International Women's Day (neighbor).

First sex, like letters in a primer,

Colorful, yet unfamiliar to them...

And sudden, like a rain shower in December,

Though long-awaited to the point of exhaustion...

First sex – the touching of souls...

And the merging of two bodies in discovery.

Not quite a wife, and he not a husband...

But in reality, their consciousness perished.

In haste and clumsiness of movements,

Their maidenhood departs forever...

But all their lives they will not forget the moments,

First sex – it is remembered forever...

Y. Noskov

Irka. Very rarely, if in a good mood – Ira... She was a year and a half older than me. A gawky girl from the apartment opposite. Like all kids, we played,

argued, and even fought. We often ran to each other's places. Our parents didn't hinder our communication. A divorced mother on my side and a widowed mother on hers were rather glad – together, and God be with us, less worry – each had an older child too. An ordinary carefree childhood... Until about fourteen, when my childhood sleep was interrupted by the discovery of a strange white liquid in my underwear. The worries began... With the increase in the neighbor girl's breast size, the amount of liquid I released at night increased. Dreams always ended with our kiss. It was my most cherished dream...

After agonizing for a couple of months, on New Year's Eve, I decided: today it will happen — I will kiss her! All day I made plans for how it should happen. And now it's evening: we are alone in her room. The door is closed, the light is off. We sit on her double bed: I sit on one edge – she on the other, deep in, leaning her back against the wall. We watch TV, occasionally talking about something. A couple of hours have already passed. My desire fights with caution. What if she slaps my face and kicks me out, and then tells her mother or, even worse, mine? The fruit seems close, but try and take a bite! Several times I try to execute my plan, but timidly, I hold back. The tension of the situation increases... And not just it! As evidenced by the sweatpants I so carelessly put on, which the neighbor girl sometimes glances at, as if by accident. I cover myself with my hands as best I can. Finally, cursing myself for cowardice and for the bulge protruding from my pants, realizing the complete hopelessness of my venture, I'm about to go home. The neighbor girl, disappointed, says goodbye and tries to get up to see me out. As a "true gentleman," I offer her my hand, and at the moment she begins to rise, I lean in and press my lips to hers. The first kiss! "Her lips are sweet, hot, ardent, sensual," – I was theoretically armed with these epithets. In practice, everything turned out differently: not quite calculating the movement, although I touched her lips, I did it rather clumsily, feeling our teeth bump slightly. Recoiling, I awaited her reaction. Looking at me with the coldness of an "ice queen," the neighbor girl said:

– So, you got your way after all!

Then, getting up from the bed and not looking at me, she headed towards the door. Devastated, I trudged after her. Approaching the door closely, she suddenly turned around, wrapped her arms around my neck, and pressed her lips to mine. I, completely not expecting this, bumped into her slightly. My excited member pressed against the lower part of her stomach. She shuddered and pressed closer...

All of January we kissed. If we managed to be alone somewhere, our lips would immediately merge in a kiss. We tried everything: with tongue; with nibbling; prolonged – until we ran out of air; deep – until our lips turned blue. She kissed like crazy. At first, I was happy! But then, it became routine. What just a month ago seemed the most unattainable desire began to be perceived as everyday life. Kissing, I saw how the swelling bumps under her bra became noticeable. But I didn't dare to proceed to more decisive actions, a bird in the hand is still more reliable...

The first day of February. Hockey final. World Championship: Russia — Canada. I'll say that we were never friends with them, we always fought to the death. Even my mother decided to watch. A few minutes after the game started, the doorbell rang. The neighbor girl enters, in a house robe. Says she's bored alone – her mother and brother are at work – came to "cheer" together. The three of us sit on the sofa, watching hockey. After the first period, we are losing. My mother says disappointedly that it's all clear and goes to bed, she has work early, warning us not to stay up late, both have school tomorrow. Midway through the second period, light snoring is heard from my mother's room. Since the rooms are adjoining, we sit quietly, not even kissing. Today I'm in jeans! What kind of jeans we had back then: Le, Levi’s, Wrangler. Not this modern Chinese crap. That was brand stuff! But the best were Montana: triple stitching on the side seam, zippers on the back pockets, a bunch of different hardware, and of course, the oval eagle patch on the back pocket, and as I had just confirmed – a very dense and sturdy fly.

