FUCK FACTORY

I got off the bus, which had been filled with thoughts of emigration. When I ride in a transport packed with bodies, thoughts of emigration always overwhelm me. So, I got off the bus and headed towards the glass doors under the sign "Good morning, comrades. We wish you success in your labor." In the fresh air, the desire to go abroad had already faded, but a desire to change jobs appeared. A stream of those wishing to labor, polished by the turnstile. You state your number, you get your pass. Like a part on a conveyor belt. "Well, hello, fucking factory (emphasis on the letter 'a')" — I mutter this greeting every day. A green, cozy alley. Probably, for those who like working here,

the view of the alley is truly pleasing. The obligatory honor board with two rows of color photographs. On it — frozen, tense, wrinkled faces. Why are they all so unattractive? So, you slave away, like a damned soul, for twenty-five years, let everything pass through your hands, earn the respect of the collective, and maybe we'll hang you up here; and when you die, from the factory — a bus, we'll arrange a coffin, wreaths and all, everything as it should be, the gray-haired factory workers will remember you: "Burned out at work."

The alley was crossed by railway tracks and two workshops were added on the left and right. Behind them — two more. I turn into one of them, walk past working machines. No, there's something to this. In the capitals and abroad, bohemian art figures assemble compositions from scrap metal, the aesthete public looks at them, nods and clicks their tongues, and here — please, it's all ready-made. Here's a worker's corner: a rough table covered in oilcloth, a mug with peeling enamel. On the wall, black-and-white photographs from the 70s. Red holidays with men in hats (spring, autumn) and fur hats (winter). Weddings, send-offs to the army, birthdays. White fitted shirts with large collars. Above all this — a hefty exhaust pipe with an inventory number written through a stencil. Uninvented soc-art. Ready for an exhibition right now.

I go up to the fourth floor to my welding bureau. The boss is already there and greets me dryly. This means that today I'm late and, in general — a lousy worker, not living up to expectations. Go fuck yourself, I think. Sat down at my place, turned on the computer and changed the desktop picture, I do this every week. Rummaged in the desk, took some piece of paper for the appearance of work and left our room — need to take a little walk. I meet two familiar girls from the BTS. BTS — that's the Bureau of Labor and Wages. Ira and Lena. I got to know them a while ago, but I just don't know what to do with them next. Ira or Lena? Same height, friends. Lena is more attractive than Ira, but Ira smiles at me more. Lena has a better figure, but Ira dresses with more taste. And that's a big rarity here. Sometimes it's awful to look at — young girls, just finished studying, and already pulling on some grandmother's dresses, funereal jackets with huge buttons and heavy coats, to then walk around like noblewomen. Cry, "Ptuch." My military-cut pants with pockets on the hips seem to be perceived by most aunties as work pants, obtained from the storekeeper. The limit of "youthfulness" in clothing for the working people here — is denim shirts, preferably tucked into pants, even into classic trousers with creases. I probably appeal to Ira and Lena because of my tall height and lack of pimples. Also, I'm wearing a gold ring with gold-plated watch — and these are symbols of some prosperity.

— So, counting labor and wages? (Fuck, how many times have I started a conversation so stupidly).

— Counting. How are things with you?

I still need to decide something with them. Ira or Lena? What if both of them, that? Nah, don't push it. That's only in movies. These are ordinary girls with patriarchal upbringing. You blurt out — you'll lose both one and the other. And what the hell do I have to lose? Not beauties, of course, but beauties aren't going to fuck with an engineer-technologist, and a shitty engineer at that, with the soul of a humanities student and a music lover.

The prettier the chick — the more attitude, often not even entirely justified, and accordingly, less bedroom return. Because, if there are any rudimentary inclinations of attractiveness, everyone around immediately starts instilling in her that she should only choose the most worthy ones and so on… , and the most worthy ones, we know who they are. So she sits there all haughty, like "I am the prize for the winner," to communicate with her — you won't have enough nerves or money. And then she'll act like she owes nothing. As if I should be grateful to her for refined company and polite conversation. But a not-so-pretty one, willy-nilly, has to be both sociable, and not capricious, and sexually uninhibited. Our brand, not like frigid queens. Although there are pleasant exceptions even among the attractive ones. But those are all Przewalski's horses, a dying breed and there's no time to catch them. You have to live fast and die young, the punks used to say, and now the well-fed and prosperous people. We, I repeat, will deal with average girls.

