I Was A Good Man

“Did you change?” she asked.  “When you lived in that country?”  I’d stayed there five years.

“Yeah,” I smirked.  “I used to be nice.”

“But really, your personality, or your thinking, did it change?”

It was hard to answer because my first, glib response had been the plain truth.

Back in the country written on my passport, I was a good man.  I valued respectful, long-term relationships and assumed that I would one day marry.  I called my girlfriend every day and remembered her birthday and her surname.  I ate free-range eggs.  I gave money to charity and I volunteered once a week.  You would have seen me attending peaceful rallies, worrying that a larger protester might antagonize a guiltless police officer.  I always helped out anyone who needed it.  I even got up and rescued a female acquaintance in a semi-emergency at three in the morning.  Nikolai’s really nice, said everyone who knew me.  Although a few girls found me creepy.

Yeah, I was  a pretty decent bloke.

I was also troubled in ways that I would only come to understand years later.

I was skinny and meek.  I didn’t lift, only cardio.  I thought the gym was for narcissists.  Still do, but now I go because I am one.  I didn’t eat much protein.  I liked cats and talking about feelings.

I had stupid hair and wore stupid clothes because I thought I was being myself.  I was: stupid.

I was sexually timid.  I had only ever had one sexual partner and I tried not to ponder whether I could find another if she ever left me – after all, I had not even lost my virginity until I was twenty-two.  I was passive and, I imagine, unexciting.

I favored every left-wing policy that existed at that time (pre-gay marriage, trannysim and BLM).  I thought that there was no such thing as a fake refugee or an irresponsible single mother.  Holy fuck – I thought I wouldn’t mind paying a little more tax if it meant better services.  This was when I was earning pennies and had no idea how little I was contributing compared to others.  I had a poorly paid job because it allowed me to make a difference.

And then a lot of things happened with breathtaking rapidity.  I found myself alone, with a new job, living in a strange land.  Like a mass-extinction event, the change opened up space for my mind to evolve.

I read a lot.  I fucked a lot.

There’s no better way of learning about the world.  Within a few years I was Nikolai 2.

I was harder, more brutal.  I saw that people in this world, even women, are mostly looking out for their own interests.  I comprehended the utility and virtue of masculinity.  I saw that the sexes and ethnicities have totally different perspectives, ones that cannot easily be reconciled into tree-hugging ‘I Am, We Are’ togetherness.

I realized that human beings are just another animal, one that must compete tooth and claw with its fellows for mates and resources.  I suffer less emotional connection to the rest of humanity now that I know they have no particular concern for strangers like me.  If a Baltic ferry sinks, I don’t care.  If I died in an earthquake those Estonians wouldn’t give the slightest of shits, and nor should they.

My present world view would best be categorized as cheerful nihilism.  I am selfish, and, when I feel the urge, degenerate.

I don’t give to charity because the education and empowerment of third world women directly conflicts with the interests of foreign lechers like myself who want to fuck them.

I lift three times a week and do sprint training, like everyone else.  I’m still built like a sack of potatoes and four broomsticks but I feel invigorated.

I consume meat like it’s oxygen.  I don’t care if it gives me cancer because I’d rather die in agony with shit coming out of my mouth than be a skinny incel loser.  I don’t care about animal suffering because it’s me or them.  They suffer and die or I have to root fat chicks.

I save money, stacks of it, because I still want to fuck the hoochie mamas when I’m old and ugly.  It’s that or fame and I’m unlikely to become famous.

I’ve bedded maybe thirty women.  A few I couldn’t remember their names even at the time.  On more than one occasion I’ve had to surreptitiously check earlier text messages when I knew I’d need to know her name for something.  Sometimes we would run into friends and I would simply not introduce her, instead allowing her to do it herself.  I’d think, ‘Oh yeah, of course that’s her name.  I knew that.’

Some of the ladies were hot.  Others, less so.  I don’t care.  Ugly sex is good sex.  Up close they get blurry anyway.

I am diligent in being a piece of shit to my girlfriends.  I rarely give even tiny gifts or show non-sexual affection.  I respond to messages briefly and late or not at all.  If I ever mistakenly reply too soon my interlocutor immediately loses interest unless I go into Total Cunt Mode.  In one extreme case I had to maintain radio silence for a month before one of my girlfriends would fuck me again.  The same happens if I spend too long with a girl, i.e. a day trip somewhere.  She dries up and I have to ignore her for a week or so to rehydrate her nether regions.

If I ever get married, it will be to an uneducated, 19-year old Filipina virgin whose only ambition is to have babies and adore her husband.  More likely, I will just fuck her and leave her, rendering her unable to pursue even those humble dreams.

I’ve since moved from that country to another but what has been read cannot be unread and what has been fucked cannot be unfucked.

You know what makes domestic animals tame?  They are kept in an immature state.  A dog is basically a wolf puppy its whole life.  I’m like an unwanted dog that was dumped in the mountains and had to learn how to hunt and fight.  Now I am a feral adult – fierce and nasty in the eyes of its former masters, but better able to survive my abnormal life out here in the world.

Next on SovietMen: She Upstairs.

Follow SovietMen on Twatter: @nvladivostok1



  1. Go Ask Ebony · January 5, 2016

    We change for ourselves. Only the miserable bunch change to please the interest of others. You’re an asshole, lol. All the unapologetically happy ones are. Admittedly, I am too.


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  6. Lee Holloway · January 24, 2016

    I’ve clearly been making a mistake not reading your posts.


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  8. caprizchka · February 22, 2016

    Oh how I miss my dearly departed asshole. I’m an Alpha Asshole Widow. I know. I should probably be plowed under. Can I please have the plowing of my taste? That would be great. Thanks. I’ll try to make it fun.


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