Читать книгу I WANT - Ольга Корнильева - Страница 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Those who are called by you “pleasure-lovers” are “lovers of the good” and “lovers of the just”, and practice and maintain all the virtues

Marcus Tullius Cicero

Following his successful negotiations, Marco idled in a luxurious restaurant. While his eyes were wandering about, his thoughts were fixated on finding a chick to fuck tonight. And although his secretary was frantically bombarding him with provocative pictures on WhatsApp, the already-familiar pouty lips sticking out of her endless selfies no longer aroused him the least bit. His most recent flame, with whom he had spent a couple of nights last week, also kept calling and checking up on him. But with her half-baked, amateurish blow jobs, his interest in her had all but vaporized. Anyway a girl who fucks like a teenager and sucks dick like it’s her first time is always the one who tries to get compensated for it by becoming your wife or, at the very least, by making you to buy her something… He found her motives to be too obvious and wanted to give it all up in utter disgust and forget this next stupid adventure, if this kind of fucking can even be attributed to this enthralling genre.

Marco was clearly interested in taking part in this incredibly insane adventure. Still encaptivated, he started browsing the dating site again. Well, let’s see what kind of goodies they can offer him here … There is a Lena, 20 years old, with shapely legs, ears, and lips, casting that all-too-familiar predatory gaze of an experienced small-town girl. She will no doubt start by putting on the performance of being a “lady”, achieve “orgasm”, and afterwards, start blurting out shit like… I need some money for college. Hahaha, quite typical. As much as you would want to, you would not spend your hard-earned bucks on someone else’s fake orgasms or college studies … more … so … Then there is this Valentina. She looks too decent and simple. She is the type that, instead of being freaky and exciting in bed, would rather offer to do his laundry or make dinner. And when it comes to handling dick, she is either quite sloppy, or altogether not familiar with that way of pleasuring her partner. The very archetype of monotony. Then we come to Anette. Fuck, if only this transvestite had put in a little more effort. These people think that they can pull a fast one with their gender, and the men would immediately take the bait. Of course, we cannot miss the Adam’s apple, and then we begin really noticing the fake beauty. Personally, I have nothing against gays. But why on earth should I fuck a guy? In any case, if, in some parallel universe, it finally came down to that, I’d rather fuck a real man, and not a fake wannabe. Gosh, I’ve lived long enough to see my first gray hairs, and I am yet to really make love to someone in a normal, natural way. It’s called a fucking Megapolis. What can I do, then?! And they say Russia has the most beautiful chicks.

What about this beauty? A real doll, but not well groomed. It starts out with the pretensions, then the hang-ups, and then all else at once. I’ll have to pass on this one. Okay, so we need to wrap this up, or rather, speed up a happy ending. All we have to do is find a super-hot love mate, fuck her brains out, then make sure the bitch keeps coming back for more afterwards. Wait, there is this other chick in a hat, posing on a deckchair … Let see, the ass … wow! Her thighs…. and her breasts come as a full-package. Then her face …. although, with such a figure, how your face looks is really non-consequential, ….. Damn! Now, that is what we are taking about! Even Monica Bellucci cannot compete. Nice … let’s check out her name. Christy … Hmm. She is 35. Nothing on Christy looks 35. Wish she could be here right now. That would hit the spot… Marco paused, thought a little, then immediately started texting Christy his regular greeting:

“Hi, how r u?”

She replied,

“I’m fine, babe. How was your day? It’s a bit windy outside…”

Hmm… calling me “Babe” already? Yeah, I was right about this one.

“I’m fine, baby. I’m Italian. Do u wanna meet up? I can cook for u.”

She answered,

“Why not? I live not far from the city center. U can drop by later on today …”

Perfect! I know exactly what kind of “food” I’m gonna make you. I’ll ride you like you have never been ridden before, sweet Christy. You are going to be clinging on me and singing me delicious orgasms. And for dessert, I’ll pour you Italian sperm. How about that?

Marco immediately sent Christy a couple of pornographic pictures he found on the net to prop her up and get her in the perfect mood for an experience of a lifetime. To his surprise, Christy almost showed no reaction. This was quite different from the other girls whom he had earlier sent similar photos. She responded by saying that she is not a teenager and does not need any guidelines. She said all this in such a simple, confident and cute way that she left no doubt that she found these pictures childish. What the heck?

In a jiffy, Mark decided to pass through his place, take a quick shower and wear some decent cologne, all in preparation for his encounter with this Italian looking Russian amazon.

Fuck! What if it’s a set-up? Maybe it’s just a trap to get robbed or beaten up by a couple of Russian thugs. Quite probable. You cannot even hook up with a foreigner calmly these days. But, like she said, she had a baby. Oh well! Fuck it! Nothing will happen to him. In any case, he would either find something is amiss, or would have hell of an adventure. And this girl looks like an adventurous type.

I’m sure I can really spend some quality time with this lady, Marco thought, a huge bulge on his groin poking at the inside of his jeans. I’d rather get to this Christy quickly, he thought in the taxi. Then he walks up to a green door, then the intercom.

“Hi, it’s me, Marko.”

The third floor of an old house without an elevator seemed to be located almost at the height of the topmost floor of a skyscraper. What kind of houses are these? Not exactly what you’d expect in Italian city. Wait, where is this apartment located again? …

A pretty-looking girl met him on the threshold and smiled kindly.

“Hi, I’m Christy, nice to meet u. Come over.”

Fuck, what an ass! How I can’t wait to smash that! Marco’s smile stretched even wider than usual. He was literally holding himself back so as not to attack and rape this lovely Christy. He entered the apartment.

“Were you scared to come over? Don’t worry, baby. There are just two of us. My child and I.”

She beckoned the toddler and gently called out,

“Come over, honey. Come meet our visitor. Say hi to this nice gentleman.”

The little girl came running into Marco’s arms. Marco lifted her up, and she began stroking his hair. He had not expected such a reaction.

Being polite he smiled and greeted her, and even called her principessa. The ultimate goal, of course, was principessa’s mother and Marco thought a little about his obvious merits: how he was an educated, hard-working and knowledgeable man who was catastrophically unlucky both in love and in sex. Well, this, of course, is an exaggeration. When it came to sex, he was always extremely lucky. With his temperament and unquestionable amount of merits, his phone was jam packed with contacts of all kinds of young women willing to fuck, meet up, get married, have dinner or go to the theater with him. Marco would therefore sometimes just randomly dial any number on his phone, knowing fully well that at the other end of the line, some girl would be waiting for him licking her lips and stuffing her legs in stiletto heels. Haha. losing in sex is for losers. And what about love? Marco had already forgotten, or had successfully tried to forget about it and almost came close. In love, the feeling of disappointment was so strong every time that he did not ever want to get involved in matters of the heart again. Having it pump blood at an amazing pace through his body and, most importantly, to his penis while going crazy in bed was his heart’s most important role at the moment.

