with some strange nipples though, I had never come across so tiny ones, the size of a pinhead. However, keeping oneself all night long busy with only the bust is a hell of monotonous occupation.
Two days later she resolutely blocked my way in the half-dark corridor of the Hosty. "You did not say you were married!"
"You didn't ask."
(…and here, in my opinion, lies the main flaw in civilization. Take me, for instance, I have nothing but the purest and most natural inclination for a no-cheating trade after the pattern "you give me, I give you". For a fully fair trade of pleasures based on the mentioned principle, I am prepared to provide all the pleasures available from my male body—restricted in no way—in exchange for delights obtainable from her female one. But instead of a young Bacchante rocking with fiery mad ecstasy in my embrace I—for the damnteenth time!—run into the disgusting attempt at using her cunt as a trap.
Bitter are the fruits of yours, O, civilization! Toy with the boobs and piss off! Marry first, and then have it in slathers, ladle or spread it as you like, but no sooner… And no one cares a fig about your shattered self-respect. Couldn't bring to a passionate response?. Hmm…and you call yourself a man after that, eh?.
And—the most perplexing puzzle—a mere outline of the word "rape" gives me a boner, but I’ve never tried to put the term into effect in a real-life situation, not even with the recusant who lay with me of her own free will. She sez, "No, stop it…" and I begin to tame my horny ambition, whatever the cost. Probably, because I love fair deals.
Besides, I was born too late – after the origination of the family, private property, and state…)
Presently, the buses in the Nezhyn city stop next to the railway station, but in those times the highway bridge over the railway tracks was not yet in place and the bus stops were reached by the high footbridge overpass… Then you had to wait for a bus, scramble to get on board, and stand squeezed in the crowd for all the long ride to the main square. From the square there remained a short walk down to the bridge over the Oster river on whose right bank stood the Hosty, the New and the Old Buildings, as well as the other campus structures together with the Count's Park behind them holding the sky aloft upon its columns of dark ancient Elms within the bounds of a long lake of horseshoe outline…
It took me one of those prolonged bus rides from the station to the main square, to persuade Yasha Demyanko to sell me a shirt. A white shirt with the grid pattern of blue-and-yellow, thin, widely set, stripes. Coming back to Nezhyn after the weekend at his home city of Poltava, Yasha brought that shirt for selling at a negotiated price, and in the crowded bus, he opened his grip to flash the goods before me.
I fell for it immediately, but he was obstinately refusing to sell it because he had another such shirt on and both of us were from the same Department. In his opinion, it was not the right thing for 2 persons to be dressed alike when in one place… In the most solemn terms, had I to swear to never ever put it on without his expressed permission, or when his one was washed or left behind in Poltava.
(…we lived in the deficiency era, of which fact we were well aware. So, I wasn't stunned at all when a girl sitting next to me at a general lecture, flashed wide runs in her pantyhose aptly fixed with a blue electric tape high up her thigh.
So what? In upright posture her skirt hid both the tape and runs leaving just legs in the pantyhose of enviable Conte brand… yes, it was the post-mini epoch already…)
~ ~ ~
Fyodor, Yasha and I became bosom friends on the common basis of dry wine. After classes, we started to the deli located round the corner of the department store opposite the church where Bogdan Khmelnytsky centuries ago married another of his wives, to buy 4 to 5 bottles holding 0.75 liters of white dry wine each. Yasha was a firm supporter of moderation and his dose constituted just one bottle in the haul, while Fyodor and I entertained more liberal perspective.
From the deli, we proceeded past the Bazaar and the restaurant "Polissya" to the second bridge over the Oster River, from which long Red Partisans Street started and went off to finally turn right, towards the highway beyond the city. But our route was much shorter and, from the bridge, we climbed down into the tall grass on the left riverbank nearby the Catholic Chapel used as the Youth Sports School grounds, snug and cozy place to stretch out for a libation.
A finger-thick layer of sediment covered each bottle bottom, but we knew how to drink from the neck without stirring it up. The emptied bottles were thrown into the nearly motionless waters of the Oster because somewhere downstream the floodgates of the dam were shut. After a short-lived reproachful popping, the bottles froze on the water, kinda fishing rod floats with their necks in osculatory appeal to the sky.
(…environmental pollution fighters would not approve of such behavior, but young carefree students are not turned on by so minor issues.
Besides, when compared to the exploits in the student life of Mikhail Lomonosov at German universities, we were a tender flock of fluffy lambs. Reading about his feats, you grow to understand: it was
