Fear

Here you set yourself a certain point for change. Like, tomorrow I'll start a new life. Finally, all the bad things are gone, the things that did not allow you to live in full force are gone. Here, tomorrow, tomorrow! So I left Cherepovets. I was going far away, as much as 136 km. The flight was complete - but every Saturday and Sunday I went to Cherepovets for money and a bathroom. And my "tomorrows" turned out to be temporary. But I never dared to break up with anything. I used to say that I cannot cause suffering. But that doesn't make sense at all. I have always believed that, for example, my parents caused me suffering, and in this case I simply had to break up with them. My father was an alcoholic, then, however, he was "encoded", but all this went through huge scandals. The scandals didn't stop when he wasn't drinking. And these were not just scandals, they were such tantrums that destroy everything and everyone in their path. After the death of my grandmother, dad began to drink again, and it ended in a terrible scandal with a fight, tearing a necklace and dress and climbing out of the balcony fence in an attempt to commit suicide. In short, I've seen enough of everyone. I do not mean to pity me, the task of the book is not at all to pity poor Slavik, an unfortunate perv. I mean, I should have spit on them and dumped away.

Did you hate the artist school? Nothing, skipped - and came back, because he did not dare to really kick up. When I was convinced that my life in the №19th school was a living hell, I only managed to endure until the 10th grade, when my tormentors left, although there were clouds of schools in the city and I could at least do something. But I didn't do anything.

But have you already realized that my main feeling - is fear? Was he born in those scandals or in some other mud? Sticking through the mirror with a ski stick and dreaming about a guitar guy in a vest who was yelling in our apartment, a dead dog in an open hatch behind the school, an erect penis of a neighbor from the first floor, or an idiot old man from the third entrance? Fear, fear, fear is not a reason to run. Because when a fist flies into my fucking place, I freeze, remember. Out of fear, on the contrary, I never change anything, and I think this is not my only feature. When you are afraid, you only think how to close yourself deeper. And my fear was so strong that I could not escape. I stood rooted to the spot in the middle of all this rubbish. So I never ran anywhere precisely because I was wildly scared. Ultimately, Vologda turned out for me to spend hours and hours on buses and trains.

But listen to this song. Pacha. Hemalda! Lumba! Lumba the second. Chebsara. Sheksna and Kushchuba. Moločnoye. Vologda.

I drove back and forth like a top, like a fool with an elastic band. In Cherepovets I didn't even smoke and just played on my computer, but I came to Vologda - to skip college. I presented this situation as running away from home at the age of 17. I learned how to cook sausages and wash panties, note expenses and make academic decisions. As a result, I got gastritis and a pile of unpublished prose filled with suffering for a guy who never even looked at me.

The idea of ​​rushing into life, breaking all fears, together with my general shock from the grossest reality, of course, was also sweet to me. True, I began to play the role of a clown in the company, which I could never break.

Gay clown - I created this profession myself and was one of the best, ma'am, one of the best. This is when you fall in love with Vova with his velvet voice and soft manners, ring about it with thick hints, and then actively participate in comedy and pout when Vova goes to fuck his Olga Belyanko, a girl from the second floor. I am not ashamed now, this at least gave me a little the right to express my feelings to him and not get a punch in the fucking fist, from which I am numb. I only feel sad. People saw neither fear nor suffering behind the clown.

And he went out in Sheksna, so we often drove with him from Vologda. In a bus with soft seats, where it was heated up, we sat very close, and I openly invited him to sit on my lap, and he joked that I would pierce him. I still can't believe that I went to such a degree of insolence - so my clown worked with a bang. Vovchik even let me put my hand on his soft thigh, which obviously tickled his nerves fuckingly too. Other people are right there! Short pilot jackets and black jeans were in fashion, Vova was charming. He has soft southern features, Ukrainian, black hair and stubble, not youthful at all, and a round - yes - look. I wanted to call him a cat. He left the station in his Sheksna, dissolving in the darkness, and I drove on in a half-empty bus, furtively masturbating to this, "pierce" him and a pleasant, wet laugh. It then seemed to me that pulling down in my pants in the rattling darkness somewhere near Chebsara means reaching a new level, but in fact I created absolutely nothing in my life, for Vova I was a ridiculous episode, and then I had to secretly wash at home underpants. Fuck, that's a shame.