“You’re so charming,” Christy said softly, and her smile radiated an experienced invite to the bedroom. But then, the child….

Yet, again, although a call to mate is a call to mate, Christy is certainly keeping a clear distance. She is extra relaxed, making no effort to speed up the process, and is sure of herself; not like those twenty-year-olds who make themselves appear inaccessible and pretend they are “not that kind of girls”. She is obviously sexually experienced. Where is she calling him then, if not to bed? With such a mouth, perfect teeth … Mmmm.

I’ll make this mouth do wonders, Marco thought. Everything is all at my disposal.

Something has to happen, fast, or his penis will simply jump out of his jeans.

“Do you love Bocelli?”

After uttering these words, Christy turned to the computer and slowly bent over it, exposing the fullness of her impeccable buttocks in black jeans for Marco to see. Marco had already realized that he would simply have to enjoy his affective state, and no longer resisted. They talked about Italy and Italian music, then ordered pizza. But when Christy sat next to him, he could no longer restrain himself, and began gently stroking her knee, which, strangely enough, did not anger her at all. She calmly finished the pizza, kissed him on the cheek, and said that it was time for her to take the child to bed.

“Will I see u again?”

The Italian asked helplessly.

“Sure, baby.”

Christy’s hot tongue gently touched his lips, which sent an involuntary shiver down Marco’s spine. Obediently rising from the couch and going out into the corridor, he put on his coat. And already, between the doors, he could not stand still, and rigidly took Christy by the hip, biting his lips into her mouth. Then the little girl interrupted the moment and called out from the room,

“Mummy, I want another slice of pizza.”

Marco bade farewell and left.

With the taste of her lips still lingering on his mouth, Marco continued relishing the kiss.

Why can’t a man just pounce on any woman he fancies and have his way with her? Why all this courtship?

You want to feel the warmth of her body, deeply insert your cock in all her holes, ram her hard until she moans with pleasure, and reach the point when you are both immersed in a state of sweet languor, with that feeling of the inaccessibility of a person slowly becoming more desirable than unavailable. But who said that she is unavailable, if she actually kissed him first. How else can she show that she is available? The child messed everything up. I should have simply dragged her to another room. Stupid me! But how delicious that kiss was. And her ass was mouth-watering … these impeccable type of buttocks had seemed to only appear on the canvases of the best Italian painters. No, her legs are not crazy long, and her breasts are not size E. And why do you need these legs and tits, anyway, if they are neither warm nor cold? It’s hot here. Yes it will be very hot here.

Still pleased with himself, Marco sat in a taxi. It took him only a few minutes to reach the huge apartment that the firm had ceremoniously given him as befitted a badass foreign executive. He slept in seventh heaven. he next morning, recalling his conversation with Christy, Marco started remembering that she was divorced and worked as some kind of stylist or maybe photographer. Some kind of nonsense, anyway. And, although her career or job was interesting enough, all that Marco kept thinking about were her legs, her shapely buttocks, and her smile that made her mouth clearly spell out a promise of some excitement yet to be enjoyed, a pleasure yet to be indulged in. Standing in the shower, Marco could not help but take advantage of these memories and vividly orgasm under the jets of warm water gushing out of the sprinkler overhead.

Bitch! But one with class, of course. Not even a bitch, but maybe not that kind of a classy girl either. Marco found it difficult to find the right words to describe his new acquaintance. Something in between, maybe. He made up his mind and went to his office.

Coffee and some orange juice were already waiting for him at his desk. One of the secretaries was standing by the printer, shuffling a huge pile of papers in her hand. He remembered how he had fucked this girl a couple of times in the toilet. Shit! What’s her name again? He never seemed to remember it (he had to finally resort to simply calling her “sweetie-pie”, which made her inexpressibly happy, since the girl, unaccustomed to such treatment, believed that he had singled her out from an obvious crowd of female admirers, with her already ready to go and meet his parents any time.) She did not know that it was Marco’s custom to call all the women he had had encounters with at work “cutie-pie” or “sweetie-pie”, or some other fake name, and that the lower the status of a woman, the “cuter” or “sweeter” she was for Marco. This could be a waitress, a barmaid, a dispatcher, a secretary or a cleaning woman. Everyone was bound to be nice to this Italian macho with a dazzling smile and endowed with no less than a dashing male member. This is the way Marco lived his life in Russia, in great pleasure and indulgence. He lacked nothing to ticker his fancy or make his blood rush like a flood in his veins. Someone somewhere was always infatuated with him, wanted him, wanted to marry him, sleep with him, or put reins over him and forever domesticate this macho with animal instincts: women who had no idea that Marco loved only himself, his “younger brother” and money.

Yes, money is the engine of everything these days. Without money, no amount of snow-white smiles and sexual endowment can ever be appealing enough to women. One immediately falls out of their circle of popular friends; they lose their “macho” appeal and become ordinary human individuals. Marco knew this, and thus was successfully married to his work, and enjoyed his life.

Marco was ready to sign a contract for a huge amount of money. And even though he would later have to get stuck working his ass off somewhere in the Russian outback, where there is nothing to do, he did not mind. This money guaranteed him the right orgasms in the right place. Money guaranteed him unlimited excitement and real pleasures. Otherwise, it would just be masturbation, and that would be it. He never paid women money, and even rarely gave gifts. The very idea of being a successful Italian handsome who rides expensive cars made him God’s gift to women, and opened doors that were otherwise closed to others. As he calculated the possible benefits of the contract in front of him, he thought,

My life is all perfectly arranged.

He still needs to complete one or two of his work errands. Then there is this trip to this distant city for those millions. Leaving without a quickie lovemaking session is certainly out of the question. He called the secretary and briefly conversed with her some nonsense. Then he threw her onto his office sofa, had his way with her for a maximum of two minutes and, leaving the girl next to the used condom that he had thrown onto the sofa, drove to the airport, on the way making the necessary phone calls and calling for documentation.

All perfect. After dumping unnecessary sperm, the head always begins to work again as it should. What else can a real man, especially an Italian, want?

Damn! How do Russian women live here, with their men resembling brontosauruses? Of course, with such a limited selection of males, men could carry themselves around any way they pleased, which, in fact, they did. Handsome, with money and a great job, young, slender and fit, speaking five languages, proud holder of three degrees from reputable universities, owning the latest Porsche model and designer suits – perfect! He surely has no equal in this dense patriarchal state, where men of all ages smell of sweat and fumes. Certainly not. Coming across this kind of well-groomed individual of Russian origin here and there is possible, of course, but they are either gay or some egoists. Oh, and most importantly, they lack the all-too-magical Italian charm. Italian charm is the foreign touch that, with its sweet accent, makes girls from all walks of life squeal with excitement. Yes, Marco was a fully content man.

