Casanova's Notebook or Womanizing Adventures

... I can't say she left me: she never picked me up in the first place... I can't say we broke up either: we never really got together... To say she didn't love me is to say nothing at all: I still don't know how she felt about me... I can't say we had a romance either: there was no romance, not even a novella... Just... A little short story... Anyway, she couldn't have loved me the way I loved her—she already had a love. And besides, she liked men, and I liked women...

* * *

In short, I was overcome with melancholy and, to avoid perishing completely,

I decided to "go chasing women." I got out my old notebook, sat down by the phone, and...

* * *

Alright, let's see. Vika! Dialing the number...

— Hello, Vikulya! How are you?

— Who is this?

— What, you don't recognize me?

— Ah, Vova, it's you...

— What Vova? You have three guesses...

— I don't know. If you don't say who you are, I'll hang up.

— Alright, it's Lyosha! We applied to the institute together.

— Oh, sorry, I got confused. You haven't called me in so long.

— Yeah, sorry, I had things going on. Maybe we could meet up—reminisce about old times.

Vikulya joked:

— When you're reminiscing about old times, make sure it doesn't fall apart. Honestly, I can't—I have a lot on my plate.

— Really, really can't?

— Really, really. Work six days, rest on Sunday. No time for anything else.

After chatting a bit more, we said goodbye.

* * *

— Hello! Lana! It's Lyosha. How are you?

— Hello, Lyosha. You're a scumbag. I loved you so much, and you...

— Lanachka, forgive me, I couldn't do otherwise back then.

— ... and you trampled all over my feelings...

— Oh, if only I could fix everything.

— I can change everything...

— Nothing can be changed anymore. After you publicly "humiliated" me back then, saying everything you thought about me... Did you have someone else? That Yulia, right?

— That's not the point...

I hung up. I ruined her life.

I'm ashamed.

* * *

I don't suffer from perversions—

I enjoy them...

I remembered that Yulia too, but I didn't call her: husband, two kids. What conversations and meetings? She's not exactly bored.

* * *

— Hello, Marina! How's life?

— Sh... tty!

— Completely?

— Completely sh... tty!

— What happened? Maybe you'll tell me?

— Of course, I'll tell you. Come over tomorrow evening.

— Okay! I'll come!

Wow! Life is looking up!

* * *

— Hello, Olenka! — I call my school friend.

— Hellooo, Lyoshechka! — she says in a languid voice. Probably wants me.

— How are things? We haven't seen each other in a while...

We agreed to meet the day after tomorrow in the park. Wow! Life keeps getting better and better.

* * *

— Katerina? It's your favorite Lyosha!

— Hi, bastard!

— Why so rude.

— You, you condom, are supposed to marry me!

— Why would that be?

— Not why, but after what... After what you did to me back then... You could have at least called.

A shameful episode surfaced in my memory. This Katerina invited me to her housewarming a couple of months ago. Well, I went to her place...

I pinned her against the wall and got on my knees, starting to unbutton her jeans. They wouldn't give. After dealing with them, I pulled them down along with her panties, and my gaze was met by a long-untrimmed pubic mound (thankfully at least washed...), covered in long, curly hair.

— I got a "perm" recently, — the girl boasted.

— You should have just shaved it all off, — I thought.

But there was nothing to be done: cunnilingus it is...

Parting the folds and thicket, I reached the clitoris. Touched it with my tongue—it felt like I licked hot coals. Getting excited, I shoved my tongue almost to her uterus: her flesh was dry and hot, like the Sahara Desert. Hair started crunching on my teeth... Black and curly.

— Why are you dry? I want to taste your passion! — I exclaimed, picking hair off my tongue.

— You, Lyosha, have read too many books. They write about how "he pressed his lips to her bud, the bud opened, nectar flowed. Birch sap. Cod liver oil. The scent of lilac. God's dew."

I almost threw up...

She didn't resist: she lay there like a log in the forest while I "threw on the sticks." This way and that. And she didn't even squeak.

I fucked her so hard it smelled of burnt meat, scorched rubber, and singed pubic hair, not fish or lilac. Looks like I'll get work calluses on my dick: moving and rubbing parts need lubrication, otherwise the resource gets used up, and we were doing it "dry." If Katya had been a sex shop doll—it would have melted long ago.

I came sweetly and for a long time: everything that had been building up in my soul for so long poured out. She didn't come. The girl said: "You know, I think I'm frigid..." and lit a cigarette in bed, staring sadly at the ceiling. I never managed to get her fired up...

So what kind of Casanova am I after that?

I asked:

— Have you ever felt good in your life: alone, with a guy, or with a woman?

She answered:

— Alone, yes! And then He appeared! We did it together. The first pancake came out lumpy... It was very painful and bloody, and I foolishly smeared everything down there with iodine. It hurt even more. The whole building heard my shrieks. The neighbors even called the police. But it all blew over. Since then, whether alone or with someone—it's all the same, orgasm-free.

And now... I'd even do it with an ice block. I don't care. Beggars can't be choosers. Oh, yes... And from behind too...

