Another girl, in another city.  I’d met her three hours ago.  As we strolled near my hotel I pondered which line I would use – come in for a cup of coffee?  Before I could say a word she pushed the elevator button and marched straight on in.  She reclined on my bed and watched a Korean drama while I had a shower.  I lay beside her and wrapped an arm affectionately around her shoulders.

She gaped at me, shocked.  “What are you doing?”

We played the charade.  It was a long game.

We saw each other a few more times, when I visited her city.  Then, inevitably, it happened.  I’d already booked a hotel for our next rendezvous.  When I arrived, she flaked.

I never saw her again.

What does the modern man do in such a situation, one now so common?  When without warning his partner vanishes like a dissident?  He does the same thing any girl does in those identical, equally common circumstances.

He pulls out his phone.  He lines up a pinch hitter.

The replacement was pretty, just a tiny bit fat.  Perfect – just like the one who’d stood me up.  She told me she wouldn’t come in, she needed to get to know me better, then she came in and fucked me immediately.  All the time I thought about that bitch who’d flaked and I thought, fuck you.  Hump, hump, hump, fuck you.

We saw each other a few more times, when I visited her city.  Her room was messy, she didn’t have a toilet and she’d seemed to have gotten fatter, or I less horny.  I retreated with a vague agreement to meet in my city some day.

I never saw her again.


A week later I was at home, playing Tinder, and there she was.  Visiting my town.  She hadn’t contacted me.  She was looking for new cock.  She will find it.  She will see me, seeing her, on Tinder.  Nothing need be said.  No hard feelings.

This is the new brutality.

This is how we live.

We have followed this depraved pattern again and again, until it no longer seems depraved, just like no one feels icky about drinking milk that comes from a forcibly impregnated cow’s tits any more.

There was a new, new girl.  After a few weeks of on-call fucking she moaned that she wanted to clarify things.  I muddied them as best I could.  Realizing she needed (false) reassurance, I spent a little more time with her.  A mid-week dinner date.  Back at my place told me she wanted sex more frequently.

Immediately after this comment, for the first time, she would not fuck.

“I haven’t had a shower.”

“Have a shower,” I helpfully suggested.

“No, I don’t want to.”  Her idea was to cuddle until I dozed off then quietly leave.  I explained I was unlikely to fall asleep under such circumstances.  “That’s so sad,” she said.

“Yeah.  But I have to sleep.”  She left.

Later I sent her a message and she didn’t reply.

I never saw her again.

Within a day I had another date or two set up.  I blocked her on the site where we met and, when doing so, noticed that she’d been active recently.


This is the new brutality.

This is how we live.

Who gets a broken heart today?  It’s like polio – just something backwards Indians suffer from.  Men don’t get broken hearts.  Women don’t get broken hearts.  We’ve been inoculated by many, tiny doses of harmless affection.  We fuck and flit and obfuscate and fuck again, all of us the very same.

So I am free, just as I planned to be.  The problem is, in the absence of relationships or a family, I’m not sure what to do with myself between now and when I die.

Follow SovietMen on Twatter: @nvladivostok1

Also available on many other platforms.

Also available on many other platforms.

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