With a light heart, Marco looked at the passers-by in the waiting room. The girls were all in tight jeans, and almost all of them were in high heels. Loitering near them were potbellied men of all ages, who were pestering them, all too keen to get into their pants.

Quite a strange phenomenon. How, with such an abundance of gyms and beauty salons, can Russia produce such ugly men? Something is amiss here. Good thing I’m not gay. These old, haggard men have now fallen way behind in terms of fashion and the idea of self-grooming. Makes me sick even to look at them.

Marco buried himself into his phone, vigorously browsing through all sorts of dating sites, pornographic pictures and other things that might delight his soul and eye.

While Marco was busy looking for new hot dates, Christy was corresponding with a young German pilot who had sent her a stunning picture of his well-groomed Aryan body that was ready to embark on any mission that its owner would so desire to engage in.

Wow, why is it that women in Russia are denied the sensual and visual aspects of the love of the opposite sex. This comes with the seemingly shallow reality that men always tend to look at a female’s body a priori, carefully considering the minute details of each curve and contour, and only then, if everything was as perfectly aligned as they expected, could they look at her soul, or at least consider the substance of her brain. Why it is necessary to love old, pot-bellied or young, pot-bellied males in stupid T-shirts, or even worse, smell their scruffy bodies, talk about matters of the heart, then surrender to the clumsy hands of an egoist and say that sex was good, even if their penises were ten centimeters long and their filthy bodies smelled of a mixture of alcohol, cigarettes and a month-old sweat or, at best, selfishness? No!

Christy did not fancy this kind of arrangement. She chose her men herself: thoroughbred and ungenerous, but all the same stallions, men she adored. Only then would she look into their souls, if they had any.

The bed is the old age litmus test of a person’s sexuality. Here, the snot and the miser behave accordingly, and so does the noble, respectful of women and knowing how to please them. But then, the whole world is built on chemistry. Hardly in the animal kingdom do the females choose unattractive males simply because they have male sexual organs.

The male population is virtually absent from the Russian society, having been completely obliterated by historical cataclysms. In such an emotionally empty society, the patriarchal view that a woman is expected to possess super-exotic attractiveness, love and kindness, just as she is expected to be a well-refined sexual animal, is dominant. At the same time, even if it is worthwhile for a woman to be an excellent mistress, she is still despised for that. A decent woman cannot be experienced in bed. She should be a beautiful self-sacrificed virgin, living only to please her male companion and feed his ego. Russian men do not find female orgasms to be that much of a deal. They believe that if a woman fails to orgasm in the first two minutes that they spend in their awkward encounter, she must be almost frigid.

Following her endless rendezvous in which she constantly burnt her fingers on such simple and mediocre Russian men, Christy started preferring foreign males, with all their baggage. As for this instance, she knew fully well that although the connection with the German would be enchanting, no serious relationship would come out of it. And she did not need it.

What is a serious relationship? Seeing each other unwashed every morning, arguing about childish things like who will go to the store, or take out the garbage?

If two people were destined to meet in an ideal union, then this will certainly happen. All other unions are flawed a priori. With a grin of excitement pasted on her face, Christy gleefully enjoyed the explicit photos that the German had sent her, anticipating the sweetness of the minutes and hours of their planned meeting, which was to happen in a few days. Gosh, it just says “Das ist fantastish” … What’s the use for a 35 year old Italian, if there is a 25 year old German here?

Christy bit her lip, carefully analyzing the smooth skin and musculature of this Aryan lad. If my former classmates knew the flavor and fullness of my sex life, they would die of envy, kill their fat husbands and rush to the endless mating fields of the Amazonians. Let’s see his name … Marcel…

Mmm, that “L” at the end of his name… almost like in Nabokov’s Lolita. What a language! The main thing now is for him to be an expert lover. After all, a twenty five year old boy has no time for training. The handsome lad will just land his plane and fly away…

Just like how Muse plays its music: with emotion, professionalism, the mind, feelings, everything real. This is my music. With the pulse beating that way, my heart and lips yearn for kisses, and my body for love and sex. Simply geniuses! … Perfect! I’m going to be meeting this Marcel under the sweet rhythm of Muse.

I should get prepared. After all, there is a 10 year age difference between us…

So let’s see… manicure, pedicure, massage, swimming pool, Thai massage, facial masks, body masks, anything. I haven’t forgotten about my ten kilometer jog. Only by running like a wolf every morning in any weather can I develop such luscious breasts, thin waist and tight ass. All my peers have already fattened up sitting on their chairs all day long while I’m easily mingle with the young and beautiful. But that’s not all. I can go out with anyone I want; we can do whatever I want and how much I want until I get bored.

No, Christy had not always been such an Amazon. Raised in a strict home, she had long hoped to someday meet a worthy-enough person who would become her duly-wedded husband, the father of her child, and thus fit into the traditional model of family and women’s happiness. However, the males who came across her way, whether from the higher echelons of power and business or the clerical layer of ordinary Russian boys, all failed to meet any of her high expectations. The lost illusions forged a Superamazon, tender, passionate, woman who loved with all her heart for one night, a day or years; an Amazon who controlled her own body, priorities and desires herself.

As for now, she was looking forward to some passionate sex with the young and handsome German. She wanted his body, his muscular arms, and wanted to see these pilot’s volitional eyes close, and nothing could stop her. She methodically put on her white tracksuit and went on for the ten-kilometer jog, tearing through the admiring glances of passers-by. While running, her movements were perfect; her smoothly combed pigtail, tight leggings and sprint of a panther were highly visually appealing, even for misogynists, females, gays or just ordinary men.

Why do many women not use their body, their feminine qualities, or consider that their grimaces and jumps are resources for the female. They pretend to be weak and stupid, or move like male tanks or just unsophisticated females. Maybe it is because we are all hounded by everyday life, pseudo-morals, and bad sex or lack of it. Only the sensation of the female sensuality, the chemistry of bodies, sex and passion make a woman truly feminine. A lady who has at least once experienced the joy of orgasm, light footsteps, admiration, would never be able to give it up. Or she will commit a crime against her female self.

Christy involuntarily remembered the transvestites in London. Although it was clear that these were re-made men, they had chosen to go this way because they had felt a feminine essence for which they pay dearly with part of their lives, as the life of a transvestite is known to be 20—15 years shorter than that of a heterosexual. Their constantly need to refill their hormones, and some of them pay with a certain attitude against them and more often than not with broken dreams.

But how these women behave and carry themselves! Every female who does not understand that being a woman is a privilege given by God that cannot simply be washed away in the morning, crammed into the down coat and carried along in a shambling walk to work, where it is half-bent to drink coffee, grinned into a fist and the badly poorly colored hair straightened, should see this. If you were born a woman, please accept this privilege with pride.