— Well, here I am calling you. Do you want a repeat? I bought two books about sex. I'll give you such a...

— You know, it's not worth it. I don't want to rent out my cold body to you.

I felt sad...

* * *

Masturbation—that's a process,

And onanism—that's a phenomenon...

— Marinachka, I'm on my way, put the tea on... — I said joyfully into the phone and started getting ready: I still had to stop by the pharmacy—buy something to go with the tea...

... I sat in the armchair, she on the sofa. Taking the coffee from the table (there was no tea) and taking a sip, I stared at my friend expectantly.

— Lyosha, remember I told you about Ararat, the guy I was going to date?

— Yes, but that was a long time ago...

— Well, I dated him for two years, even lived with him. We loved each other very much...

"Aha! — a sinister thought flashed through my head, — he left her, and she wants me to comfort her... I'll comfort her! I'm good at that..."

She continued:

— ... We were even planning to get married...

I made a surprised face:

— So, what happened?

— Well, I went to his relatives' place once for an Armenian holiday (he invited me) and the conversation turned to the wedding. His father, Khristofor Artashesovich, spoke up. In short, he told his son he had two paths: either marry his Georgian-blooded cousin Manana, or marry me, a Russian girl, and get out of the diaspora, achieve everything in life on his own...

Marina got up from the sofa (I put the coffee on the table), came over, and sat on my lap, putting her arms around my neck. (How I had been waiting for this!).

She said:

— ... Ararat Khristoforovich. That loser... I loved him so much... That khach turned out to be a loser, caved

in to daddy...

— Now he's a khach. But before: Araratik, my love... You probably didn't love him.

— I did! You don't understand anything about this! — Marina jumped up from the armchair.

— I don't understand? Sorry. Didn't mean to offend you...

— You did! You're all like that! When it's about sleeping and "comforting," you're right there, but when it's about marriage... Either mama's boys or papa's boys.

— Marina, calm down! — I reached out to her, but she turned away and started crying, — You're a strong woman. This is such a trivial thing.

— Trivial, you think! I gave him everything: my soul, my heart, and he...

— You'll find yourself a handsome, young one, like me! Why do you need a 27-year-old Armenian boy. He's got the brains of a five-year-old.

She turned around:

— You're right about that... But I won't date you.

— Why? — I opened my mouth in surprise, — Are you joking?

— I'm not joking, — Marina pressed against me and kissed me on the lips, — You're like a brother to me!

She said the last phrase in a tone as if she were hanging the "Order of Merit for the Fatherland" on my chest.

Why is "brother" the highest rung on the hierarchy for girls? First rung—"friend," then—"beloved," and only then—"brother."

The newly-minted "sister" continued:

— Our moms pushed us in the same stroller, we played in the same sandbox, we know all each other's pluses and minuses...

I understood: there would be no love. Bummer!

I decided to stay the night, especially since it was past midnight, and her parents had gone somewhere.

— I'll probably sleep in your parents' room, or on the floor in the hallway...

— You'll sleep in the stairwell... Just kidding! You'll sleep with me! Like brother and sister! — she looked into my eyes with such an innocent look that everything inside me went cold... Brother and sister—together?!

It was torture, but she considered me a "brother." I couldn't disappoint her. I didn't fall asleep until morning: feeling her warmth beside me and hearing her EVEN and CALM breathing was unbearable. What thoughts swarmed in my head, like flies—I won't say!

* * *

I caught up on sleep at home. The result of a sleepless night—a swollen face. More precisely—a mug. Today I had a meeting with Olya, whom I've known since school. She was an okay girl, but I never liked her.

We agreed to meet at 7:00 PM by the Lenin monument. Damn! Looks like about a hundred other people agreed to meet at the same place at the same time. Oh, there she is. What a beauty! Wouldn't recognize her right away, even though I saw her just six months ago.

— Hello, Olenka!

— Hello! You don't look so good—probably not sleeping!

— Oh, no—I sleep... But today for some reason I couldn't sleep—was thinking about you, — I lied.

— You lie like you breathe!

— I'm telling the truth!

Olya wouldn't let up, she loved to tease:

— You have black hair on your shoulder and you smell of perfume.

— Well, I just came from the hairdresser's...

— Alright-alright, I believe you! — she smiled.

I asked:

— How's life? Any plans?

She shuddered:

— I'm scared!

— Who are you afraid of?

— Everything. What to do next?

— Well, as usual. You finished two institutes. You're a specialist now.

— I'm scared. I've never worked...

This phrase just killed me, because it was said with such surprise and simplicity.

— Look for a job. Like others? Or get married. Anyone in mind? — I started probing.

— No! — she answered quietly.

— And why not? — I asked.

— Well, it just didn't work out: institutes, exams...

— Well, you have to know moderation, as Jawaharlal Nehru said.

— Who Jawahar lal? Nehru? Or Nyuru? — Olya made a good joke, and we laughed for about five minutes.

— Olya-Olya! You should have been looking for a husband, not taking exams.

— Well, a good husband doesn't just lie around on the road.