– Can I have a drink? – asks the neighbor girl, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

– Is there juice?

– Better water.

I bring it and stand waiting for her to drink. Only now do I notice she's not wearing a bra! I take the glass to the kitchen, return, and sit down right next to her. She doesn't react – completely absorbed in the TV. I try to force myself to watch the TV. Seems like someone scored a goal. I put my hand on the edge of the sofa back behind her. My fingers become icy from tension. We are silent, watching hockey. I don't remember what color uniforms the Russians are wearing. I move my hand to her shoulder. She continues watching TV, my hand remains on her shoulder. Gathering courage, I slowly lower my hand under the neckline of her robe onto her breast, feeling its warmth and firmness.

– Take it away! – she says to me, without turning her head – your hand is cold!

I remove my hand, surprised that the protest was caused not by where it was, but by its temperature. For a few minutes, I digest what I heard. She is still staring intently at the TV.

– Well, now you're sulking, just like a little kid, give me your hand, – she takes my palm in her hands. Shadows are darting across the TV. Damn, what are we even watching?!

– Warmed up? – she says, not letting go of my palm from her hands.

The neckline of the robe has shifted, practically exposing her breast. She sees me looking but doesn't try to cover up, continuing to hold my hand in hers. Footsteps in my mother's room. My sleepy mother appears in the doorway, squinting from the TV light.

– Is it over, who won? – she goes to the kitchen. Good thing she doesn't hear the answer, as there simply isn't one. The neighbor girl, frightened, pulls her robe closed and says goodbye. Total failure! Like a beaten dog, I trudge behind her dejectedly. Opening the door to her apartment, she turns around.

– You know, nothing is impossible in this world – it's only a matter of whether you have enough courage...

She slams the door behind her. Not believing my ears, I return, turn off the TV, and go to bed. I toss and turn for a long time without sleep, indulging in dreams of what her naked breasts look like. The forbidden fruit I've bitten into has ripened and is now asking to be taken...

As they say: "man proposes, but God disposes." The next day, I'm taken to the hospital with chickenpox, where I'm isolated from the world for twenty-one days...

February twenty-second. Saturday evening. For a long time afterward, this stretch of time would seem the best: the week is over and a whole day off ahead. Yearning in anticipation of the meeting, I get ready to go to the neighbor girl's. My mother calls after me:

– Leaving me alone again, as if it's better for you there!

Honestly, I really hope so! Her mother opens the door.

– Daughter, Yura is here for you!

Ira comes out, jeans, sweater,... but it seems there's nothing underneath. Joyfully flashing her eyes, she averts her gaze.

– Come in.

I go into her room, which she locks with a key for the first time. The light is off, the TV is on. We sit side by side on the bed.

– Congratulations on getting well, seems only little kids get chickenpox...

— No-o, those without the vaccine, adults get it too...

I start cheerfully telling her about this green-dotted illness. She listens distractedly, answering questions with one-word answers: "yes," "no," and then falls silent altogether, nervously fiddling with a hair clip in her hands. I fall silent in puzzled irritation, staring at the TV: maybe my mother is right, home is better?! Putting the clip aside, giving me a wistful look, she gets up and goes to the window.

– Look at the snowflakes!

I come up behind her. The snowflakes are indeed awesome, about three centimeters each! It's windless outside, they slowly swirl and fall onto the snow – indescribable beauty! I put my hands on her waist, under the sweater, and slowly raise them up. She looks out the window. I feel the firm girl's breasts in my hands. She turns around, we hug, we kiss. I lift the sweater, exposing her breasts. She pulls it down – I lift it again. Raising her arm, she covers her breast.

– Cheeky! – she exclaims indignantly.

– Prude. – I parry.

– Molester!.. – she hugs my neck, whispers – ...alright, go ahead.

The doorbell rings. Her mother's voice:

– Yura, your mother is calling you!