So Christy thought, running her fifth kilometer. Every time, each moment she got closer to reaching the eighth kilometer, just when she was almost saturated with oxygen, or because of some other physiological causes in the body, she would feel an involuntary ejection into her brain of something reminiscent of coming, orgasm or something else like a rush. It was the delight of the possession- of the body, soul and all. A secret enthusiastic co-creation of her own physique and psyche.

Only, men’s eyes do not lie. Only, they are a real mirror. You can be even a hundred times beautiful, but if you don’t make men hard, consider your game lost. And vice versa; if they come in in droves, then it means there is something, and that something is sex appeal. Men, no matter how primitive they are, can always instantly read this. It does not matter how you are dressed; you could be in jeans, coats and sneakers, and all men could be turning around to look at your body with pure desire. The fluids of pleasure that a woman can give or not give are genuine. They are true, like real diamonds, whose brilliance is obvious, even for a layman.

The fact that men always think in terms of sex, Christy knew well. She understood sex perfectly, and could instantly see how good a man would be in bed. Having an excellent education and taste for everything beautiful, she happily engaged in painting, photography, stylistics, wrote scripts, and was pleased with how happy a person, who for decades has overtaken her compatriots by her thinking and perception of the beautiful, can be in Russia.

Now, however, she was fascinated by the sexual taste of the German, and therefore, creativity receded into the background. She was looking forward to Tuesday night, when this boy was supposed to be deep in her arms. Stockings, heels, corsets, the best underwear that the modern linen industry could provide was at her disposal. Christy was sure of herself more than ever. Her lips were red, her skin white, her hair dark and underwear black. Her silk sheets were yearning for hugs and touches, and the champagne was ready to explode …

“Hi, its Marcel,” Christy opened the door and literally dragged this enchanted wanderer in with her gentle hands. With no words spoken, just their lips touching, tongues and hands grappling each other, enjoying themselves on these silk sheets. Marcel poured Christy with champagne, kissed her, licked her body and enjoyed every inch of it, rejoicing at her sighs of passion, cries of pleasure and grateful smiles.

They had two hours of sleep before his flight. They seemed destined to be lovers since it was so natural and sweet for them to feel each other. No, this was not just sex, it was a loving meeting of friends, old lovers, two people who seemed to have known each other for a long time, who had a lot to talk about, laugh, and have love to spread …

Why do they write to me, come to me, fall in love and confess their love, then hate me, become jealous, leave, and then come back again kneeling and begging for love … these men, boys, husbands, youngsters… I don’t do women. I’m attracted only by male energy, the male physique, the male embrace. If I wanted, I could own them as my property, and no matter how long it lasted, I would enjoy it in full for the time that this romance or meeting would last, and then without regret, let the man go free on his way. I know that wherever he goes he would be dreaming of my embraces, because not everyone was given the chance to appreciate Christy just like that. Sometimes, months would pass before the men who had been in her arms came back and asked her to take them back, in any capacity, on whatever terms, and swore love and devotion, confessing that they had never had and would never have a better lover or better sex. Then Christy would always decide on response. Usually, the answer was “No”, and she would go ahead and block the bloke from all her social networks. Just because she would have lost interest. Sometimes, she would let some of these men to be her errand boys, but also without much interest.

The magic of sex and the aura of copulation were interesting to her. If someone did not understand the quality of what was happening at once, then he was not her person, even if everything was fine in bed. It meant that he was not as good as she was both mentally and spiritually. Sexual hedonism. That’s what Christy was interested in. And she was not going to stop with her experiments. Perhaps the other side of the medal was worth looking at, but Christy did not think about it, she liked to give up her mind and body to these young men, and she sincerely enjoyed the process.

Christy never really understood the whole concept of lust and love, so clearly divided into the bad and the good of the Christian religion. Nor did she understand the biblical democratic commandments about love and equality, with slaves and an obvious stratification of society both then and now. Probably, equality was applicable to a certain category of citizens, with the rest presumed to be unworthy of an equal distribution of earthly and sensual goods, and therefore had to obediently fulfill the obligations imposed on them by society and religion. What can be the instinctive call of the flesh, human chemistry and orgasms here, when you have to strap your once-upon-time “soulmate” to a pole and make him or her your “spouse”? All these “soulmates” from a past life only irritated Christy. Of course, there could be some pleasant memories, but there are no limits to perfection. Refining one’s brain, soul and body, a person needs a different level of being, including his or her sexual and spiritual perception. Therefore, it is perfectly normal that people break up. As one of the well-known modern classics said, no one leaves anyone. It is just that someone chooses to move ahead, and someone stays. Christy always chose to move forward. Perfecting her spirit and body, she always looked for the same hedonist, sexual maniac, intellectual who was ready for experiments. Of course, it would be great to find a genuine heart among these flawlessly built educated males, but Christy was aware that this would be the most difficult task. She tried to find just a cordial affection, but, funny as it sounded, these “big” hearts for some reason were always poorly educated, inexperienced or selfish in bed, had an unpleasant smell and lacked the “chemistry” that is so necessary in the relationship between the sexes. Therefore, paying little attention to the mundane desires of her heart, Christy admired herself and her attractiveness in men’s eyes, arms and embraces, and felt welcome and happy.

Sex is magic, shamanism, the incomprehensibility of the intelligible, the alpha and omega of this existence, darkness and light, and ecstasy that either comes, or does not. And is this not the animal-primordial call of the flesh to something more than a mere fusion of two bodies. Is it not he the progenitor of the love that everyone is looking for in this world, either hiding behind a desire to have it, or encountering disappointment all the time.

Sex is the chemistry between two bodies that transcends a person’s reality of existence; when the pulse, smell and flesh of another person’s become one’s own. And does it not lead to that great awesome … the love of the flesh, the love of the spirit, the soul. Acceptance, love, patience, adoration. It is quite unlikely that we can tolerate a person next to us with whom we do not mutually experience this animalistic overwhelming desire. Endure his character, see him in a different mood, forgive him for his mistakes. This is the basis of Christian patience. Human chemistry. Otherwise, it is a tear of human essence and consciousness, a conscious killing of ourselves for the sake of, in fact, a stranger to us.

Everything constitutes a powerful element, and among them, love is perhaps the most powerful, the strongest and the most invincible. Someone who is loved is always forgiven and caressed. Love unites what cannot be united, contrary to logic, common sense and public opinion. Love is always mutual. If you are overwhelmed with feeling, then you will always find reciprocity. It is only a matter of time. There would be another person who, just like you, is hungry for this feeling. Love is a living being that does not need to glued to the object of passion. The more you try to stick to it, the more you drift away from your object. Any movement, even towards one other, should come from within. You should never force love. You can sweep somebody off his or her feet. But you can never force love.

