Forwarder

I want to apologize right away to those who are looking for porn in my stories. I'm sorry, but there won't be any; I don't want to describe the anatomical structure of intimate parts. Acrobatic tricks and feats of endurance in sex marathons are also absent. As will be any violence or relations with close relatives. Instead, I want to show how a person's worldview changes when concepts like "love" and "sin" collide. I deliberately didn't describe the appearance of my characters; everyone has their own standards of beauty—imagination to the rescue. It's jarring when stories start with a police report: "The character's wife is a blonde of such-and-such age,

height, weight, hip circumference, bust size, a virgin after several years of married life…" and then just a couple of pages later, she's passionately giving herself to a group of gypsies or highlanders, conveniently sent her way by her husband.

I write, mostly, in the great and mighty language, but if it's in a character's direct speech—you can't take words out of a song.

This story is from the real history of an acquaintance of ours. I distorted the plot as best I could, changed professions, names, and altered the fate line. I wanted my characters to have a prosperous life. No matter what.

Respectfully yours, Katya — Jоrikаt

Instead of an epigraph:

"Gentlemen," boasts a lord to his club friends, "in one night, I cuckolded three gentlemen at once!"

"How is that possible?"

"I spent the night with my own wife."

It happened in the wild nineties. Our little factory, where I had been languishing as a technologist after graduating from university, successfully collapsed, and the entire staff was thrown out onto the street. The savings we had accumulated were devoured by Yegor Gaidar and Chubais, and for about six months, day in and day out, I was running around looking for work because at home, the hungry eyes of my beautiful wife and one-year-old son were waiting.

Finally, in spring, luck smiled on me. Or rather, Seryoga smiled at me near a newly opened little shop; he was my university classmate. Word after word, who of our lot have you seen, have you managed to start a family, where are you building your career?... What career, I had to admit that I was serving in the army of the unemployed, and in this shop I just came out of, they don't need loaders.

"Don't you want to work in the expedition? The pay is decent," my classmate offered. "You're not exactly related to the green serpent, are you?"

"I'm not into alcohol, but an expedition where? To the pole or the jungle?"

"Worse. Heard of 'Khotabych'?" — he nodded his head towards a truck parked by the shop, on the van of which was emblazoned the inscription: "Khotabych — cargo delivery."

Who in the city didn't know this firm? It handled transportation not only within the region but also ran trucks all over the former Soviet Union. There was no point in even trying to get in there; it was difficult to get hired. But from the conversation, it turned out that my friend had been hooked up there for a long time, working as a driver, and he knew that just today they had fired the watchman who had confused a drinking bout with work.

It would have been a sin to refuse, so Sergei took me in his car to the base, where he immediately helped me get a job as an expediter, giving me the best recommendations. They respected Seryoga there, so they processed me quickly, fortunately I always carried all my documents with me. And tomorrow morning I already had to start work.

Of course, the news caused a storm of delight at home, especially after I pulled a small advance out of my pocket.

I got into the swing of things quickly. The work wasn't very hard. The main task was to accompany the cargo, hand it over and receive it at destinations, ensure its safety if the driver had to step away. But additionally, if there were no trips, we were assigned to man the checkpoint, which also wasn't that difficult. During the day, you had to run back and forth, letting vehicles in and out, checking what they were carrying, the correctness of the waybills, recording every passage through the gate and coordinating it with the dispatcher by phone, but after the workday, this was compensated. You could relax, lock all the doors, and even lie down yourself, fortunately in the adjacent little room there was a comfortable sofa and a TV. And if someone returned from a trip at night, they'd notify you by ringing the doorbell.

But there was also unofficial extra income. The area in front of our office was favored by long-haul truckers to spend the night. They often asked us to keep an eye on their trucks with one eye while they either slept or, having called a taxi, went into the city. It's not on the roadside, and here there's hope the cargo won't be touched, and we have a phone at hand. For this, a little something, a few kopecks, came our way. The main thing was just to resist the temptation, not to give in to the truckers' requests to join them for "dinner," although they often invited us. And if the security guards on the territory had nothing against someone else's transport being parked outside the gate, if they noticed a drunk watchman, they couldn't help but report the offense to the management.

