Читать книгу Women are not unicorns - Маргарита Резник - Страница 5

Between us girls, this is not a very pleasant event that we want to forget about once and for all. This is a separate topic, for many more unpleasant than masturbation.

You know, lately I have been feeling my loneliness especially acutely because I have realized a wild thirst for female communication. I don’t have friends, and a little later I’ll tell you why, but now I get great pleasure talking with you, mentally imagining that each of you readers is my friend.

Husband, this is wonderful, but he will never become your girlfriend in the full sense of the word, no matter how hard you try. And to find such a man and such girlfriends who will not conflict, and because of whom you will not lose this or that, is difficult, very difficult.

I could not. For now. So, alas, this fate befell you. The fate of dumb friends who can only listen and understand.

A nightmare, of course not. I don't want to give you such a role. I sincerely appreciate and respect you. I will be glad to receive feedback and letters. Since my husband approved the publishing of this book, he is ready to come to terms with the girlfriends in my life. Thank him very much for this.

My dear husband, I want to thank you for this patience and courage to allow me to publish my deepest and most intimate experiences, as well as those subtle and awkward details concerning you, including yourself. Let this book help many women, and maybe married couples, let this sacrifice in some way – our souls wide open with you – will not be in vain.

Girls, don't let me down.

Thank you.

So, defloration.

Almost everyone's deflowering, with rare exceptions about which I know nothing, is carried out in fear.

Even if a girl is getting ready, like my American friend, who got married as a virgin, it’s still scary. According to her, it was so scary, for both of them, although the husband was already an experienced thirty-year-old uncle, that they had to get into a hot bath and relax with a glass of wine in order to even touch each other.

By the way, they were not fans of alcohol.

I also dreamed of saving myself for my betrothed, or at least until my eighteenth birthday.

But one day, my best friend, who promised to protect herself just like me, admitted that she couldn’t keep it.

God. How can you not hold back? I was so angry with her. I was even offended for several days. I didn’t want to fall behind, so I decided to repeat the trick.

I can’t say that hormones interfered with our lives, and that I really really wanted to lose my virginity, but I wanted boyish attention more than ever.

I didn't want sex. This is true. I don’t know about others, but I wanted love. I dreamed of a prince charming, a rich, handsome young man, a man who would pay no attention to my teenage stupidities. I wanted him to hug me, take me to warm countries, take care of me like a small miracle that appeared in life like a ray of light.

Ah, naive soul. Grown-up guys from the south walked around my provincial town, tanned, loving, ready to call you their princess, their only one, pretending to be caring and gentle. They stood out strongly against the background of Russian guys, cold and rude, and almost everyone wanted to sleep with them at least once.

But everyone knew that no love could be achieved from these machos, only window dressing and disappointment.

As a smarter person than my peers, I tried not to get confused with people of Caucasian nationality, although my friend believed every word they said.

She just gave herself to one of them at sixteen.

And so, I, too, have two years left before I come of age, I don’t know how long before marriage, I decide to sleep with the first guy I come across who is more or less attractive to me, to spite my friend.

This was revenge. The game that cost me my health.

Girls, don't repeat my mistakes. Women, take care of yourself if you are still healthy.

Never have sex without a condom or a certificate from your partner, and still only with a condom the first hundred times. Then somehow you can still trust him and consider him your boyfriend. Well, this is a lyrical digression.

I then developed a slight bouquet of sexually transmitted diseases. Of course, I was treated and everything went away, but I was ashamed of myself.

He was twenty-five, handsome, brown-eyed, athletic, supposedly in love, although his flattery and insincerity were hard to miss.

We went to his house for rented accommodation, it looked like it wasn’t his at all, it was cold and without hot water.

He changed the bed in front of me, for which I thank you.

He was gentle and courteous, for which I am also grateful to him. Quickly and without much pain. It’s rather unpleasant and wet between your legs, but your soul is disgusting and so sad.

I didn’t love him, I knew that he had a dozen more like him, but I decided to prove something to someone.

I trudged home alone in the morning, it was already light. The homeless husky tagged along and followed me for half a block, as if she sympathized and understood everything.

At home, I quickly came to my senses, and even in the evening I proudly told my friend the details of what happened. We laughed and shared our impressions, as if we had gone to war and won. Inside we knew that we had won only a frivolous battle; the real fight lay ahead of us. But they tried not to show it and had fun like children. The struggle of life in which we were no longer worthy, self-respecting ladies. We took the path of depravity, which turned us into mediocre girls, with ordinary goals, without ambitions and principles, without big plans. Just frivolous talkers from the provinces.

Fortunately, I felt this very keenly at the time and did not want to agree with such a future.

For three whole years I locked myself in a Christian youth community and never dated anyone else. Only girlfriends, friends and an imaginary god.

I'm not saying there is no God. I just know that mine was not real. Whether it exists or not, what kind it is and whether a person needs it, I still don’t know; it doesn’t stop me from enjoying life.

The stories of my friends about defloration all confirm the fact that there is no orgasm in this dirty business. Just kidding, it's not dirty, but it stains the sheets.

If a woman goes through this and also enjoys it, then she should be given a medal. What do you think?