With these thoughts running through her mind, Christy lay on the couch for a Thai massage and enjoyed the silence of an Asian masseuse, her dexterous movements, the smells of musk and ylang-ylang… How perfectly soothing …

The pool, with its waterfalls and quiet at this morning hour, was beautiful, and looked like an oasis. No obese bodies and hags with appraisingly hateful eyes, although these women were invisible to Christy for long time, whether they are unsatisfied or satisfied. She had her own logic of life, her morals and her men, who adored her, adored her small nimble body, and therefore she did not perceive any women as competitors. Can there be a rival to the Amazon? She did not need to compete or fight with anyone. She took from life all that she needed, and those who needed her, without any effort. If someone left, she knew that this was temporary, and that they would come back again begging at her feet and only then would she decide whether to take them back or make them her past. Maybe this she simply did not need that person in her life, her algorithm of being.

After arriving at the Turkish sweat bath, she took off her bra, remaining in a bikini. Some five men who were peacefully lying by visibly got excited, expecting that she would at least give them some attention, but seeing complete indifference from Christy, they rebelled at first, then calmed down. Each of them probably remembered that he was fat, or maybe he was too young and inexperienced for a female of such caliber. Or that he was long married to a boring decent woman and had already forgotten how “it” was done. Looking around, everyone was sad, except for Christy, who went on and enjoyed her relaxation session while thinking about the German, his sensual lips and impeccable body.

At this time, Marco was in the toilet, groping another secretary whom he had met in the elevator of some office. Or not a secretary, maybe a Tanya or Lena. Frankly, he did not care about their names, or what they did. The important thing were these matings, which were necessary in-between meetings, on business trips and other working moments, so as not to go crazy with his Italian hormones. To relax, feel welcome, and drain his sperm and fuck the next Russian girl. He felt like a heroic inseminator, and could boast about his encounters in any male company without making things up. Not everyone can fuck anything that moves in this country. Fuck, yes, here, it seems everyone just dreams of getting laid with him. Another thing is that the quality of sex often left much to be desired, but this was quite enough for a quickie.

“By the way, talking of the quality of sex, I still have to fuck this Christy, the bitch who refused to put out on the first date, if that was even a date at all. Now is the right time to call her and arrange everything properly. 35 years old, single mother, and shows off as if she is … Anyway, she does have the right to show off like that…”

He browsed through Vkontakte and checked her latest photos. If some producer saw her, he would definitely dismiss all these other fake models and actresses. She was definitely fucking the camera … “Damn, where is her number? There…”

“Hi! It’s me, Marko. How r u? Do u wanna meet up tonight?”

“Oh, hi babe, I’m busy. I’ve been thinking about you, though. Bye.”

Fuck, what has she been so busy with that she does not want to either meet or even continue our last conversation? She’s probably fucking some handsome young hunk.

With a professional look of critique on his face, Marco began examining himself in the mirror. No, he was good. That is a fact. But, of course, he is not 20 years old any more, and overall, the endless business trips, promiscuous sexcapades, restaurant trips and an active nightlife were bound to leave their mark, even on the most thoroughbred and well-groomed Italian face..

“Huh! Maybe she is looking forward to something a bit more… interesting. Maybe drive up to her with one of my buddies and have a threesome with her. Let’s see now how she’ll take the more exotic proposal of having two Italian machos visiting her.”

“Hi, Christy. Would u like my buddie and me to come over? We can have fun together. He is very attractive. You’ll definitely like him.”

“Really? Is that all he can offer? A lousy Italian friend of his? Let me reply to him now. I’ll answer this bastard.”

“Baby, its very nice to know that u care about my sexual needs, but I’m waiting for young gentleman, beautiful one, whose brain I’m going to be fucking out tonight, and you can enjoy your friend on your own.”

“This piece of shit of a slut”, thought Marco, cursing to himself,

“I’ll show her what a real gentleman is like. But wait. Who is there in my notebook that I haven’t fucked for a long time. Now we’ll arrange an orgy. Fuck you and your boy. We are also going to have a blast and won’t even think about you.”

Marco made a couple of calls to his friends, and they decided to spend the night in nightclubs with all the ensuing consequences, taking on the way more and more new girls. They ended up, in full alcoholic ecstasy, at one of the guy’s posh apartment and everyone, thinking that it would be a perfect night of sexual fulfilment, proceeded to fall asleep on someone else’s shoulder under the sweet sounds of Italian music, spilling over the body of alcohol, drugs and bliss..

The next morning, Marco did not remember where he was and with whom. After hastily gathering his belongings, he jumped out of the ill-fated apartment and rushed off, first to his place to take a shower, then to the office. Leading such a kind of messy lifestyle, to him, work was of first priority, and at his workplace, everything was clear.

A hoe should just be fucked, maybe in a toilet or elevator. With life-long business partners, that is out of the question. Otherwise, they’d fuck you real hard out of business.

Afterwards, while browsing through his WhatsApp photos, he was surprised to find a photo message from Christy in a complete outfit – stockings, a corset, high heels. She was embraced in the arms of a broad-shouldered Aryan, and was capturing it all on the phone.

“This slut did not want me to come over with a friend … Or maybe this is a revenge to me for making that offer. For such a photo, she should not only be raped, but hung up on a pole like a witch. To think of it, she is actually a witch. Take her hair and eyes, for instance. Completely black. They give the impression that when she looks at you, she will see right through your soul and know the size of your penis. Such a bitch. No, I’ll have to deal with her on a plain field, all cards on the table. No one has ever simply disposed of me this way. That Aryan had fucked her, when she said she was busy…”

Marco was furious. He realized that the offer that he had made her yesterday to come with a friend had clearly been unnecessary. And the fact that he had received the ill-fated picture from her was just a slap in the face for him as a boor. That’s right, he is an Italian boor who is being slapped on the cheeks by pictures of naked Aryans..

With these thoughts running through his head, he burst into his office. First things first. He had to drink coffee, relax, and make a couple of business calls.

“Yes, fifty percent prepayment. Everything is fine… Project is ready… I’ll have to fly out today. …Everything is under control… Yes … Of course,” he spoke into the phone, thinking that only two things he has in control are his project and his secretaries in the elevator. He was uncomfortable with his own jealousy. Helpless jealousy for this bitch. That someone is most probably fucking her, and certainly not in an elevator, but on a bed, and that she is probably looking extremely hot in her underwear, which he so wanted to rip off. Gazing at her picture, Marco had only to contemplate how she might be with a German, or fuck knows with whom. Well, he is not worse than him. Maybe send her some gift or flowers. Although, no, what flowers after such attacks? I’ll come back from my business trip and give her a call, go over and rape her in her corridor, spreading the bitch’s legs out on the wall, and fuck her so hard that she will groan loud enough for her neighbors to hear her.” On this positive note, Marco slid into his convertible and drove to the airport.

