Masturbating and reminiscing...

— Well, you know, sometimes it happens, men leave women, women leave men. Love is a strange joke. A joke, not a thing, I didn't mix it up. It's just that not all women and men understand this; where one should simply smile, they make a scene, argue, break dishes, threaten each other, sometimes even fight. We're not going to fight, are we, sunshine... Why? Especially after everything that was between us. Accept our parting as something that had to be, as a fait accompli, as the inevitable full stop in all human relationships, and smile already, will you. Look around, what wonderful weather, the sun is shining so brightly,

birds are singing, vacationers are blissful, life goes on... and sunshine... smile."

I winked, blew out streams of bluish smoke from my nose, glanced at Nastya sitting opposite me at a table, one of the many open-air cafes so plentiful in this resort town. Nastya, after these words of mine, uttered with the same ease as the streams of smoke from my nose, seemed neither alive nor dead. Her already large eyes now seemed simply enormous and looked at me, either with fright or despair; it was quite clear she had no intention of rejoicing in life due to our breakup and my revelations on the matter. She had a rather pitiful look—the look of a puppy put out the door by an unkind owner!

— Come on, smile, don't make a tragedy out of this, we're not Romeo and Juliet, and life is not Shakespeare," I began again.

Nastya was silent.

I picked up the large beer mug from the table, took a decent gulp (this cold Czech beer was magnificent on this sultry July day), and continued:

— Yes, I loved you, yes we slept together, we were interested in each other, both in terms of sex and communication, we had many shared interests, plus you always cooked excellently. If you think now that I could forget the taste of your stuffed peppers, you are deeply mistaken, believe me, I will always miss it...

— Don't you feel sorry at all," Nastya unexpectedly and sharply cut me off, "not at all, not at all?!

— Oh, not this... please don't start all that," I shook my head, "why do all women, when parting, start tugging at a man's soul, demanding pity for themselves? Tell me, don't you feel sorry for me right now? Or do you think saying all this to you gives me great pleasure? No, it's not easy for me right now, not easy at all, believe me, I'm not some kind of sadist.

— I'm not talking about myself.

I looked around. At the table to my right sat a man of advanced age, which, however, didn't stop him from wearing a white panama hat and short shorts; a bit to the left, a young family with offspring, twin boys about seven years old; also present was a certain lonely woman about thirty, pretty and in a very Russian way sad; there was no one else in the cafe. It seemed no one was listening to us.

— What are you talking about then?" I turned to Nastya.

— About sex, of course.

— About sex?

Nastya reached out, took my pack of cigarettes from the table, and after lighting one, continued again:

— Exactly, about sex. Won't you remember all our funny, sexual games? Won't you regret that this erotic fairy tale has ended once and for all.

— Well...

— Tell me, how many women in the world are capable of enduring all your sexual quirks?

— Well, you know...

— Endure a man who can't pass by a sex shop without peeking into its hospitable doors and buying some new phantasmagorical contraption. Endure a man who keeps a whole fairy-tale wardrobe in his clothes closet, but not as a memory of a happy childhood. We have a Snow Maiden costume, and a nun's habit, and Little Red Riding Hood, and Robin Hood, and of course, a white, lacy wedding dress, where would we be without it. And why? Because our dear boy Misha, a model citizen, a respectable taxpayer, and so on, is also, concurrently, a little pervert who simply can't fall asleep peacefully until his girlfriend puts on something like that and arranges a little erotic holiday for him... Pinocchio, damn it!

— Shh, shh, there are people here, and people have ears, none of them should know what we do at night.

— No, I'll tell everything, let them listen if they want, or put cotton in their ears, like our neighbors on the landing did at night.

I glanced at the man in the white panama. He was diligently pretending not to hear our conversation with Nastya, also drinking beer like me, nibbling on a dried fish tail, and even, it seemed, not without excitement, glancing towards the lonely thirty-year-old woman. But his age, plus the white panama, plus the short shorts—all this gave me some vague suspicions.

— And so," continued Nastya, as if not noticing my current concerns, "won't you miss all our sexual games, our erotic practices.

— Oh, Nastya...

