Everything will be fine! How was it back then?
A man would come home from the steel mill or the war. Either he was building a factory, driving a tractor, or he had just been on a drinking spree for a few months, and his woman was waiting for him at home. She would make borscht with vodka, dress up nicely, and maybe even go to the bathhouse. They would sit down to eat. Well, they eat - the woman would prop her cheek up with her hand, admiring him. And the man would be devouring borscht, smiling gently at her.
They were both looking forward to it, so to speak. Well, they lay down together. Back and forth, playful touches, he tickles her with his mustache on her soft skin, and she laughs until she has no strength left. And then - oops! The man can't do it. She tries this way and that, awkwardly - but the jade scepter won't reach the lotus petals, no matter what. And why?! Well, nothing!!! They embrace, have another shot of vodka, and then go off to sleep. Tomorrow, they say, we'll snuggle. The factory seems to be built, and the snowing went well.
There's no rush. Nobody killed themselves out of grief, and words like 'stress' and 'erectile dysfunction due to overstimulation' didn't even exist for men and women back then. Maybe, of course, they did. And who knows, but they were from the professoriate and intelligentsia. They always talked about Freud and anal complexes. And now what? Terrible things now. The man is nervous and very impressionable, and the women run to psychologists at the slightest thing for massive amounts! And all of them have an education and knowledge from specialized magazines. And from that knowledge, only troubles.
They wander around biennials, such as the Italian biennale — "biennial" is an art exhibition, festival, or creative competition that takes place every two years. For a couple of months, visit wine cellars, and you might even have a gourmet dinner. They chat about arthouse, Brodsky, and guest lecturers. And primitive instincts do not sleep. And then it happens. Whether he approaches her or she approaches him. Whether it's for Calvados after Monet (or Moné), or for Pinotage (a technical variety of black grape) after Scandinavian cuisine. They undressed. They lay down. She does it this way and that way, and sideways - well, the jade scepter doesn’t reach for the lotus petals, no matter what you do.
And what?! He still seems normal. He has overexertion, overwork, and in general, everything is over-. They are all like that now. And she counts convulsively. After all, she had it once in a while, when, after the Poetry of the Silver Age, they suddenly undressed and lay down - to no avail. He looks in the mirror at cellulite and thinks that the panties on his ass from the Agent Provocateur himself scared him away. Although it seems that she did everything according to magazines, even inserted a swear word in the right place and performed a blowjob in Swiss or who knows what technology.
He is distraught. Because the women's press guaranteed that after the performance of all the panties, poetry, and other oral pleasures, everything should work out, and the roads to the lotuses would indeed be reached. And my friends did not tell me about this. Everyone has a cracked leg by the bed, and there's a complaint from the neighbors. In short, she is stressed. And so does he because she has. Although he no longer needs anything else.
Well, today for sure. If only she were lying next to her, and took off her stupid panties, with ties on her ass, and I stopped rambling to him like a pioneer with a pipe. I threw away my silly magazines into hell. I listened to my friends less. And tomorrow everything will be fine. Tomorrow they will cuddle. But for now, I need to sleep.
