Nymphomaniac. A Love Story
Ira, as always, was peeling potatoes, gouging out the cute, childishly naive little eyes of the potatoes.
In the background on the TV, soulless soap operas were playing with perfect depictions of everyday life, where every family has a brand-new car, an apartment, and wonderful European-style renovations, without the crumbling plaster we're used to.
While peeling the potatoes, Ira looked at her switched-on phone, where the wallpaper featured her and her wonderful husband.
Ira was in a magical white dress, the one in which she had already met her sweet, feminine happiness; however, for some reason, this happiness one day abandoned her and flew off to a young student.
There, this happiness was working
its turbulent magic, forgetting that it actually belonged to Ira. Forgetting that it was, actually, happiness.However, ten years later, Ira found another happiness. Not as toned and brazen, not as cheerful and cheeky in a good way, but sincerely loving and kindred.
Thus, the youthful brunette with a bob haircut, deep blue eyes, and strong hips met a nice guy in a parking lot.
It was a bright, July day. Ira, as always, was driving to her mom's and heard a thousand lectures, with or without reason.
As always, Ira stopped at a certain café that made wonderful ice cream for very modest money. Here, in this magical café, she had spent fairy-tale days with her first husband. Listened to his army stories, dirty jokes, and Irina's favorite "vulgar" compliments about her large rear, about his desire to make love in a threesome, including with his brother, who often glanced at Ira. The woman loved her husband so much that she was ready for anything. Even for MMF, although she was afraid of such practices. Ira was sick with love, and like any sickness, this one is cured by only one remedy — betrayal.
The woman finished with the kids at school much earlier than scheduled and came home. There, in their grail of cleanliness in the bedroom, two naked bodies were indulging in pleasure. Sweet moans echoed throughout the house, and sweetness dripped from used condoms.
And so, the wonderful, petite woman saw with her own eyes how the world was collapsing. Betrayal. A coffin.
In tears, the woman flew down the banister, running away from the naked betrayer, the traitor who had betrayed her heart.
That day, the woman wanted many things. She looked at the knife blade and her pulsating veins and arteries. How the bitterness of loss raced through these vessels, how the woman's fragile brain was tormented by the radiation of memories. Betrayal. A coffin.
Thus the years passed and scattered like leaves. For some time, Irina lived with her mother, and it was during those depressive days, the sorrowful girl, amidst the wreckage of her happiness, frequented the only warm ark. The ice cream café.
And so, after 10 years, following her heart's decree, Irina went back to where happiness had begun and ended. She came with bitterness, with respect. That day, the café was operating for its last day, competition and the cruel market having taken their toll.
And so, taking this 150-gram cone, the no longer young but extremely sexy woman in a white t-shirt and jeans licked the ice cream and gazed into the distance from her car.
Ira often caught herself staring at the boys she taught foreign languages to; she wanted love so badly. However, not love from adult men who could easily abandon, reject a lady's heart. Young men were a completely different matter. These angels with burning eyes and heads, with anxious hearts and fresh blood, with sweet bodies drenched in the honey of hormones, could give her the most important thing — a child. A dream, meaning, and true happiness.
And so, licking the bird's milk ice cream from her own chest, Ira caught the fleeting glance of a young auto mechanic.
The skinny, fair-haired, not very tall boy appealed to the woman so much that if she had been his mother, psychologists would have invented a reverse "Oedipus complex." The guy was in overalls and cutely moved his lips when he smoked. He was looking at her too, especially at her rounded forms under the white t-shirt. Irina dreamed that he would approach her himself. That he wouldn't beat around the bush, but would simply suggest meeting up, and on the very first meeting, would give free rein to his emotions and thereby release Irina's freedom. The woman realized how much people waste on illusions, on hints and half-truths, which are so harmful and devour the most important thing — time.
Afterwards, the woman went to sweet pleasure, literally, that same evening at his place.
It was a small, shabby house with one big room. Different corners of the space dictated their function. Where the plates were — was the kitchen, and where the old washing machine stood — was obviously the bathroom. Though the poor, ascetic atmosphere wasn't conducive to romance, the kind nature, the interesting conversations with Igor (that was the guy's name) liberated and refreshed the woman.
He sincerely talked about love, about how age didn't matter to him, he spoke with interest about Irina, how every Saturday morning at 9:49, he waited for her and how he cried when he found out the ice cream café was closing.
— Why were you afraid to approach? — asked the woman in her see-through t-shirt, sipping the cheap wine Igor could afford.
Igor flinched at the question.
— Could I really be interesting to you?
Ira, quite drunk, with her characteristic emotionality, brightly uttered:
— You are perfection itself, darling. And those girls you chase after, and you men chase after, are just snot-nosed kids. They don't understand life, don't appreciate people like you, and worst of all, they maim love with their mercantile desires, ruin the most important and truly Christian thing in this damned swamp of debt obligations. I never chased money and suffered, suffered a lot, but true love is tested through suffering, and I hope to pass through them, finding you — she accidentally blurted out, embracing the guy, who immediately flared up with feelings as if from gasoline.
— And I... love you — the guy said and shyly kissed Ira.
The woman couldn't bear it and immediately, like a crocodile on the hunt, latched onto the youth-exuding guy.
Though the boy looked childish, he was an A-student in terms of sex and had obviously been attentively watching porn sites. In fact, women are happy if their young man watches porn often, as he masters humanity's main science — love.
The guy was extremely agile in bed, so much so that Irina didn't notice that his flower was already crawling along her "depths," including from behind. At first it was painful, as if a bayonet was being driven into her heart, but after a sweet kiss and tender words: "I love you," Ira gave herself to this young angel completely.
His body penetrated almost into the woman's soul. With his male energy, the guy delighted Ira. He masterfully grabbed her breasts and quickly moved his hips, playing Irina's clitoris like a guitar. The musical woman moaned and screamed like a Spanish march, tore at the bed, and trembled from the guy's insistent and talented fingers and loins. Soon, the young man couldn't hold back and with a cry spilled his pleasure onto Ira.
Thus, unhappy Irina met her happiness.
Suddenly, the front door creaked, pushing aside sinful thoughts about loneliness. Irina abruptly snapped out of her memories and rushed to the entrance. At the entrance was her love. Her first love.