Early morning. A tempting thirteen-year-old babysitter arrives. Sunburned nose, blonde, long legs. I want to get up from the table, get rid of these tiresome adults and their conversations, take the girl by the hand and go with her into the new morning. She still believes in something. She still loves for no particular reason – for shaggy hair, for unconventional ideas, for her first sex.
«Cocksucker!» you say bitterly into nowhere, being one on one with yourself. You smoke another cigarette, and yet another. Or you walk from corner to corner. Or you stare out the window. «Cocksucker!» And this exclamation has more meaning than most books, including the famous old Bible.
It doesn't interest me anymore. Okay, a woman: a head, hair, two arms, two legs, that opening in between her legs covered with furry growth. So what? I did use to love women, loved to get to know them, loved to study them, loved their orgasms, loved to watch their faces distorted at that moment. But now I've left that to ordinary folk, and I only find pleasure in the struggle against this society and societies in general. Nonetheless, yesterday I was disturbed by a five-year-old girl. An unashamed little creature was rolling on a low toy bicycle – her legs wide apart, showing off her pubis. And there it was, a pink opening like a hole from a bullet. A bullet hole.
I'm not an impotent, dirty old man. Women on the streets look at me with definite interest, but that bullet hole was so indecent that I turned my head in terror. It was much more indecent than the fat prostitute who showed a mangled cunt which I once saw early in my youth.
An evil child.
And old man sticks his prick into a virgin and sways voluptuously over her. A virgin has a certain burning sensation and receives great pleasure from his gray hair and creased skin. She feels like a child, a little girl, and it's very bad that an old man is fucking her. And because it's bad, the virgin enjoys it. She claws the old man's chest.
A youth weeping stupidly is outside the frames of the picture. God forbid, he may even kill himself. «Chili out, buddy. The virgin is just a senseless, twenty-one-year-old flower.» Sometimes the guy calms down, sometimes he doesn't.
Who's that knocking at the door? Oh, it's nobody, it's that good-for-nothing writer, Eddie Limonov, a thirty-four-year-old fucker, God's creation, a creature.
«Oh, it's yet another Russian!» said a great lover of cherries Misha Baryshnikov when someone asked him, «Who's this?»
I liked that. That's just who I am: yet another Russian.
Suddenly, it turns out that for the past two months he's been having sex with a girl who has hereditary syphilis – can you imagine? It's that millionaire's housekeeper. She announced it to him. «And if I'm already infected with it?» thought he – a question worth pondering. But being a reckless adventurer in the extreme, it occurred to him, not without some consternation, that even this is interesting to him; he perceives it as a fascinating fact in his biography. Isn't that something!
Later it turned out that it's not syphilis but some kind of benign plague.
Well, yes, I would want some kind of terrifically exciting relationships amid a group of people, and women of course, all on a moving ship. It's just a pleasure trip with no particular destination.
A ship is convenient – no chance to escape. Besides, a crowded space breeds perverse relationships.
And the quickly changing backdrop of shores, landscapes, and ports is necessary for an impatient person. It is a very tense situation which is resolved only with a murder. Blood makes everyone huddle together as though they were a family.
Intimacy
A girl I love but don't fuck often comes to visit me. Our only intimacy is my toilet. When her visit is long, she uses my toilet. She says in English, «May I use your toilet?» And she uses it.
After she leaves I sit on that same spot and reflect that it was here that she bared her little bum, and that everything else was displayed here as well.
And I get aroused.
The world of dirty pictures, cheap sex, seedy magazines, the world of sperm and cream, of dank cotton balls scattered everywhere, of a prostitute's tiny underwear, of shaved pubis and sweaty wrinkled necks. An aging model in the morning is horrible: the crumpled ears, the smell of all those make-up cleansers, lackluster eyes, lashless and browless. And the body – it's been bathed over and over again and then fucked again, the fucking poor body is getting soft, the way aged bodies do – you touch it and it moves in ripples. And only the big, sad, child-like brown eyes from under the bangs – bewildered: why?
«Shall I come outside alone? Sit on an empty beach?
In a thick knitted cardigan, keeping warm my cunt, which has a period. (An inane stare at the ocean.)
Shall I wait for the silly, bearded actor, my lover with an incipient belly?
Shall I watch a drifting stick?
There was I time I was a girl.
I believed in the white dress and a wedding.
And I destroyed everything, and now I feel like crying.
Everything… everything…»
Morning. I looked at my shit in the toilet bowl. Cucumber seeds stick out. They don't get digested, it turns out. Made a discovery at thirty-four. The cucumbers were old, the seeds hard. It's fall.
The invitation to a reception at this prominent lady's garden has reached me (the lonely one) too. Through a newspaper. There were all those illegitimate haves:
Beautiful women who at the right time married impotent freaks, thanks to whom they now show off their titles and money.
Old men from the art world who have outlived their much more gifted contemporaries and are thus considered geniuses today. Their only achievement is their longevity.
Economists and businessmen who, had they not inherited a couple million from their fathers, would have started out life in a seedy hotel and died of hunger and weakness…
All in all, there were all those I despise.
You desire a woman. A girl. And one you haven't met. Yes, there's salt and pepper in my blood. «All the same, I'm sure I'll meet her, and I will, I will be happy! Again – I will be happy – in a different way.
And I'll perish in a revolutionary war. I don't wish to be an old shit in the service of this society. I don't want to fuck just anybody, I want to fuck my beloved!
Yes, it's my beloved I want to fuck!
How sweet it is to fuck your beloved!»
The image becomes blurry. Have patience, sir. And she'll come to you, and she'll tilt her plumed hat… that's not it, sorry – she'll be wearing an infantry khaki jacket. How sweet it is to fuck your beloved!
A small young woman ringing the bell at a German banker's villa. The old pensive Rhine flows on amidst the green landscape. Life is neat and boring.
And nothing but a bullet will rip the air.
And it's beautiful – the banker falling down by the door – nodding – at the feet of his young bitch of a wife.