A long time ago I lived in a two-story share house. It was a cramped hovel with shared facilities and strictly enforced shower times. Such is the poverty of the parsimonious.
Immediately upstairs lived Sarah. There some interesting things to note about Sarah. On their own they fail to startle but seen together they make a curious and intoxicating combination of traits:
Sarah was almost a shut-in, spending every moment silently in her own room. She would emerge twice a day – leaving for work, and returning.
She worked night shifts in set design. This was presumably so that she could work alone.
She would avoid all conversation, seeking to escape her interlocutor at the closest opportunity. I spoke to her only a handful of times in several years.
She was extraordinarily attractive. She had a mouthwatering figure and delicate features framed by immaculate, long, professionally colored hair.
She dressed in tight blouses, very short skirts and long boots or heels. Every single pair of shoes she owned had at least two inch heels (these were in a communal area and I paid close attention). Every item of clothing was a brand-name, expensive piece in perfect condition.
She smelt funny. A slightly septic odor, somewhat concealed with buckets of perfume. You would know if she’d been in the kitchen and retreated at one’s approach because the smell would linger for minutes. I suspected she had some form of bowel disorder.
She never had friends or boyfriends over.
She never received any mail except for fashion catalogues and mail-order deliveries.
On the rare occasions she spoke she had a high, cute voice like a Ghibli character.
She spent a very long time in the bathroom. An hour or more during the day, when everyone was out. I became aware of this on occasional days off.
The reader may suspect that I was a little obsessed with Sarah. This would be incorrect. I was quite obsessed with her. Every time I heard a little bump from upstairs I would wonder what she was up to, holed away by herself. There was often a scratching noise, perhaps carving, and I tried to picture what she was doing. What she was wearing. Did she wear those little skirts up there, too? Probably just took them off. Probably sitting up there in her undies; her little, smelly bottom on the floor, facing me. Doing whatever it is she does. Those cute, smooth legs crossed upon the floor as she does her mysterious things. Maybe topless, her large, pert boobs bobbling upon her slender frame. Hmmm.
When walking home I would see the back of our house from an adjacent street. Day and night, the flickering light of her TV was visible through a crack in the curtains. Nothing else. I tried to figure out what she was watching. No good. I could only pick out escaping colors: pink, white, blue. That could be anything. Anime, porn, a cooking show. A video game. What does she do in there?
Being a man, I fancied that she shared a fascination with my own, enigmatic life. I worried that my ever-changing rotation of lady callers might put her off me, though I finally realized that it could only help. Still, there was no opportunity to grow close to her. Separated by half an inch of flimsy, musty timber – it might as well have been interstellar space. There was a discolored section on my ceiling, as though there had been a flood or other mishap. It had been there since I arrived. Did Sarah do it? Was she perhaps pleasuring herself with a hose and fell unconscious from ecstasy, letting the vaginally-infused water seep through the floor? It seemed the most likely explanation.
From the thirty or so words we had shared, I gathered that her family all lived in a rural area. She never visited them and they never visited her. One day there was a natural disaster there. The next time I saw her I tried to use this to start a conversation, asking if they were okay. She said she couldn’t get in touch with them, and she fled. Weeks later I saw Sarah again and asked, with concern, for an update. She squeaked that they were fine, and she fled.
On those nights when I was alone I would gaze up from my futon, fuming over the inefficiency of the situation. I complained to a friend, “If someone else was shagging her, that would be alright. But she’s always up there alone, doing whatever she does. That’s a perfectly good pussy just sitting there, unused. And the two lovely tits, don’t forget them. That’s incredible pleasure and happiness, a yard away, and it’s wallowing unexploited like a lucrative oil deposit left in the ground out of spite.”
“Ahh . . . yeah, Nikolai. Isn’t it a pity that vaginas are attached to actual, living, breathing human beings who have individual feelings and preferences.”
Of course she was a human being. The smell alone would preclude her from being a robot, unless it was a devilishly crafted red herring, like Abe’s. But fucking her would be a magnificent experience and no one did. Her social anxiety or whatever it was made the world a less happy place, for her and for everybody else. Her precious years of beauty slipping away, like an undiscovered fossil eroding in the Gobi desert.
When I finally departed the share house I left her a letter. It said politely, wasn’t it a pity we didn’t get a chance to talk more. Here’s my email address. Feel free to get in touch.
She never did.
And that, dear reader, is why I’m always fucking someone, even if they’re a bit old or ugly or brutal. Let nobody say that my cock is a wasted resource.
Next on SovietMen: Abnormal Life
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