A guilty smile appears on the neighbor girl's face...

My close friend is at the door. First thought: "Why can't you stay home in this snowfall?!" My mother instructs:

– Talk and then march home! You'll help me...

We go downstairs, out onto the street. The snowfall is indeed fantastic! We discuss whether we'll get drunk tomorrow. Our female classmates are organizing a party for us, the "defenders of the fatherland." I refuse. My friend leaves disappointed. He's the one who's disappointed?!

February twenty-third – a red day on the calendar! It wasn't red at all back then. An ordinary weekday. Good thing it fell on a day off. All day, restless, I waited for her. A February day is short. It got dark. She never came: "waited for a rose, got manure"! And my faithful friend invited, begged – I refused myself, fool! Jeans fly onto the chair, into "sweatpants" on the sofa. TV – don't let me down! Doorbell. The long-awaited Ira's voice:

– Aunt Val, your mom is calling you about deciding on the holiday. I'll stay with you for a bit?!

The jeans, as if alive – hang treacherously from the chair. Getting up, I meet her, she's also in a weekday robe. I invite her to the sofa. She goes, sits down.

– What are you watching?

– Whatever's on...

An awkward silence drags on. I'm the first to break it.

– I was waiting for you!

– And I was waiting for you...

– So the holiday is kind of mine?

– And the lock on the door is mine. Uh-huh, – she sticks out her tongue.

– I see...

– Sorry, I won't be long, – apologizing, she takes a small oblong box from her robe pocket and hands it to me.

– Happy holiday!

– Thank you.

– It's a pen... nothing else...– pausing for a moment, she adds almost inaudibly – ...and there.

Not understanding the meaning of the last phrase, I remember the cake in the kitchen:

– Want some tea? There's cake!

– No, thank you...

– How's school?

– Fine...

– Did you wait while I was sick?

– Yes...

– You're not lying?

– Fool! – she tries to get up.

I grab her and, tipping her onto the sofa, start kissing her. She responds ardently. I unbutton her robe, exposing her breasts, take her swollen nipple into my mouth. A quiet moan escapes her lips. Gently sucking on it, I continue unbuttoning the robe, but when only the last button at the bottom remains, she grabs my hand.

– No! Not there!

We kiss again, but the caresses become more intense. Breathing rapidly, she presses closer and closer to me. My hand again reaches for the coveted button, but again gets grabbed.

– Don't...

Then, grabbing her hand, I lower it onto my member, protruding from my "sweatpants." She sharply pulls it away, but the next moment returns it, cautiously stroking it. Now my hand is free! I unbutton the very bottom button of the robe and, touching the curls of hair, realize she's not wearing any underwear. Now, the meaning of her phrase dawns on me! Rising above her, I look questioningly into her eyes. She, without looking away, nods almost imperceptibly and, grabbing my sweatpants along with my underwear with her hands, decisively pulls them off me...

The doorbell rings several times, urgently! We jump up swiftly, hurriedly getting dressed. Pale with fright, I wish the earth would swallow me. The neighbor girl, biting her lip, rushes to her place between me and my entering mother, almost knocking her over.

– What's with her? – my mother asks, dumbfounded.

– We argued, – I lied, breathing heavily.

– It's okay, you'll make up by the eighth...

– Why?

– We decided, as neighbors, to celebrate Women's Day together...

Until the holiday, we didn't meet again... She avoided me... Although, I didn't understand what my fault was: I didn't refuse, I just – didn't have time! However, remembering her intimate parts, I came a few times at night...

Women are of two types: some have their labia minora protruding, others don't. The neighbor girl's protruded, and when swelling, they opened like a flower...

March eighth. International Women's Day. Seems it was a Tuesday...

From the morning, loud stomping started and the smell of delicious food from the kitchen. Until about seventeen, I thought that anyone who got out of bed on a day off before ten o'clock was either a "lark" or an idiot. Later, life taught me...

"The anticipation of a holiday is always better than the holiday itself," – goes the folk wisdom. The anticipation went as follows: aimless wandering around the house, watching nonsense on TV, being sent to the store a couple of times