The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

no problem. It's they who gave the key to my love affair with Nadya… A glass of blood is such a trifle in spring. And Nadya's worthy of much more than that…

Men's toilet on the third floor of the hostel, besides serving its direct purpose, was also forcing the student body to wake up from their amorphous hibernation. Masses interested in leaflets is not supine any longer. Yet, no ardent KGBist, with all his rats could ever gain promotion on the grounds of headlines cut out from the central press and mounted on glue in the toilet for all to see.

In the Hosty’s toilets, like in any, for that matter, other public toilets, cleanly folks never got seated on the seats but got perched instead, sitting on their haunches above the seats too dirty after all the previous squatters. In that bird-like attitude, the visitor inevitably got facing their stall door from within and that’s where those cut-outs were placed keeping to no conceivable order, bearing no insidious comments. Just a kinda haphazard collage, sort of. However, left one-to-one with the stall-caged creature, those headings gradually acquired some bizarre connotations and warped innuendos. The hunkers subjected to idle consideration began to see some hidden frivolous meaning, never intended by the editorial staff of the central periodicals where the chance headlines were cut from. Squatting over the bowl shed some new light at quite trite, everyday:

"Care of Party Has to Be AnsweredChain is Strong by its LinksSame 45 Minutes Over AgainQuality is the PriorityBy Accelerated ScheduleNo Amnesty to BunglersIn the Name of Peace and Prosperity"

The force of, so to say, circumstances awoke your alertness. And that toilet humor spilled from the stalls reaching the opposite tiled wall with two urinals in it…

As usual, I sped past the first of them proclaiming:

"Waters of North to Flow South"

and pulled up by the second adorned by two headings from different newspapers:

"Biathlon Sport for CourageousOur Aim is Communism"

I pissed and with the final quake to dry my dick up, there came a strange burning sensation. Looking down, I watched as a strange roiled drop crept lazily out of the urethra slot. I froze; what!?. No! It cannot be!

But no mute pleading could cancel the fact that 3 days before, because of the stupid confluence of circumstances, the moment they switched off the light in the hostel rooms, there was no one in mine, except for a fourth-year student whom I laid on the nearest bed. It happened so quite mechanically; out of pure reflex. She had never turned me on, and—as said already—all that was just some stupid coincidence. With her, I felt no more than the Lucy Mancini's partners from The Godfather before she got operated on by Dr. Kennedy's surgeon friend. Like in a church bell…

Itching and burning did not cease; all the polygamy had to be canceled for an unspecified period. Twoic advised me to consult Dr. Grisha who ponderously shook his head, and admitted that several cases of gonorrhea infection had already been recorded in the hostel.

What f-f..er..I mean, flicking gonorrhea?

Yes. The symptoms were very similar, but to know for sure there was needed a laboratory analysis of the semen.

What the f-f..I mean, freak! But I did not know how to do it, I had never masturbated in my life.

Dr. Grisha volunteered to help. We locked ourselves in one of the rooms – he, I and Sveta, well, she was just in case, like, sort of auxiliary contingent.

From his large soft briefcase, Grisha angled a cork-sealed glass tube and handed it to me for collecting the material for analysis. I dropped my jeans and underpants knee-deep and sat on a chair for the procedure at hand. Grisha got seated on the bed opposite, Sveta took place next to him.

He began to drive my foreskin back and forth. The three of us tensely stared at the erect cock with Grisha's hand on it, blurred in rapid flicking up and down… After a couple of minutes of the procedure, Grisha began to often swallow saliva and announced in a strung-up voice that the penis was too dry and in need of applying some moisture.

I did appreciate Sveta's presence, a kinda restraint to his eager willingness to help. And I said that it's okay, never mind, now I knew the way and would try it myself, only I had to take the test tube with me, right?

I zipped my jeans up and, for a goodbye, Grisha gave me a patent medication, some Rifadin in capsules…

Mindful of Maria's promise to cure me in the case of S.T.D., I called her and she told me to come that evening. When I explained to her that I had gonorrhea and needed to extract the semen for analysis, she opened the bed and started to undress. I had to once again explain that I had gonorrhea, but she said it did not matter.

Then I also began to doff but warned that I'd collect the semen into the test tube. She agreed. Probably, that her contraceptive coil protected not only from pregnancy but from gonorrhea as well. So I put the test tube on the nightstand by the radio, and we started off…

Thais of Athens treated Alexander the Great to some medicine so that they could have sex all night long. I cannot state that all that night with Maria I had an incessant erection. After another and another of her regular "More! A! Mo-re!" we caught a breath before to proceed anew because I couldn't cum until the grayish dawn twilight behind the window curtains got drowned in the broad morning light. (Was that delay effectuated by the presence of the test tube waiting a-gape on the nightstand? I don’t know, I am not an expert.)

At long last, I backed her passionate "More! I want it! A!" with my atonal grunts, and snatched out.

"No! No!" screamed she. "Into me!"

But it was too late, the attained-by-perserverence moment of concluding convulsions the dickhead shared to the rigid