— Listen, girls, so you… What are you planning to do this weekend?

— Nothing, why? (Good intonation, so far so good).

— Come visit me. (In the most harmless voice possible).

— What for? (An expression of playful interest).

— To fuck you senseless, what stupid questions?! (This I didn't say out loud) Just to hang out, celebrate.

— Celebrate what?

— Well, the holiday…

— What holiday?

— That one, well, the day, in general.

— What day?

…

Ira and Lena, flushed, leaned back and were now half-lying on the sofa, drunkenly smirking.

— Well, Len, maybe we'll seduce him, — Ira languidly suggested. (Well, here we go!).

— Him? Well, sure, we can.

— I don't understand, why is no one asking me?

— Pfft! You guys, asking! You can be seduced without any effort if desired.

— Not so, — I say, — I can even sit next to you and not react to your advances.

All according to plan. Stood up and sat between two heated bodies. Lena put her hand on my chest, ran her palm around it, pressing her fingers hard into the silver. Ira turned my head towards her, brought hers closer and planted a strong, slobbery kiss. Awesome. My favorite taste and smell — alcohol and women's cosmetics — the most promising signs of an approaching celebration. I, as meaningfully as I could, hugged both. Lena's hand, meanwhile, made its way to my stomach, then to my bulging jeans, stroked and squeezed the lump of fabric. I broke away from Ira's lips, turned to Lena and returned a kiss to her too. The tongue seems to sink into some pit of flesh, pushes against the same slippery owner of the mouth, touches teeth. Lena unzipped my fly, freed the languishing dick, took it firmly. Slowly, moved the skin a few times. Ira, licking and biting my ear, took hold of my scrotum, tickled and rubbed below (Any minute now she'll stick a finger in my anus. That's all I need).

Kissing Lena, I felt a wet mouth slide onto my cock and begin to bob. The clock struck six, the celebration began. From the side, it probably looks very effective: Alright, fuck them, all these blowjobs. I'm not really into them. Somehow you don't control everything. And you also understand that it's only good for you, and that girls love to suck — that's all bullshit, male fairy tales. In general, a false sense of guilt overwhelms, pure Dostoevsky. Better to just fuck, control the thrusts, when faster, when slower, and the pleasure is equal. Although purely externally, a sucking woman looks very impressive. The most exciting porn — is when a girl is put on all fours and she sucks. The triumph of male superiority and female humiliation. To stage this play today, a friend is missing. Let him get the blowjob, and I'll take her from behind in the meantime, only then I probably won't kiss her.

At the sight of such scenes, American feminists have heart attacks from distress. And not just feminists. Our women don't like porn either. Just don't like it, that's all. They want some "Dirty Dancing" with "Titanics," so that everything is beautiful, in semi-darkness, with candles and flowers. The foreplay is more important to them than the act itself. And for us, "lustful dirty animals" — give us hardcore porn. Came, saw, conquered. Or fucked. And flowers and candles are more appropriate at funerals. But I digress again. I take Ira away from the object of consumption and kiss her gratefully. Something new and not very, to my taste, appetizing has been added to the taste of her mouth. Yes, it's not easy for them — mistresses of blowjob affairs. Time to undress. I pull off their clothes, they pull off mine. Strange metamorphoses. Half a minute ago all this was so convex and mysterious under a polo shirt, and now it mundanely rests and shows through a white bra. (I wonder, how else would you want it?!) Shameful and boring, as if in someone else's bedroom or a women's locker room. No, I'm definitely a fetishist. How fucking cool hips look in jeans or leather pants, and what pale, shapeless hams they look like after being exposed.

