RuKsaK

Here's an interlude before squeezing out Stink and the suicides - part 9 in a few days. It's a bit different and lazy - would like to know what people think.
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I’ve always had difficulty remembering dreams. I usually recall a couple in a year, and then it’s usually about watching TV with friends or something equally mundane.

Even my earliest wet dreams did the same. For months, before masturbation became a secret hobby like everyone else, I’d wake up with my pyjama bottoms welded to my young legs. I’d have to peel them in careful jolts from my thighs and take a shower. I don’t remember trying to work out why these crispy patches on my legs were there and why they turned to salty, floured water when I washed them.

In those months I never once woke up during the ejaculation. I was denied the pleasure by heavy sleep or some mental inability to dream with any level of consciousness. I had no idea what was on my leg and no idea it had trammelled its way through that great gushing pleasure I’ll never be cured of.

Even after starting masturbating it took me some months to realise that the reality-killing, warm cranial shiver that comes with sperming was what I’d missed in those dulled, slept moments.
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I lived in several Khruschevkas in St. Petersburg when I was there. This is a five floor building built during Khruschev’s reign. They're slotted together by glum cranes, with square grey slabs, all of it stinking of pity, but the same pity for all. One of them can stretch for half a kilometre without so much as an alley to piss down for a break. They look like budget, unliked skyscrapers laid sideways – on a Communist gravitational level.

They are a gorgeous socialist monument striping the suburbs of Russian cities. In a western country they’d be incubators for alcoholics, criminals and lowlifes. In Russia they are blind to class – a drunken doctor lives next door to the religious bus driver who lives below the old woman whose cats wait for her lonely death next to the student who read poems for sex.

Next to a foreigner.
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The lift in my favourite of the Khruschevkas I lived in was like the lift in the next one and all of them – big enough for four standard-regulation humans, of standard-regulation posture and standard-regulation build. The buttons were burned by cigarettes because that's funny, graffiti pointlessly pointed out I was reading it, and beer-piss was its perfume. It whirred and waggled like an old, dying truck and the doors opened aggressively to command you out or allow you entry.

When you stepped into mine, only when going down, not up, it dropped three inches. Until you got to the bottom of these inches the lift told you it was going to break your legs, or maybe kill you. For those three inches you didn’t know it wasn’t going to plummet five floors. At least the first few times – after that you put one foot in to press the floor down and then confidently brought your other leg in.

I didn’t forget the first few times though.
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My brother came to visit me in this flat. We helped in him with his bags, slung them in the nasty lift and went up. It was late. We drank beers and he tolerated my bragging as much as I put up with his listening. It was great to see him – I hadn’t for two years.

In the morning we left and I knew already what I wanted – for him to step into the lift first. The doors snapped open. I bell-boyed my hand graciously:
‘Go on – after you.’
‘Cheers Bro.’

He happily put both his feet in, but after the fastest three inches in Russia he bulleted his hands to the side walls. He knees fell inwards. My gut buckled. Laughing flew out of my mouth, loud and mad.
‘You fucking cunt!’
‘Wowohawohaha!’
‘You knew about that, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. Wohahaha! Wowohahaha! Sorry man! Wohahawohaha!’
‘Why the fuck would you do that?’
‘I don’t know. Probably because I creamed my pyjamas when I was twelve and can’t remember the fucker.’
‘You’re a fucked up bastard!’
‘Wowohahaha!
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That pointless sperm stayed a long time, burrowing for its exit. I’m glad it found it in a joke - fused good to down.

It’s not like that for everyone.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Nostalgia for the wrinkles coming