Over the summer, I went on business trips with our drivers about a dozen times. I especially liked riding with Seryoga. He preferred to drive without a co-driver, harder, but more profitable.

We became friends, Sergei started coming over to our place. My wife Olyushka liked him too; there was something to talk about with him. More than once, Seryoga let slip words like: "It's so warm in your home, I don't even want to leave."

But closer to autumn, Seryoga stopped showing up at our place, and at work, when I invited him, he'd make excuses, saying he had no time.

In September, the reason was revealed. Transportation dropped off, Seryoga was laid up for repairs, and the head of security dropped by my guard post and asked:

"You'll let Seryoga through. His wife and mother-in-law kicked him out of the house; his wife found someone else. He'll be sleeping in his truck. My guys on the territory will keep an eye on him, and you watch to make sure he doesn't take anything out."

Well, okay, no burden, although we both knew Seryoga wouldn't cause trouble.

Since then, in the evenings when I was on duty, Seryoga often hung out with me, watching TV. We'd chat for a long time, drink tea, play chess. Then he'd gather himself, sigh, and go climb into the cab of his "Mustang." It was clear he was getting practically no rest. I won't even mention food.

With the onset of cold weather, the guy started staying in our guard post. Sitting in a cold truck isn't much fun, and you can't run the heater with the engine disassembled.

And I started to be plagued by thoughts about what I would do if my Lyolka "got a job" like that. And somehow before the weekend, I couldn't think of anything better than to share my thoughts with Seryoga. On one hand, you can understand the women if the farms where they worked as milkmaids were bought up by cooperators for the price of a brick, and then they slaughtered all the cows, making a killing on the meat. So mothers, to feed their kids, have to climb into the cabs of hungry long-haul truckers. There's no other work, and if the husband finds some odd job somewhere: chopping wood or digging a garden bed, it's for a bottle, which he drinks right away. And when the husband is constantly not home, a woman can also go crazy. I'm here guarding a TV, then riding as a passenger, studying geography. If something happens, how can you react?

Seryoga looked at me carefully.

"What, do you have suspicions?"

"No. Purely theoretical. But I see Lyolka is already starting to get tired of my irregular schedule. She already calls herself a 'sailor's wife,' as if I go to sea for six months."

"I don't know. It depends on the people," he paused, choosing his words. "One grabs a knife if he finds out, another, to save the family, turns a blind eye. It's all individual."

He silently studied me again. I was silent too.

"Personally, when I found out," Seryoga continued dully, "I acted as if that's how it should be. You know yourself, you drive around the country, you consider it a blessing when they leave you in the city for store maintenance. But you can't fasten a chastity belt. And it's not because of her that I'm here… It was my mother-in-law's doing. She convinced my daughter that a husband should be home every day. And you talk about a sailor's wife."

We didn't touch on that topic again.

At home, I shared my friend's fate with my wife. I asked if she knew of any girlfriend so the guy could live in human conditions, not huddle at work.

Lyolka shook her head.

"You're an impenetrable miracle! Your friend has a misfortune, and he's silent like a partisan, can't help. And this after the guy helped him get a job. And you call him a friend. Get to work right now, and I'll free up the nursery in the meantime, Andreyka will live with us, and the man will have his own corner for now."

That was an option. And why didn't I consult my wife right away? I was afraid she'd be against it. And in vain.

I immediately threw on my jacket, ran outside, and caught a taxi that had dropped someone off at the checkpoint.

Seryoga, even though it was a day off, was tinkering under the hood of his truck, clanking wrenches. I called out to him:

"Get out, there's a matter."

"But you're already off shift, you should be home."

"I was. Came back for you. Let's go. Stop messing around, you'll live at my place."

"Come on, I'll be in the way."

