In the girls’ language, “Don’t tell anyone ” means:
“Tell this bitch that you saw me with him. As soon as possible.”
Yes, I was at his place. That’s why, when you saw me
near Metro Stalingrad,
you thought about me and your bitchy friend – that whore,
which you put off to him so long and persistently then.
You tried, your girlfriend tried, his mom and sister tried –
there was no better party for him to find, not like this thin long Russian.
Little neat fräulein – what else is needed to adequately meet old age.
Three years passed, but their plans didn’t come true, you didn’t home that fräulein,
and since it didn’t work out, the fräulein began to show her temper
and upset you finally.
But you don’t like to be upset. Do you, my sweet?
Nobody can encroach on your time, on your territory, on your attention.
More than allowed.
And I came to borrow a book from you.
Franzen’s “Freedom”, which I couldn’t found in the shops of the regime city.
And you had it. After all, you were famous once. Before the war.
And now you’re just a little man who has lost everything.
And for some reason I really wanted to hug you.
You were very worried about this visit of mine – so much mutual hatred
Has spilled over these three years: blocked Facebook pages,
Dirt and muck in the correspondence –
everything faded over time.
I got out of my depression,
loaded myself with a lot of new projects
and finally emerged out of darkness and took a breath of air.
I wanted to drop by like this – in a new coat that I bought before my trip to Copenhagen –
so that you would see me beautiful, new, different
and just regret something unfulfilled,
even if you have a happy even relationship now.
The last autumn marigolds covered brown flowerbeds with bright orange strokes.
As always, at the entrance of your house – flowers blow until the cold weather.
And the neighbors carefully watch your personal life.
They must have been vigorously discussing your women who appeared here in my absence.
And I was a fool to the last day.
The same polo shirt with a Greek profile on the patch of the pocket –
only with a small, barely noticeable hole on the button placket.
Under these buttons – curls of hair – now it seems – I remember them all –
the whole pattern of curls on your chest.
I take my eyes off the T-shirt and turn my back –
You help me take off my coat –
with such a sad tender grace of openness and readiness
that with the next gesture I propose you my high boot.
Feeling that you’re even ready to take off my boot –
I pretend that’s a joke, and take it off myself.
As soon as I unbend, you hug my shoulders and suddenly kiss me on the lips.
This is not to say that I didn’t foresee this, but I didn’t think that it would flood over so soon –
this familiar smell of yours, dear lips, a gentle tongue beating in convulsions.
I hug you and my cold palms slip from your back under the T-shirt.
Under the elastic of your home trousers. I’m moving forward. You’ve got a strong erection.
A huge trunk. Trunk… is pulsating in my hands.
You pull away and unbutton my silk blouse with a stern and serious look, anxiously peering into my eyes, –
Unbutton it slowly, one by one – that’s it. Everything’s boiling in me.
That bowl of boiling water, which I tried not to spill on the way here, burns my tights.
You tear off my blouse, my bra – and take my breasts with both hands
leaning me against a rough wall.
Only at this moment comes awareness of what we are doing.
We throw things all on the floor, kiss again and find ourselves in the bedroom –
in the past, on the same sheets.
You’re surprisingly neat – nothing has ever changed in the last ten years.
Just outdated gadgets were changed for new ones. And bedding.
So this sheet was once new.
I get tangled in juggins and tights, while you hold me around the waist, afraid to let me go,
and suddenly fall on your back.
I turn around and jump on top of you, not taking off my thong,
slip a thin black stripe along your trunk –
I can’t resist – slide down and impulsively lick it from smooth-shaven balls up to the end, to the drop.
And then I find myself at your lips. I kiss your lips, cheeks, your beard.
You answer me.
Our tongues intertwine –
I hug your prickly strong neck.
I kiss your eyes. You cuddle me running your hands under the blades of my thong.
You put your fingers in there, pull off all these ropes that entangled our passion,
and right there, with springy pressure, inserts a warhead into me –
a gun and a cartridge, grease, shells – our war continues.
The world suddenly froze before the shots.
Such silence suddenly spilled around.
I kidnapped you. Squeezing you inside myself.
You are mine.
We lose consciousness from possession and suddenly shudder
from an unexpected bird’s twitter outside the window.
Frictions are like shell shots, like cannonade, like Grads,
one charger after another, one cartridge after one – forward, forward –
this is war, this is love, this is your sperm that wants to burst into me.
You direct my hand to your balls – as if saying, remember your place,
return everything as it used to be, we are in the past.
Nothing has changed, and I love you.
Changing poses, we can’t tear ourselves away from each other.
My first orgasm, the second. I absorb you at a rapid pace.
“I can no longer restrain myself, sorry… just two. Are you ready for the third?”
In response is only my moan, I can’t hear your voice –
everything trembles inside me and shrinks like a hungry octopus that grabbed prey.
A scream tears you apart, one more scream and a long roar, breaking into a soft moan.
Another convulsion – and that’s it.
A moment of silence again.
Gentle kisses and an attempt to build relationship.
“Have you done it the third time?”
“Well, that’s not bad. Sorry, I just couldn’t last longer”.
I kiss him in response – his whole face – softly and quietly. All that I love.
All the wrinkles at his eyes and the shaved stubble above his beard line.
I remember the map of curls on his chest.
Now tell that German bitch that you saw us together.
Elena Mordovina is a Ukrainian author best known for her novel The White Balance. Since 2003 Elena Mordovina has also worked as a vice chief editor of Kreschatik, an international literary magazine. Her first book, The Wax Dolls, was published in Sankt-Petersburg in 2010. She’s also the author of a children’s fantasy novel series, which soon will be published in English as Ghostarium.