While this was happening, someone else somewhere was frantically searching for some quality intimacy on the same notorious site. Just the name of this person could easily send shivers of excitement down the spines of, say, a quarter, or maybe half, of the female population. The gentleman, finding no other ways by which to amuse himself, and being one who always find it extremely difficult to get acquainted with random women on the street, as he always had to move around flanked by security to prevent his fans from tearing to pieces his frail body, which had taken all kinds of women in all countries and brothels of the world to bed and which was filled with all kinds of vices, alcohol and drugs. He was simply excited after discovering a new loophole. His happiness was overshadowed only by the fact that he was forced to put up the ugliest-ever photo of an old man on the site, so that no one could recognize him. Nevertheless, thanks to this ingenuity, he had the obvious advantage of being able to get acquainted with people from all over the world. Of course, very few people would want to reply to such an old grandpa, but then, there were the more amorous people, and when he dragged one of them to come chat on skype using unique amoral and seductive technique, he sensed no more repulsion. On learning that one of the most coveted men in the world had all along been hiding behind the old man’s photograph, the ladies would squeal with delight and bring out all their lady bits into play. This was better than any reality show. Moreover, once having taken advantage of some girl’s outright benevolence, it would then be easy to remove her from his contacts. This is the convenience that Skype brings, which all the other types of communication do not, or at best struggle to.

When he eventually stumbled on some photo of a woman in a hat and a bikini, he immediately send her a heart smiley, then some cute face, followed by something else. He then proceed to write and explain that the photo on his profile was fake. He explained that he would rather they spoke on Skype face-to-face and urgently.

Christy looked blankly at the smiley, at the heart, then back at the photo of the pathetic old man who had written and tried to explain that it was not him on the photo. Then she rose and headed out for a sunbath, completely throwing all this nonsense out of her head. “These pathetic old psychos are throwing themselves at me. How about I throw a punch on their faces?”, – Christy thought, then plunged herself into the book that she had brought with her to the beach. She was wearing a golden swimsuit that she had bought abroad. There, it looked natural, but here in Russia, it was obviously over-the-top, and she was glad that it had faded slightly in the sun and that she was lying out of sight. That way, nobody would dare bother a girl who was deeply in her book. After reading for some time, Christy decided to close her eyes and relax a bit, pampering her silken skin in the sun. When she woke up, it was already evening. Her head was aching. Apparently, the sun was still quite hot. She got to her apartment in a daze, turned on the music and found another smiley face and Skype invitation from that man with a weird photo. After having spent so much time in the sun that day, Christy felt dizzy. She just was not herself. Without really realizing what she was doing, she wrote something to the stranger on Skype. A minute later, the man, who reminded her of someone she had often seen on TV, started calling her. She had never been a fan of this celebrity, and she was generally always amused when all the girls were always instantaneously infatuated with stars. She had even hated his face. She thought he looked like a little rat. Precisely why she had never watched any of the films he acted in. Christy simply dropped the Skype call, slammed her laptop down, and got up to make herself a cool and soothing cocktail. After refreshing herself a little, her head cleared up a bit. She came over to her laptop again, flipped it open, and surprise! A bunch of messages from this star with a rat’s face was littering her Inbox. Again! Replying him, she explained that she was at the moment treating herself to a cocktail, and that he could join her if he wanted. In fact, she did not mind who he was, or what sort of person he would turn out to be. Anyone who so wished could come join her right now. Whether it be a movie star with a rat’s face, an Italian playboy, or just a stranger. All she wanted was to chat and spend some quality time.

The man, who turned out to be Robert the celebrity, was at Christy’s disposal. He told her funny stories, made her laugh, showered her with compliments. The rat, after all, had turned out to be a very interesting gentleman. It was no accident that a good half of humanity would go crazy over him. There was something about this working class hero who miraculously climbed the ladder to fame and made it in life. Something besides sex. After all, how many of these supermodels are masculine, or supermen, so to speak. And this one actually had a very ordinary figure, and perhaps looked even a bit mediocre. But his brains were clearly far from being mediocre. And where had he learnt this art of seduction, this showering with compliments, the skill of which he flawlessly demonstrated like a pro? Even Christy, who herself had become accustomed to all sizes and shapes of men admiring her, could not help but enjoy what this seducer was offering her. They chatted about the weather, sex, her gold panties and bra that they both wanted to get rid of urgently, telling each other both decent and indecent jokes, which they considered interesting, sweet, and naughty. They were like old friends and lovers. At the same time, there was a certain novelty, curiosity and everything related to this that filled the air. They wanted to enjoy the intimacy and sex as much as they could, and this they did, bathing themselves in the very last drop of pleasure that two people who meet in the mysterious virtual world could possibly squeeze out of each other. Although Christy had never tried getting close to anyone she met online before, Robert proved to be so in-tune, so elegant and so tempting that he was impossible to resist. They lay side by side, or almost next to each other, separated by the ocean, different fates, their previous lovers and many other such facts of life. Nevertheless, they tried to enjoy the moments as much as they could, fascinated by each other. Robert was surprised to discover that he had not only satisfied his masculine curiosity, but that this girl meant something more to him than just an easy acquaintance from some website. There was something in her that he could not clearly figure out. Something both light and deep at the same time. Sweet and bitter. Tender and hard, hot and cold. She was far from being one of his many millions of shallow-hearted and myopic fans. She was someone he genuinely liked. Gosh! How much he had long forgotten about this feeling – that he can be liked for his smart mind, education and charm. He had been used to being adored and wanted simply because he was a star. But this time around, he was pleasantly surprised. Maybe not all was lost, even for such an experienced Olympian god as him. Someone might even fall in love with him. After all, he was a generally intriguing and good man.

At that time, however, Christy was chatting with a young Frenchman twenty-eight years of age. He was delightfully handsome, shy and sexy and as innocent as a French man his age could be. Although he was engaged in some modest engineering work, his dark hair, traditional gentlemanly appearance and ideal model-like figure immediately sent Christy into a mood that was both romantic and business-like. She asked him when he was going to visit her city. Ralph, the Frenchman, had not expected such a quick developments of events. And although he had been told many times before that he was attractive, he had often taken it as a joke, because he was not sure of his sexual experience. The relationship he had maintained for several years with a girlfriend who had been as sexually inexperienced as he was, together with a couple of mundane meetings with his age mates, did not arouse anything new in him. He thus judged himself modestly enough, and was extremely surprised and flattered by the attention he was now receiving from such an attractive lady. “Oh, well”, he wondered, “maybe I’m not that bad after all.” This woman is obviously good in bed, and letting this opportunity slip by would be wrong. Things must happen, at least for the sake of sexual experience, which he urgently needed to acquire. All his peers were always bragging about their adventures and insane romantic rendezvous. Some even participated in orgies. With Ralph always having nothing to say, he was relegated to the role of an attentive and grateful listener, before whom it was always possible to brag about anything, even lies. Ralph took everything at face value, eagerly listening to the funny stories his friends shared with him.

