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Fetish


by Reva Zerkalo


Reva Petrovna! Come in, come in. Wow, that dress is stunning. Boobs look great, too. Never suspected you of a plunging cleavage. You wearing a push-up? Can't believe you got such a sexy frock from a second hand shop. Dark green matches your eyes. Ha! That idiot, Professor Ivan Stefanovich, doesn't know what he's missing. Well, he will once I've done your make-up. We could ring his doorbell before we go to the club and you'll say, ‘Hi, sweetheart!'. Flutter your eyelashes. Torment him a bit. Then you'll wiggle your butt as you walk away and leave him drooling. Serve him fucking right.

 

Hop on the bed, podruga. Fancy a warm-up drink? Guess what Oleg gave me this morning. Oh… I forgot to tell you. It's ages since we've seen each other. Crazy. Why don't we see more of each other? We're chalk and cheese but we get on okay, don't you think? And you live right on top of me. Sometimes I can hear your footsteps over my head. No, no, don't worry — it's not annoying. You're light-footed. But when that skotina Ivan Stefanovich used to ‘visit' you… well, yeah, the creaking bedsprings… That goes without saying. I could deal with that. Rhythmic. You get used to it. And it never lasted for long, anyway. But it was the racket he made. Irritated the hell out of me. His ‘Oooooooo golubchik, aaaaahhhhhh my darling, I'm… I'm… I'm…!' How did you put up with it?

 

You're blushing! Come on, Reva Petrovna, don't be silly. It's our girls' night out. We can talk about everything and anything. I always used to wonder why he had to announce his ejaculation in such a dramatic way. As if a world event was taking place. Well, maybe it was, for him. He's what? Twenty years older than you? Amazing he could get it up. Particularly since they no longer sell viagra after the sanctions. But you're pretty, so I suppose that helps. No, no, it's okay. I stuffed cotton wool in my ears and dragged my mattress onto the kitchen floor when he overnighted at yours. It was a relief when you told him to piss off. Best rid of him. And I don't have to sleep in the kitchen any more. Worrying about cockroaches scuttling over me.

 

Fuck, sorry, Reva. Always putting my foot in it. It's just — your bruises. Your poor face. Never mind. We'll cover them and at least your teeth are fixed. They're as good as new. Better, if anything. I hope the svoloch paid the dentist. Hang on a mo, I'll pour us a drink. Ah yes, I was telling you. Oleg. Oleg Olegovich from the 6th floor. I know, I know, he's much older than me, too. But what can us beauties do? Too many women. Too few men to go around. Desperate times! He's that guy with the slight limp. Tiny bald patch on his head, size of a biscuit. But he's taller than me so I don't see it, usually. Only when we're umm…

 

Yeah, but then I keep my eyes shut and think of Dmitri Aleksandrovich. So I don't see the bald patch, anyway. Oh, Dmitri Aleksandrovich, he's gorgeous. You know, lives on the 4th floor. Blond, tall, well-hung, I imagine. But he's married to that suka and she's up the spout. So no chance. But the other day, in the lift, he gave me the once-over and somehow managed to touch my tits with his arm. Even though we were the only ones in the lift. Plenty of space. So it's obvious he fancies me. His poor wife's going to be a single mum if she doesn't keep an eye on him.

 

Finally got together with Oleg a few weeks ago. Took him a while to figure out I was ‘interested'. Months! Used to bring him jam and stuff and flirt with him at the kitchen table. He's really sweet. Kind. Better than nothing, anyway. Only problem is his ex still lives there. Tatiana Antonovna. They're divorced. They've got all the paperwork but she can't afford to rent a flat of her own. She's a nightmare but she's a school teacher so that's a bonus. Means we can meet during his lunch breaks. I think he'll pop the question soon. Shall we have a bet on it? What do you say? Six weeks max if I let him indulge his fetish. I'll tell you about that later. Make you blush, guaranteed! Anyway, guess what he managed to get hold of. Bombay Sapphine! Gin. It's the bee's knees — even in the West!