— Remember how we loved our small but cozy bathtub, its cool bottom and hot stream. Oceans of our boundless, and so depraved love! You adored doing it in water. We sat in it opposite each other, warm, hot water washed over our young and naked bodies, and we did it with our feet, looking each other straight in the eyes, and seeing how the expressions on our faces changed upon contact. While the big toe of your foot rubbed against my pussy, striving to look deeper inside, my foot lay on your scrotum, the other one, I usually placed on your chest; you brought it to your lips, stuck out your little tongue, and played with my toes. You didn't miss the chance to suck them all, and I to feel how under my foot, both in width and height, your brave and proud colonel grew. And remember our 'bul, bul, bul.' That's what you yourself seemed to call it.

— Oh, Nastya, you are merciless, don't torment my soul, don't rub salt in the wound.

— What about our oral caresses under the hot shower. I closed my eyes, knelt before you, and, hugging your legs, blindly searched for your excited organ. A whole waterfall crashed down on me from above, an incredible roar stood in my ears, like the echo of a distant ocean, and my mouth blindly found and caressed your cock, as if it were a sweet and hard carrot... yum-yum. I touched the forked head with my lips, stuck out my tongue: thick and long hanging from under my chin. As you yourself said more than once, the most manic little tongue in the entire vast universe. And I diligently got to work, striving to lick out everything that could be licked and even what couldn't, your body was a canvas for me, I was the artist and my own tongue her dexterous and skillful brush. To be honest, in those moments something came over me, well, besides the shower water, of course, either inspiration, or daring, or sexual insanity. I lifted your swollen from excitement and curved-in-shape cock upward so it wouldn't interfere with my work. And myself, maneuvering, peeked between your legs. My nose buried into your scrotum, and my tongue polished the perineum, between your anus and your own hanging-down balls.

— Nastya, Nastya, what vulgar expressions.

— I began my long and languid journey from there,"—from the path of hard, short, water-clumped hairs, they tickled me, got into my nose, peeked into my nostrils, then moved to the scrotum, which by that time had hardened and resembled a tennis ball. The tip of my tongue passed neatly between your two stretched-out testicles. As a sculptor feels the shape of clay by touch, so my tongue over time studied every millimeter of your landscape hidden under the skin. Having processed them, it went further, and starting from the base of the shaft of your cock, slowly crawled to the head, large, dark, so excited. Having circled more than once around the junction of skin and tender flesh with my tongue, having properly worked the frenulum, I sucked the elongated head into myself, and after it, having sucked a little, and opening my mouth wide in the process, swallowed the entire cock whole—all eighteen centimeters of your foreskin. I was like that little defenseless fish caught on the hook of its inevitability. Do you remember those moments of luxurious blowjob?

— Oh, sunshine...

I glanced at the man in the panama. The panama by this moment was already on the table, and he himself, leaning back on the plastic chair, was diligently wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. "The heat of the hot day, or did he actually hear?"—flashed through my head. Nastya, indifferent to my embarrassment, continued:

— I didn't give you a long break,"—your bliss lasted only seconds, then, roughly grabbing you by the hair, I made you kneel before me. You were so defenselessly, naively, obedient. You behaved like a pliable slut. You were ready for anything. During our time living together, I saw you in different roles: a Dominican monk, Robin Hood and others, what else to expect if you live under one roof with a fetishist, but the role of a sweet, compliant slut suited your face like no other. Because then you weren't acting at all, you lived it, you were who you really are, namely, a bootlicker. How amusingly and juicily you smacked from the surging pleasure then, when you buried yourself between my legs.

— Well, you know...

— And our nights, our games, our hide-and-seek under the blanket, all these cat-and-mouse games, won't you miss your affectionate and playful kitty, when in the evenings you return to your empty apartment, sit in front of the TV, eat instant noodles, and watch another episode of some boring series. Eat instant noodles, watch series, masturbate and remember!

— Masturbate and remember?

— Yes, yes. And what else will you have left to do, only that. You know, like in the song—Mister Wank, Mister Wank—and this trouble is with us all night long. Sounds cruel, of course, but...

— Remember, you bought me a wedding dress? You spent a lot of money on it, how beautiful it was. Any girl dreams of trying on such a dress someday. But not in the role you made me play in it. Any girl in my place, if she knew for what purposes you needed it, would have killed you immediately with a frying pan. But I put it on for you, gritting my teeth, but I put it on, and you took Vaseline, and we did it hard, roughly in front of our large mirror. Looking into it, seeing our reflections—feeling each other so closely, as indeed never before.