Christy had no particular need of this Ralph. However, the amount of innocence and purity of perception that was clearly present in this young man was a pill she so desperately needed as an antidote to the sophistication of all her other lovers. Dealing with their distorted minds was an exercise that Christy found to be very complex at times. She sometimes just wanted simple, sincere sex, unencumbered by the baggage of numerous mistresses, the experiences of unsuccessful and successful unions, the energies of other women that a man always carries with him like some fishtail train. And if he was also simultaneously involved with some other girl, this would be always obvious, and it so drained all the energy from their encounter that she needed to have some kind of intractability to communicate with him. This was the other side of their experience, the uniqueness of their nature, their attractiveness. After all, if a man decided to keep to himself, concentrating on his work or to a single, beloved woman, he would end up losing himself as an artist, and generally, as a creative person. Christy has long realized that she was always attracted to men with a creative component in their nature. And this was a special contingent that determined everything in the men’s lives, from sex, emotions and sexual drive, things they needed like water, like air, otherwise these men could not be able to exist, and would start wedging like mechanisms that worked on solar batteries and needed charging from time to time.

No, this was not a bad thing. Christy knew she was birds of the same feather with these men. But despite her seemingly non-monogamous lifestyle, Christy always wanted more than just sexual attraction. Love could arise from almost anywhere; be it a noble deed by a male admirer, his brilliant performance at some important forum, or his sparkling mind. But without further sexual chemistry, this feeling remained at the level of professional admiration. Chemistry is obviously an indispensable component of the magical elixir of love, a mystery that humanity has been trying to comprehend for centuries. Here, too, when animals partake in this chemistry, they find it sufficient for the creation of couples, unions and breeding. In principle, humans could also be content with this type of mutual arrangement. Nevertheless, if the relationship did not rise above sex, or it remained at the same level, Christy would always immediately leave it behind. She did not know exactly how the relationship should grow after the sexual hunger had been satisfied. Nevertheless, it was obvious that, just as flowers always follow the sun as they rise up out of the earth, this dark, and at times dirty, basis of fertility and relations originating from insane sex should also stretch endlessly towards the skies.

Meanwhile Robert was dying of monotony at his pool, watching the lesbian fun of his girlfriend, who was busy teasing him with all the parts of her body, beckoning him to come back, while licking some brunette on a chaise longue. This is the height of every man’s dreams, Robert thought. The ability to have any number of women, as well as alcohol, money, drugs and sex in any quantity. He had been burdened by previous serious relationships precisely because they had required that he be monogamous. Here, in view of the bisexuality, or more precisely, lesbianism, of his girlfriend, who pretended to be bisexual to continue staying with “one of the twelve Olympians” out of love, there were no scenes of jealousy. On the contrary, Emma actively invited him to participate in their lesbian orgies, bringing her own girlfriends that allowed themselves to be used, so Robert got everything he wanted. The only condition in his relationship with Emma was that he could not start a relationship with a woman whom she did not approve beforehand, and he could only have sex with another woman if she participated as well. Considering the number of new girlfriends Emma always brought around and replaced, this condition was quite acceptable. He had long stopped thinking about love. After all, what is love? A lump in the soul and on the throat, effusing a sweet bliss over the body or a stream of sperm to the right and to the left. Over the years, Robert had stopped thinking in terms of the soul and the heart, or had tried not to think about them. If a woman was a good mistress, and even allowed him to be freaky with her girlfriends, this was already more than enough. In any case, there was no one to fill his brain with unnecessary jealousy-driven accusations. No one to incessantly check his phone and Skype, and the only times Emma did so was so that she could give an expert male opinion on how attractive a female was. This way, as an active lesbian, she would take out her verdict on whether they were taking the female to bed or not. In his mind, Robert found this to be satisfying. He often surfed online dating sites, and those where for $5 a minute, a girl could come before him, undress and do everything he wanted, women from all over the world. Black, white, German, English, French. For the greenback, all of them were ready to jump on every command, and Robert enjoyed being the slave owner of these dolls, cheap online-order girls that he seduced, corrupted, watched and evaluated with his experienced gaze of a connoisseur of beauty, and then, just as ruthlessly, discarded. He did not need to introduce himself to these girls or open up to them. They had no idea who he was. And this also brought him a kind of pleasure, making him feel like a mere mortal, like some unknown John or Peter, who, after work, can afford to spend a couple of dollars to see a beautiful woman’s body, indulge in it at a distance, and fall asleep until the next working day. It was curious to see himself as a simple consumer of virtual fun, and to cease being the idol for millions of people for a while. But, apparently, he also wanted more. When he started courting Emma, it was obvious that she was indifferent to him. He had to use all the arguments, from those involving material things to the more professional ones, so that this lesbian agreed to be with him on her own terms. She did not love him. This was as much her strength and power over him at the same time as it was her powerlessness. Strength and weakness. Robert wanted real, tangible feelings … He remembered how sweet this sense of reciprocity could be achieved not only in sex, but love, the fragrance of this flower, which two people breathe and cannot inhale. He was the only one breathing here, and because of this, he and this flower were suffocating. You would want to bury your head in someone’s hair, feel their fragrance, put your hand on a woman’s chest and feel her heart beating. And although he could afford all this with Emma, he felt only a passionate indifference towards her. Why passionate? Because she had passionately fallen in love with his money, his status and his capabilities. Because she used all this to its fullest, to light up in front of the cameras, to show off in all her glory. Because she teased him, in a bid to maintain the interest of the satiated god, coming up with more and more perversions. She did not care that he loved her. She understood that she only had this chance once in her life, and putting a lid on her open interest in women, she hugged him, kissed him and fulfilled all his whims. She was especially affectionate with him in public. This is why Robert was very fond of these public outings. When the floodlights faded, he realized that he was alone with his unshared feeling, which no longer was the sparkling glass of champagne that was in the beginning. He could not understand why, being adored by millions of women, he was so indifferent to this lesbian, and the bitterness of this discovery rolled up a lump at his throat.