 

Voilà. Na zdorovye! It's good. I've already had a bit of a head start. Moreish, don't you think? What's the time? Shit. Best get a move on. It's going to take a lot of concealer and foundation to hide your bruises. How long's it been? Two weeks? Listen, Reva. Poets have wild imaginations but it's crazy saying a chair beat the living daylights out of you. Really. You should be careful what you say. Everybody in this block of flats knows your story now. Some people feel sorry for you. I certainly do. I think you're in denial about that fucker. That's why you're using the chair as an excuse. PTSD. But it sounds mental, if you want my honest opinion.

 

Did that hurt? Sorry. I'll just dab it on, gently. Tilt your head a bit to the left. This way. But others… I overheard that cow Elvira Alexeveyna saying to her sister… well she must be her sister because they're both ugly in the same way. Their noses! So Elvira Alexeyevna said you should be certified. Sectioned. Really. She really did. And you never know. They could denounce you to a psychiatrist. So my advice as a friend is — if anyone asks you again, just tell them you were distressed. Maybe say you always hated that chair and needed to blame it for something. Or something. I don't know.

 

Amazing what a bit of war-paint can do. Your bruises have disappeared! Well, not quite but the lighting's dim in ‘Night Star' and there's all those strobing colours. Enough to give an epileptic a fit. You not been there? It's cool. Too many women though, togged up like sluts. Swarming around the men like flies around shit. Plan is to out-slut the sluts and pull ourselves two gorgeous guys. Hey, if we're really lucky, we'll land ourselves an oligarch! Yeah, yeah, hope dies last and when it does, everything rots quietly under the leaves. Worth a try, anyway. Worse case scenario they won't be oldies like Oleg and Ivan Stefanovich.

 

Maybe false eyelashes'll do the trick. Here, give me your glass. It's good with tonic. English tonic. Bombay Sapphire and tonic — so sophisticated! Oleg must have connections. I'll keep you updated. Let's do your eyes. No offense, Reva, but I always thought your make-up looked a bit… not sure how to put it, like, smeared on in a hurry. Not very flattering. And you're gorgeous. Make the most of your beauty, dorogaya, before time whisks it away. That's what my babushka used to say to me. Makes sense. Anyway, I reckon purple to cover your bruises a bit more. Look, I've got four different shades. We'll use all of them and blend them in. Sit still! Stop fidgeting!  

 

We'd best get a move on or there'll be a queue. And it's raining. Do you like my hair? Looks better straightened, don't you think? Longer. But the roots are more obvious. And the rain will make it all squiggly and I lost my umbrella. I'll have to wear a hat but then that will squish my hair. Bozhe moi. Why are things so complicated? I wish I had your hair. It's wavy like mine, but it's wavy in the right way, if you get my gist. Do you dye it? No? You're so lucky, Miss Chocolate Brown!

 

By the way, did Ivan Stefanovich have any… how can I put it?... You know… Was he kinky? Doubt it. From what I heard in this room he was an quick in-out kind of guy. I suppose you had to fake it. Or did he do anything else to keep you interested? No? Hope you've got a vibrator at least. Want to see mine? No? Don't worry, it's not at all phallic looking. It's the le Creuset of all vibrators! Hey, Reva, we're good friends. I'll let you borrow if it you get desperate.

 

Keep an eye out for Oleg Olegovich when he sets off for work. He leaves the block every morning, Monday to Friday, at seven fifty on the dot. People say you're a night owl so you're probably still sleeping so early in the morning. Set your alarm on Monday and you'll see him in his work clothes. You won't regret it. Really. Pinstripes and pink shirt. You might even catch a glimpse of his bald patch, if you're lucky.

 

He asked me to tie his tie this morning. Such a wifey wifey thing to do. Promising. Insurance office. That's where he works. Pay's quite good, hence the Bombay Sapphire. More? You wouldn't suspect a thing when you see him in his suit. He looks so ordinary and respectable. But underneath it all, he's a pervert! Oh, come on, Reva, don't be such a prude. Two girls together on a wild night out! What else are we supposed to talk about?