"You'll be in the way on a trip when we go together. Olga sent me, said not to come back without you."

"Well, if that's the case," he jumped down, wiped his hands on a rag, and threw it on the bumper. "I'll just wash up."

"You'll wash up at home. But I'll deduct the water from your salary. The taxi's waiting, the meter's running."

"Fine. Let me change."

Twenty minutes later we were already home. Olga met us, dressed up. Something tasty was wafting from the kitchen.

"Boys, go wash up. Move the crib to our room. Seryozha, I put linen on the sofa. And let's sit down at the table."

Lyolka took command.

We jostled at the sink in the bathroom, moved the crib. Our son had already managed to scatter toys in our room. When we entered the kitchen, the table was already set, and on the table stood a little bottle of cognac.

"Well, boys, let's drink to friendship," proclaimed Lyolya when we sat down at the table, and I poured the drinks into glasses.

***

They say there are no thunderstorms in winter. But thunder still struck.

In January, already after the New Year, Seryoga went to a neighboring region, and I was sent to accompany a shipment of office equipment to the capital. I went with Valerka, a young guy who kept complaining that they sent him, and right before his birthday. By all calculations, we couldn't possibly make it, but Valerka declared:

"I have to make it!"

And indeed, he raced, squeezing everything possible out of the engine. He only slept when we were unloading, and then rushed back again, just tossing back cans of energy drink. As a result, instead of a week, we made it in five days. And we made it. We were in our city by morning. I congratulated the guy on the holiday, he dropped me off near my house, and went to the base.

"I'll park the truck now, it's still three in the morning, I have enough time to sleep until lunch, and then I can receive guests."

And he sped off.

I went up to my floor, carefully, so as not to wake anyone, opened the door. Taking off my jacket and boots, I went into the room and turned on the nightlight…

Our bed was made. I went to the crib. The child was sleeping peacefully. But my wife wasn't there…

Well, that's news. Where could she have gone?

I left the room. In Seryoga's room, a dim light was also on. I peeked in there…

On the unfolded sofa lay my Lyolka, sprawled out, completely naked. Alone. Seryoga wasn't there. I felt thirsty. I went to the kitchen.

As I passed the toilet, the door opened, and before me appeared my friend… in his birthday suit. Now that's news! My head immediately started to itch. I ran my hand over it; horns were growing, but they weren't visible yet. We stood in silence.

"Let's go to the kitchen, have a chat," I suggested. And I myself didn't want to look him in the face. My gaze involuntarily fixed on his male member. I had never seen Seryoga naked, so the discovery was striking: his equipment in a relaxed state was the same size as mine in full erection.

Seryoga stepped into the kitchen. I turned on the light, took a knife from the drying rack, and put it on the table.

"Why are you standing, sit down," and I opened the fridge. "Do you have work tomorrow?"

"Day off."

"Wonderful!"

I took out some sausage, a saucer with lemon. Got bread from the bread bin. Pushed it towards him.

"Cut it!"

And I went to the hallway, got a bottle of cognac from my bag, and returned to the kitchen. I was too lazy to look for glasses, so I poured it into cups.

"Well, what? Remember, you taught me to solve things peacefully? Let's drink to that!"

We took a sip. And before my eyes, the image of my friend's genitals appeared again. Interesting, in an erect state it must be even bigger. Probably, he fucks my wife really well.

"Are you really going to turn a blind eye to what happened?" Seryoga put his cup on the table and finally raised his eyes, looking me in the face.

"You have a bite. Why? On the contrary. I'm only now opening my eyes. I'll even say more. I'm even calmer that it's not someone else, someone unclean. Besides, if you don't air your dirty laundry, there won't be gossip. And a woman needs it anyway. And I can't always manage with this job. And I can't quit the job. When you remember how we lived on crumbs. Then you understand the milkmaids who climb into cabs. Let's drink to her now."

We drank again. Warmth spread through my body.

"And how long have you two…?"

"A while. A month, maybe a month and a half. After the October holidays. You were