Years of Study or An Immodest Memoir

For some reason, it's believed that female students fall into two categories: easy lays and bluestockings. It's hard to come up with a greater idiocy than such a classification. If you don't believe me, well, let me tell you about my romances during my student years, and you tell me which of these categories I belong to.

All through the first semester, I considered my youth to be pointlessly wasted because, of course, education is good, but you want more than just to study, study, and study some more, and we had a pure institute for noble maidens—it was the philology department, after all (two openly gay classmates don't count; they're only good as girlfriends). And you can talk all you want

about the delights of female friendship, but jumping around at an improvised disco in the absence of young men falls more under the category of "physical education and sports" than anything else. A normal heroine of an erotic story would have quickly figured things out, switched her orientation, and slept with the entire female collective one by one, but such games never really appealed to me; you can consider me a prude.

First story. Zhenya.

During the winter exam session, I met Zhenya. He was transferring to our institute from another and was catching up on the coursework difference. In appearance, he was, as my friend Lizaveta put it, "a perfectly ordinary boy": average height, average build, except that in profile he resembled some exotic bird because his naturally not-small nose was also broken, and his glasses emphasized it. Well, I like young men of Jewish origin and also in glasses; let psychiatrists figure out why, if they suddenly become interested. After passing some particularly grueling exam (as is known, such exams exist for subjects that no one needs except the teachers) over a cup of disgusting cafeteria tea, he confessed to me that he had noticed me right away, fallen in love at first sight, head over heels, and so on. Maybe it's banal, but I was 18 years old, and he was twenty... After a joint visit to the theater and a trip to some museum, we ended up at his dorm. For those who have never been there, let me explain: a dorm is not the kind of place where cockroaches march in threes on the walls, everyone is perpetually drunk, and sleeping with each other. It's something like a minimally decent hotel, only all its residents are students.

First, as befits the last two romantics, we drank wine. Then we started looking at an album of Renaissance painting and marveled at how one of the nymphs in a painting resembled me, then he suggested undressing me and photographing me in the same pose, and I agreed—I was curious how it would end, and the wine was Crimean and aged. On the third shot, he lost his composure and lay down next to me. I declared that it wasn't fair because he was dressed and either I should get dressed, or he should undress. By the way, under his shirt, his average build looked very good indeed. We tussled like two-month-old puppies—he tried to bite my ear, and I kept trying to tickle his stomach, but I couldn't because he caught my hand halfway every time. I suspect the scene from the outside was something else: me completely naked, Zhenya in unbuttoned jeans, lying on a narrow bed, but I liked it—such an amazing feeling of complete openness, which I never had with anyone afterward...

There was a knock at the door. We froze, Zhenya got up and, feeling his way (without his glasses he saw very poorly), went to close the door with the latch. I must say, I was an inexperienced girl for my age, and only now did I see that he, um, seriously wanted me. The cynic inside me sneered and asked, "Well, so are we going to have something today, or is he just weird?" When he returned, the playfulness disappeared, and the air hummed with tension. It became clear: everything would happen. Zhenya turned off the lamp, which had served as a source of mysterious light during the photography, and asked if I was cold. It was indeed cool, and he started warming me; soon my body was blazing from his hot lips, and somewhere inside, an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation began to pulse.

 — Am I your first?

I couldn't answer, only nodded.

 — Don't be afraid, it won't hurt.

I wasn't afraid. I wanted it.

His hand slipped between my thighs, and a finger slid into my already wetness.

It felt very good, and I pushed forward. He started to pull his finger out, and I squeezed his hand with my thighs so he couldn't.

 — Wait...

He freed his hand anyway and, spreading my legs, ran his tongue along my perineum. It felt like I was burned: if he didn't take all of me right now, I'd go crazy. He undressed completely and promised again that he would be careful. What the hell kind of carefulness, I'm burning up! He turned out to have a not very long but thick cock, and when he entered me, it hurt a little. He slowly pushed all the way in and froze. After a few seconds, I already liked feeling him inside.