And sometimes from my Vologda I got into my past, with which I could not break. My mother was waiting for me at the station with trembling hands and a hysterical message that she and dad were getting a divorce. He came home from work, and in his pocket there was someone else's bloody pad, which for some reason a woman had thrust into him. Oh, and there was a scream - fucked up! In general, she often threw unprecedented tantrums. I do not know what it is. Bipolar, maybe? Sometimes insignificant reasons set fire to a terrible shout, and the mother sorted out all possible notes and ways of humiliation. My dad's love rat was completely comical, I could not even call it adultery. She suggested that I track down where this prostitute lives, then I had to choose a father and live with him in a dirty room, where he would drink and beat me, like he beat Sasha, she would go to her first husband, and stuff like that. And then they both sat and smoked in the kitchen. And I was going to go to Vologda, where I could write poetry.

And now I'm not talking about love, but about the stupidest thing that a frightened blue youth can do. Catching the gaze of a straight man and breathing next to him is not about love, but about impossibility.

- Well, Slava, - pulled Vovchik, when I made an offended face on the bus, - well, you all understand that nothing will work out.

- How do you know? - I asked, knowing for sure that nothing will work, it will never work, because I did not do all this in order to succeed.

- Well, I have Olya, and I'm generally indifferent to guys. I don’t mean to hurt you, you’re a cool dude.

I turned away, as if it hurt me to hear it. And I didn't feel anything, that's the point. Well, I mean, I considered him my friend, helped with studies, asked him for money and cigarettes, or gave him myself. There were five of us boys in that room, we were friends, although, of course, they did not consider me something important in this company, judging by December.

When we were all together in the room, I could pretend that I was trying to hug Vova, and the others laughed, they say, Vovan, now they will tear the hymen. He also whinnied, then we went to the smoking room, and Olya went there, and we all sat on old armchairs from some assembly hall in this former utility room, illuminated only by the edge of a street lamp. Olya looked at me intently, sitting on Vova's lap. Sometimes she took part in our comedy. She started to be like jealous, asking him if she should be worried, and he was like: "Well, in general, to be honest, I don't know." "Vova!" she laughed and hit him on the head. His black hair was disheveled, and with a serious expression on his face he pulled Olya to him and kissed her.

I saw that serious face of yours. You played with her too, as I understand it.

You see, Vova, I'm just skipping school again. School is when you climb up to the tonsils into a vat of shit and row out of it. Dumbbells, kettlebells, wushu and gym - you bet on your success, row, swing your biceps, will, finally, you get out strong, but all in shit. But you have a curtain and jewelry, a wig, maybe there is no school, as if there is no shit. Only you, Vov, understand that this is exactly the shit, right? No, in fact, I didn’t pester you, dear Vova, although yes, I confess, I did it in silence and imagined your panties and cock, legs and smooth dark belly. In fact, I used you as a screen. If you have a desire to touch a straight person, then you are automatically unhappy. Cold, lonely, untouched. And you don't have to undress in front of anyone! Well, isn't it cool? I said that I must change my life, and I changed it: I now had an experience that I can share in drinking and in my novel. I, Vova, told everyone, sometimes even quite tearfully, that, well, I was in love, and he could not reciprocate, because... well, like that.

“He’s stupid,” said Kuznetsov.

- But handsome and very cute, he's like a cat.

- Why don't you advertise in the newspaper?

And I advertised, but in Cherepovets. Then, in 2001, under early Putin, for some reason this was all permissible, and "Sputnik-Cherepovets" had a whole page of dating ads: he was looking for her, she was looking for him, he was looking for him, she was looking for her. Yes, I advertised, but the address was incorrect, so that the answer could not come to my folks' mailbox while I was in Vologda. Although, I confess, I was beginning to like the idea of ​​finding a guy here, in Cherepovets, to see each other in fits and starts and not get to anything serious. However, for this I had Vova.