— Oh, Nastenka, you're right, I'm a complete scoundrel!

— Panties at the ankles, lace hem on the back, and your hard and insatiable cock in my pampered and unaccustomed-to-bad-treatment ass! Bride and a seasoned pervert was your favorite game. You bent me over, lifted my leg, put my foot on the nightstand and... waves, waves... my ass hurts... h... huge... oh my oh my.

I glanced sideways at the man: the panama was already on him, but the fingers of his hand lay on the table surface and nervously tapped a drum roll on it.

— Remember our last New Year, I wanted to celebrate it with my mom, that's normal, to celebrate this holiday with people close to you, but no, what mom, you insisted on celebrating it at home, in the company of three prostitutes. There's such a New Year's service, called 'Three Snow Maidens and a Whip.' You used it.

— Yes, yes, that last New Year, that little, fun holiday, I certainly won't forget it.

— I will remember that day forever, and the faces of those girls when they first saw you—the hospitable host on the threshold of his home. You had an excellent outfit, it would have suited any porn masquerade: the top part of a tuxedo, a black bow tie stretched over a bare neck, fluffy rabbit ears attached to your head with an elastic band, and of course a smoking cigar, where would we be without it, sticking out of your mouth. You were simply incomparable! A little, lustful rabbit with the manners of a gentleman and a limp carrot dangling between your legs. Your appearance alone was enough for the girls to realize that this New Year's night would not be sweet for them, and poor things, in their line of work they had seen a lot.

— First we all, holding hands, danced around the Christmas tree. Your carrot dangled between your legs, and the girls showed you their bare butts. Then the girls, lifting their hems to their chests, recited funny poems memorized by heart. First, the red triangle recited poems, then the slightly lighter triangle, finally, the black as a raven's feather with glinting piercing between thick but short hair. Three pubic mounds and poetry—it was very sentimental. And then...

— Don't, Nastya, please.

— And then you lined up the girls, made them bend over, and yourself took a whip in your hands. You walked back and forth, hands behind your back, along three appetizing and watching-you asses, and recited your own play to them.

— Well, that's normal, I'm a creative person.

— You read them a monologue of a sinner in hell! You walked back and forth, squeezing the whip behind your back, and read to the prostitutes, in an otherworldly voice—a voice from the underworld, the monologue of a whore who ended up in HELL for her sins! I remember that picture as if it were now: you, light music, three naked butts swaying in unison with it, and your loud phrases tearing through the silence of space, like: Pain, and only pain, are now my lot—and my ass, as if on fire. You should have seen their faces. Poor girls thought they had fallen into a maniac's lair! When all normal people drank champagne and made wishes, you arranged an orgy with elements of farce, making me obediently play the role of spectator, and the girls the role of your victims.

— It was just a fun game.

— Well, at first the girls didn't know that.

— Do you think it's pleasant to watch all night long as your own boyfriend services three beauties one after another, and in such, as luck would have it, beautiful costumes.

— Don't be spiteful and don't play the prude, you joined our cute game after all.

— And what was I supposed to do, masturbate, drink champagne and watch Zalman King movies on NTV at three in the morning?

— Listen, Nastenka, I'm a scoundrel, I'm a sinner, you're right, I know it myself. But besides my shortcomings, I also had merits...

— Yes, you had and have,"—one, between the legs, but, by the way, it's not as huge as you yourself,

probably think it is.

— Ah, you are cruel!

— I am cruel. And you weren't cruel when you once came home with that, what was her name... Masha,"—a girl with a piercing in her nostril and eyeliner in her pocket. Her appearance told me: hippies are alive, hippies exist, hippies will live! You sat in the kitchen like two stoned piglets and vied with each other to tell me about the virtues of free love.

— But that was so long ago, I don't know why you even remembered that story.

— How can I forget that day when I first saw your true face.

— But in the end you liked it," I smirked, "at least you got your orgasm.

— In that sense, yes,"—both she and you turned out to be excellent bootlickers, what some people do when stoned.

— Well, you know...

__P_ST