 — So, it doesn't hurt?

Getting confirmation, Zhenya started moving carefully. When he began to speed up, I asked him not to rush, but he said it was already hard to hold back and it would be better if I were on top to control it myself. He pulled out of me and lay on his back. I was wary of this position because I am, after all, a big girl, but he assured me he was hardy. Being on top felt less pleasurable to me, and besides, it was very uncomfortable on the narrow bed.

 — Let's try a different way, — Zhenya sat me in the armchair, and he knelt in front of it. In the light of the streetlamp outside the window (we hadn't closed the curtains), his face began to seem somehow devilish, and I felt like I was being seduced by Woland; my head was spinning from it, and I came, only managing to think that I needed to be careful not to scratch the back of his head.

Half a minute later, Zhenya came too and, breathing heavily, sat on the floor and put his head on my knees. Neither of us had the strength to talk. After a few minutes, Zhenya got up and asked:

 — I hope I haven't made you disgusted with this activity?

Instead of answering, I stood up and kissed him—by the way, he kissed amazingly and loved it very much...

Second story. Misha.

Misha was the captain of the university KVN team and, concurrently, the university's first handsome man: over two meters tall, poetically tousled black hair, green eyes, and a gap between his front teeth, which is considered to indicate secret depravity. Girls hung on him by the dozens, but the most they achieved was a kiss on the cheek because Misha had been dating a certain Galya since the eighth grade. The most annoying thing—this Galya was beautiful. If she had been as ugly as a rusty tank pulled from a swamp, one could have decided that Misha was just a fool with bad taste and left it at that. Once, a rumor spread among the female students: Misha had quarreled with Galya to the death. Who, how, and where this was learned was unclear, but everyone decided to seize the moment—they pulled their skirts as high as possible and tugged their sweaters as low as possible to create cleavage. I didn't participate in the competition to attract his attention, although I wanted to: as luck would have it, I had a cold and dressed in jeans and a thick sweater with a huge collar for the occasion. However, Misha, overwhelmed by so much attention, sat down next to me in the buffet, not one of those cleavage-showing, radiantly smiling ones. We were acquaintances only slightly, but it was somehow awkward to stay silent, so I asked when the KVN final was expected and who they would be competing against. Misha answered and offered a ticket. The glances from my female classmates at neighboring tables eloquently said that it was better not to sit at the same desk with them in the next class. He offered either to leave the ticket for me at the academic office or to come by tomorrow evening

to the rehearsal and pick it up myself.

The next evening, I went to the assembly hall where the team was rehearsing. Only Misha and the pianist Seryozha were there—they were practicing a song. By the way, besides his stunning appearance, Misha also had an amazing baritone—I still get goosebumps when I remember. When they finished, Seryozha disappeared, and Misha took the ticket out of his backpack and held it high above his head. For about five minutes, we played "come and get it" (considering he's half a meter taller, guess who won), and then Misha got tired of tormenting me. Taking the ticket, I stood on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek in thanks, but he didn't bend down, so my kiss landed somewhere on his neck.

 — Maybe we should close the door and try again? — asked Misha. I agreed, surprised by such rapid developments. So he wouldn't have to bend down too much, Misha sat me on the windowsill and started kissing me. He kissed very aggressively and bit painfully. Probably, Galya liked it that way. I pushed him away and started showing him myself how it should be done. Misha understood very quickly. Then, burning with hot breath, he started sliding his lips along my neck, and with trembling hands, I began unbuttoning his shirt and stroking his chest. His hands wandered under my sweater. Despite the draft from the window, it became hot. I jumped off the windowsill and led him by the hand to the stage—they had rehearsed a falling scene there and hadn't put away the soft mat afterward.

We lay down on it—Misha was on top, and I liked feeling how big and heavy he was. Someone was shuffling down the hallway, but we were already past caring. I couldn't manage to unbuckle the belt on Misha's jeans—it had some tricky buckle, but Misha didn't help me: he liked my fumbling in his crotch—his fly was practically bursting from the inside. Meanwhile, his lips were working on my breast. It felt really, really good. Before entering me, he spread my arms and pinned them to the mat.