Emma’s plan was simple. She wanted to marry this unfortunate Robert, turn him into an incapable alcoholic and take custody of him. Of course, it would be great if he got that way on his own, but Robert had quit so many times, that it was now not difficult to turn him to booze and drugs again. She was not often home. When she did come, she would start her dramas, which alternated with loving caresses, orgies, bouts, then the cycle would repeat again from the beginning. Robert had ceased to understand where he was and what was happening to him, why Emma was always beside herself, why sometime she would be scolding him and accusing him, then immediately would start making love to him. Afterwards, to unload his brain somehow, he would immerse himself in alcohol, skype and parties with old friends, that, as usual, ended up by drinking and doing drugs. After two years with Emma, the former sex symbol began to turn into a flabby aging alcoholic. No, he still had the spark and talent that women liked. But what kind of women? The very ones with whom he had maintained contact almost ignored him. They had fun together. These girls occasionally offered to do him favors, including him in their orgies. Girls from the online sex sites did not know who he was. Of course, they were always fascinated with the way he talked with them, but in that world, making money was the most important thing. Besides, workers in the sex industry were not very educated, and he was very little interested in them as human beings. He called thus them dolls. He would proceed to quench his appetite with them and afterwards, continued on his quest. Next were the dating sites. There was a couple of times that he told some girls who he was, but after that, he had such an onslaught of their calls, messages and exclamations that decided to quickly do away with these acquaintances. He simply deleted them and blocked them. He had only remained with this Russian, a mysterious creature, a fearless and passionate intelligent woman. What kind of a life does this woman lead? She seems to know everything. She had turned his brain and soul inside out, revealing his somewhat wretched existence, then discarded him away. She is beautiful, but not doll beauty. Something else totally different. A mixture of Cleopatra and Frida Kahlo, the fruit of the same-sex love of times and continents. Yes, reality is relative. Robert took the last sip of his expensive whiskey and went to watch the sunset. The sun always grows old beautifully and sets beautifully. So as to be born anew the next day.

While this was happening, a middle-aged French aristocrat was drinking vodka in his chic apartment on the Champs-Élysées. He had begun his binge at a certain Russian restaurant, where he often drunk, and then passed by a convenience store, bought more vodka, and continued home. He had grown accustomed to this kind of life. From the moment he had sold his shares in a large corporation and started living on interest, his life had increasingly turned into a black hole, an abyss that kept swallowing him more and more every day. On average, his life could be described as successful. His family was more than taken care of. It was a high class, well-known respected family. His wife was always either working, travelling on business or taking the children on vacation. As a result, Edward had more than enough time to himself. And he found his own entertainment. First, he went round all the doctors, who diagnosed him with the fashionable sickness of depression and prescribed him a bunch of medicines, advising him to visit them once or twice a week for constant checkups to avoid any worsening of the situation. However, he was not an altogether useless specimen. He officially had a completely aristocratic disease, with which he fought hard with the help of alcohol, pills and Instagram. He started an account where he put photos of the most beautiful women in the world. In his sixtieth year of age, he was a delicate connoisseur of female beauty. All his life, he had been seeing them on the podiums and in magazines, communicating live with the legends of his time. He clearly understood the intricacies of female attractiveness. His page was popular. He sought out rare photos of people that he was introduced to from his friends or from his own archive, sometimes using popular sources. However, the collages he made were so juicy and thought out that it was impossible not to pay attention to their author. Although he had many opportunities to meet different women, Edward had been so afraid of his wife that he had always suppressed the likelihood of being romantically attached to someone else right in its bud. At sixty, he looked charming. He was always immaculately dressed. He was well-groomed and had traveled all over the world – an interesting man indeed. He was a great interlocutor, but alone, he was an abandoned dog whose owner now and again showed up to kick him or throw a bone. And, despite the chic apartments, houses around the world and a designer wardrobe, this is how Edward felt. He felt like a helpless dog, planted on tranquilizers by his doctors and always under the vigilant gaze of his wife, who, even from the other side of the world, controlled him always and everywhere. As a result, he enjoyed immersing himself in the world of female beauty and photographs. The world of legs, thighs, busts, dresses, eyes, hands, and lips of beautiful women. These were close to him, accessible. He admired them as his own. With all sincerity. How can a prisoner admire the pattern of a flower without having had the opportunity of touching a living plant. Christy often visited his page. She also admired these divas of the past and the present. Once, she even left an admiring comment, which apparently attracted the attention of Edward. On visiting Christy’s page, he was surprised to find not some mundane photos ore ones pulled out of the accounts of celebrities, but a real page of an artist who created, thought and put her soul, brain and body into her work. He began following Christy’s page with renewed interest, each time liking her new photos. When he looked through her most recent photo session, he could not keep himself from writing her a long comment, re-uploading almost all of her photoset on his own page. Christy was extremely surprised. Of course, she considered herself a beautiful woman, but being included among big-time goddesses like Sophia Loren, Catherine Deneuve, Marilyn Monroe and other stars was more than pleasant. People liked her photos as if she was a Hollywood star, and this took her by surprise. This was truly a new thing for Christy. And she, inspired, made new photosets, sometimes re-shooting them from different angles, sometimes using other filters. She photographed herself because she loved herself as a model, and understood that only she had the true ability and knowhow to depict the intent of a particular photoset accurately. Some sort of correspondence began. Edward filled his entire page with Christy’s photos. Black and white, color, shot from the phone. He then branded each of the photos with his “j’adore” signature comment. Edward could not help but fall in love with her. Head over heels. This was obvious to his friends, subscribers, wife, children and family. He fell in love, just as boys fall in love with a photo of a beautiful woman whom they never met. Unlike the celebrities whose photos he had all along been posting on his page, he was friends with, met, or just knew, he had not even seen Christy face-to-face. And this was strange and frustrating. For everyone. Especially for his wife. She urgently advised Edward’s doctors to call him in for full examinations, including a couple of mental health analyses. Edward still owned part of the corporate shares, and who knew how he could dispose of them if he was posting hundreds of photos of some Christy in broad daylight, some girl no one had ever met? He had posted them alright. He had even written something to the effect that he had fallen in love, that he admired her. Here he was in his old age, completely gone crazy. He could even end up writing off his shares to her, and disappear with her into the sunset. “No, this has to stop”, thought Stephanie. She was a powerful woman of about fifty-five years who had been holding Edward in iron grip for the last thirty years. Yes, she loved high heels, expensive clothes, travelling, money and women. She carefully concealed her love for women, but sometimes some information filtered through that was instantly extinguished or, on the contrary, kindled, but from a different angle – either when shooting photos, or making new photosets. All her favorites were taken care of. Everyone knew that Stephanie had a family and carefully kept her moral character in check, so no one was gossiping, and everyone was happy. Only Stephanie was now displeased. How could it be that he had sat under her heel for thirty years, and was now disgracing practically the whole world? He could have kept posting photos of famous women (who have not seen them already?), but not littering his page with photos of some Russian whore. But who was she that got him that interested? No, of course, you could look at her, a woman with talent and brains, and even a nice appearance, but what was she doing on my husband’s page? “No, I will not stand it”, Stefania told herself, turning sharply at the traffic light. She drove aggressively like a man. She had always exhibited some qualities of the male mentality, so she was always the boss and the leader. She liked to dominate, and she adored power. And she was not going to give it away to someone. Edward knew all this. He had long been fed up with being with Stephanie. He was just afraid of her. No, he was not gay. He was only attracted to the female body, but he was soft and pliable and so dominated by Stephanie, that he had already submitted to his fate, and did not expect anything from life.