 

Shut your eyes and I'll glue these on. I hope they're better than the last set I used. So embarrassing. I was queuing up in the Ladies at this different club and glanced in the mirror. Usually I fix my make-up and hair after I've been to the loo and washed my hands, but the queue was long. And this fucking eyelash had half fallen off. Looked like a mutant moth or a spider or something dangling from my eye. And none of those bitches pointed it out to me. I bet you anything they were sniggering. I ripped them both from my eyelids. Stung like hell.

 

Swig yours down, dorogaya moya, and I'll top us up. What was I talking about? Oleg. Yeah, you'd never believe it but he has this really weird fetish. You'd never imagine it if you saw him in his suit. Hey! You look beautiful. Look in the mirror. Your eyes are so enormous men will drown in them. Let's drink to your eyes! Na zdorovye! Brows and blusher and lipstick and then we're done. Personal question but did Professor Ivan Svoloch Stefanovich ever lick you… you know, ‘down there'? No? That doesn't surprise me. I've been with quite a few guys in my time. Don't worry, I got checked over recently at the clinic. All clean and clear, slava bogu. Oleg has a — how can I put it? That's it! A niche fetish. He told me his ex wife never let his tongue go anywhere near her. ‘It's dirty,' she used to say, ‘Filthy!' Whether she was referring to her unwashed… anatomy or his tongue remains a mystery. Only god knows and even if he did, he wouldn't tell us.

 

Stop wiggling, Reva! Brows are important for a woman. Usually a guy gives a girl a quick lick just to get it lubricated so he can slide in. But Oleg. Bozhe moi! All I can say is thank goodness for the internet. Before he met me, I mean. It's better for him in 3d reality. At least I hope it is. Who knows? Maybe he's clicking around on that porn site as we speak. So when Tatiana Antonovna was asleep in the marital bed when she was his wife, he'd creep into the kitchen, switch on the laptop and look at this site. It's very specific. And he'd look at images of men going down on women. Men! None of the usual cliché Sapphic woman licking woman stuff men get off on. Sorry. You're such an innocent. Am I being a bit OTT? Blame it on the Bombay Sapphire. Talking of which, Na zdorovye!  

 

I've just had a brainwave! I could teach you all about men and sex and stuff and you could teach me how to write poetry. Fair exchange? The forms and stuff. I've always wanted to write a sonnet. Like Pushkin. Where's the blusher gone? I wonder if Pushkin wore blusher. Men used to wear make-up in Pushkin's time. Just as well he's dead now. He'd get arrested nowadays if he walked down Tverskaya Street in blusher and lipstick. They'd think he was a transvestite. Are you sitting on it? Move your bum. Yep! There it is. You keep swaying about. You pissed already? Doesn't take much. Oh shit, no wonder we're both out of it. Do svidaniya, Bombay Sapphire!

 

Never mind. I've got a bottle of Putinka in the freezer. Not my vodka of choice. Absolut's much better. The Bombay Sapphire of vodkas! But we won't need it. We're nearly done. And that fucking queue will be getting longer and longer. So… me and Oleg… our first night together. Tatiana Antonovna had gone to visit her sister so I was at his on the 6th floor. So you wouldn't have heard us. But you wouldn't've heard us anyway, even if he'd come round mine, because nothing happened. Nichevo! He couldn't get it up. I tried everything in my book of tricks. You know, the usual. And a bit more. I won't embarrass you with too many details but, put it this way, my throat is deep.

 

This went on night after night. Got so frustrated my battery ran out and I couldn't find a replacement. Looked everywhere. Even in the centre of Moscow. It's one of those round ones. No idea why batteries can't be identical in size and shape. So no vibrator even. And another thing. It's insulting for a women. Feminity spurned! Here's me, all decked out in sexy lingerie, stockings, choker and corset. The corset that cost me a week's wages. And I'm a good looking woman, don't you think? Sexy woman, spread out on the bed and still the man's cock is limp!