 — It has to be like this, — he answered my questioning look. He moved agonizingly slowly; it seemed if he didn't speed up now—I wouldn't be able to stand it and would lose consciousness.

 — Faster, — I asked, but he acted as if he didn't hear.

I started moving my hips to meet him. My head was spinning, and my ears were ringing. Finally, he released my hands and, pressing against me, started moving faster.

We came simultaneously.

 — Judging by how you scratched my back, you liked it, — Misha smiled.

I started apologizing, but he laughed—said, come on, it was really good for me too—and started kissing my hands and thanking me. Just like Zhenya...

The story had no continuation: it turned out he had failed once with Galya and, afraid of impotence, used me as medicine. I'm not offended. I still wouldn't have been able to maintain a relationship with a young man that so many girls hung on.

Third story. Alexander.

My friend Katyusha introduced me to Alexander. They had complicated relations: they started as something like love, but then it didn't develop into anything more, yet they weren't in a hurry to let each other go either. Alexander was an actor, even had the title of Honored Artist, but the general public didn't know him, and on this occasion, he loved to indulge in reflection: well, here I am, forty-three years old (now it's clear why Alexander, not Sasha?), and so all alone and abandoned (he had divorced his wife several years ago) and periodically went on benders. At the same time, he was a phenomenally bright person. Funny. And a week after coming out of a bender, he stopped resembling an elderly St. Bernard and became fantastically handsome. Katyusha described him as a "textured man," and honestly, you couldn't find a better description. Initially, I didn't perceive Alexander as a man because he was the same age as my father and watched TV in worn-out slippers in exactly the same way.

So, an older comrade. He helped me find a tape of an old film I hadn't been able to find anywhere for a year and lent me rare old books to read—he had a magnificent library. "And in general, if you're passing by—drop in for tea, cheer up an old man." I dropped by periodically—he was interesting, and he made amazing coffee. After about two months, he suggested we switch to using the informal "you" and started hinting unambiguously that he was, in fact, good for more than just conversations.

For three days, I couldn't decide whether I needed this or not and so "played the fool" and pretended not to understand the hints. Not in the sense of "to give or to slap," but simply from Katyusha's stories it followed that "He has a soul, he needs to talk afterward too," and what skeletons in the closet, that is, in the soul, of a not-young, unhappy, drinking, and talented man would be discovered—was unclear (until now, we had mostly talked about literature and cinema). Maybe he would artistically and expressively (they don't give the title of Honored Artist for nothing) tell how Galya from the first desk by the window rejected and hurt him in the fifth grade. Or maybe not... In the end, three months had passed since the story with Misha, and a young, healthy body demanded its due. During another tea session (we were sitting on the sofa in the room).

Alexander launched an offensive according to all the rules of the times when he was my age: as if by accident, he covered my palm with his and started telling me how beautiful I was. And it was pleasant because, unlike my peers, when he told me about my eyes, he actually looked into my eyes, not at my cleavage (I'm a fourth cup size; my girlfriends are jealous, but sometimes I wish people would notice more than just that).

Rain was beginning outside the window. We kissed slowly. These kisses didn't ignite any wild desire in me, but the twilight, the quiet jazz from the tape recorder, and the smell of coffee—all of it created an amazingly pleasant atmosphere. About half an hour later—the tape ended and the tape recorder clicked off loudly—he moved to the next stage—started stroking my neck. It was amazing how his hands, so big, could be so dexterous, but it felt very good. The arousal was soft and enveloping. I felt like Lolita being seduced by Humbert Humbert.

The outfit à la eighth-grade honor student—a skirt and a white blouse—contributed greatly.

 — Shall we dance?

He led very confidently: a professional, after all. Then we stopped dancing and continued kissing. He started unbuttoning my blouse, and I slipped my hands under his sweater.