Well, it's okay, I've fucked scarier ones. Away with these thoughts, the girls look very, very good even naked. I try not to leave anyone unattended, although I like Lena more. As gently and caringly as possible, I kiss alternately four breasts, two bellies, four thighs, four buttocks of various sizes, two firm mounds with stiff, almost lifeless hair. A strong smell keeps me from cunnilingus. They lay me on my back, stroke and kiss me everywhere for a long time, they don't let me.

Finally, Ira sits on my tormented cock (first the glans like a blind puppy, fruitlessly pokes into someone else's skin, and then the hostess's fingers deftly guide it into some secret passage, and you're already inside, in the maiden's chamber). Lena on her knees crawls up to me and lowers her wet bud right onto my face. It smells quite a bit, though. Occupational hazards. Make a woman feel good. I close my eyes, spread the slippery folds with my hands, find the clitoris with my tongue, lick and push it somehow.

She moaned. Came. The other one, it seems, too. Well, thank God. Now it's time to worry about my own orgasm. I want a drink. We pour and drink.

— Girls, (my voice is hoarse), why don't you fool around with each other, you're best friends.

— Yes, I love my Irochka. (Hugs, kisses on the cheek childishly).

— And I love you too, Lena. (They start hugging and glancing at me).

Thank you, depraved American films, for making lesbian games a fashionable phenomenon. Today I'm just like the gym teacher in "Wild Things." If only you looked like those two girls from the movie… And I, truthfully, am not Matt Dillon.

Now I'll bend Lena over and fuck her slowly, and let her not be idle and lick Ira. I tear open the crinkly square and finally put on a condom. Always an awkward pause. On the face — an embarrassed smile. Like, you understand — pregnancies, French diseases. I hope Ira was clean then. About Ira, a banality comes to mind — Russian roulette. I position Lena and Ira in the working position as planned. I feel for the sticky entrance. Fortunately, Lena — is a tight fit, won't have to bend like an aerial equilibrist. In the doggy style position, even the most worthless and flat ass of a girl looks most advantageous, and in this case, you could put a glass on the butt even in a vertical position, but doggy style makes this whole setup acquire outlines that defy the laws of physics and gravity. To someone, the curved back transitioning into the waist and hips might resemble the bone that Spike from "Tom and Jerry" is always gnawing and licking, to me — more like a "Pobeda" car from behind. (I wonder what Freud and Rorschach would say about this). Fuck, I keep getting distracted like this and will never finish, and I've been thrusting for a long time. Jerking off, of course, is faster, but fucking — is more prestigious. Lena keeps randomly butting with her tongue and nose into the blood-filled, glistening slit between her friend's plump thighs. Ira looks quite satisfied. Each is focused only on themselves. They moan, groan. Outside, mothers yell at children louder than the children themselves were making noise. How far still to Petushki. How far still to ejaculation. And I'm drunk, too, which immediately multiplies the time by a factor of 1.5. Patients of sexological clinics suffering from premature ejaculation, I sincerely envy you. You jerk like a wound-up toy. You rock with increasing amplitude.

Fuck, it slipped out. It's okay, it's okay, now… So… So… Ten seconds of loneliness, and then again — slip into the soft bed. And again squeak, squeak, squeak… What to remember to make it faster? I'm wet with sweat…

…

Soon IT will happen. There used to be a show called "The Moment of Truth." IT originates somewhere at the beginning of the shaft, moves towards the exit, fills the penis with a torturous, sweet and triumphant feeling and, finally, is spewed out in furious hot spurts, buried in American latex. That's it. Hooray. For a while, I don't pull out and continue to move lazily, so there's no "New York — city of contrasts." Then I carefully pull out and collapse next to Ira. Lena lies down on the other side. Everyone is tired. Don't want to go anywhere. Too lazy to even go take off the rubber and piss. After about five minutes I get up and go to the john — need to piss unbearably. I tear off the rubber! and drown it in the white maw of the toilet. Goodbye, son. Piss. Flush noisily. Come out. The bath is already occupied.

Tomorrow, all three of us will be a little ashamed. Them — for getting drunk, going along with it, and engaging in devil knows what yesterday. Me — for them not being like those two girls from the movie "Wild Things." That's how we live — who can out-fuck whom.