 

I was worried he was a covert homosexual. Eventually I said to him — Oleg, sladenkii moi, is anything the matter? Is it perhaps a medicinal problem, darling? —. The poor man went bright red. Redder than you when you blush, Reva. I felt embarrassed for his embarrassment and even I felt my cheeks flush. Two red lovers in a bed. Ha! Not even lovers. And definitely not red hot lovers. Three weeks and not so much as a twitch from him. Any other woman would have spat at him and stomped off. Or maybe not. Not enough men to go around in Russia. They can get away with anything. Bad manners. Limp cocks. Beating the living daylights out of my best podruga friend, Reva. Talking of which, why didn't you go to the police, golubchik? Oh fuck, yeah. Stupid question. They wouldn't've believed you if you told them the truth. They would've believed your story about the chair and arrested it there and then. Imagine — a kitchen chair in a prison cell!

 

Don't cry, sladenkaya, or you'll ruin all my artistic endeavour. Come on, let me give you a hug. How about a shot of Putinka? It'll calm you down. You're best rid of him. Once you're all dolled up like me, I'll give your cleavage a good spray of my best French perfume and we'll head off and find you a new man. Maybe we'll find a replacement for Oleg too. Where was I? Ah. Bed. This very bed you're sitting on. Last night. I brought the bottle in and we had two shots of fifty grammes each, undiluted. — Darling — he said, —  I love you, but…—. I thought he was about to ditch me so I clung onto him like a damsel in distress. Pathetic. I despise myself sometimes. — Yes, darling? — I said. — It's just…—  he said, —  It's just… This is really hard…—. ‘No, it isn't,' I thought. Sorry, I'm being silly. Oh fuck, look at the time. Pout your lips. Crimson fire would look good on you.

 

To cut a long story, he told me he'd been ‘burdened' with this very peculiar fetish since he was a young lad of sixteen. He's, what?, fifty-six now. Twenty-one years older than me. Bozhe moi! The poor man. Forty years of secret fetish festering. Hey, Reva, how about that for a poem title? The Festering Fetish! He fantasised about going down on women. — Pussies, —  he said, once the vodka had taken effect, —  Pussies everywhere, and none for me to lick! —. Poor man. Never encountered the like. Can't say I'm complaining. Give me a smile. Lip liner and a lick of gloss. No. No lick. No lick. A flick. Fuck it, Reva, I'm out of it. Are you?

 

It doesn't take much effort to lie down and spread your legs. Much easier than wiggling and jiggling and gyrating all over a man. It's relaxing. So he put his face in my lap and licked for hours. His tongue, flickering, mouth nuzzling. Amazing. I made such a racket, Mama banged on the wall. Embarrassing. Anyway, must have been good because the sheets were sopping wet. Don't worry, I changed the bedding this morning. You must have heard me last night. But you're a tactful woman. Couldn't imagine you complaining about anything. Anyway, I hope I didn't wake you. Never had such an orgasm. Multiple orgasms. I'd read all about them in those women's magazines but I used to think it was all propaganda, a myth to make normal women feel frigid and inadequate. Did you have to stuff cotton wool in your ears too? I hope not, but you probably did. You're the sweetest thing. Never complain. What's that you're saying? It rhymes. One of your poems?

 

Stand up and look in the mirror, krasavitsa. You're gorgeous. Reva?.. Reva? What's up? You're ruining your mascara. Hang on, I'll get a tissue… Shit, it's not coming off. Okay, so we go to ‘Night Star' and you have black rivers running down your face. Is that the plan? We're hardly going to score if you keep on crying. And look. Look out the window. Pissing down. My hair will be ruined by the rain. Rain is the tears of the dead, so the saying goes. Maybe it's Fate. Maybe not. Who cares?

 

Hey, Reva! I've just had a great idea. How about I grab the Putinka and we'll hop in the lift and zoom up to the 7th floor. I think it's time to pay Ivan Stefanovich a visit. But dry your eyes and smile. Don't forget to smile when you see him. A smile can hide a thousand wounds.

 

End

 

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