Something wrong with Rozanov

Vintage – Bad Girl

Moscow, Fall 2007 – Spring 2008

Ilya’s first real crush happened just before he turned sixteen. Or rather, of all the possible terms and manifestations of that tremulous feeling, ‘crush’ seemed the most fitting—or so he thought. The girl was almost two years older and had already graduated from the school they both attended when Ilya Rozanov moved up to the tenth grade. During their time there, their eyes had often met in the cafeteria or in the long school corridors as they passed each other. During one such moment, Ilya distinctly felt that it was her trail that carried that sweet, floral-fruity scent, so delicate it was as if someone had waved a piece of fresh marshmallow under his nose. His mouth instantly flooded with saliva; something stirred deep inside, beneath his ribs. That became a sort of starting point—he sat through the next two lessons in silence, staring at a fixed spot somewhere beyond the window, ignoring the teachers’ voices, the formulas written in chalk on the green board, and his desk neighbor who occasionally bumped his elbow. She was considered one of the prettiest girls in school, and Ilya thought so too. Kids always talk about the strongest, the weakest, the most attractive, and the strangest, especially when it comes to high school juniors and seniors. Every ninth or tenth-grade boy harbored a secret crush on some beautiful girl from the eleventh grade. By the age of seventeen or eighteen, those girls had already developed noticeable curves—breasts, waist, hips. They wore short skirts and high heels to school, touched up their eyebrows, eyelashes, and lips—their lips, perhaps, most noticeably. Her name was extraordinary, or so it seemed to Ilya back then (later he would learn it was often used as a pseudonym by certain non-elite Moscow sex workers)—Angela. Her girlfriends called her Anzhi or Angel for short. Angela. Unbelievable. A scene played before Ilya’s eyes: he could almost see Angela’s face right in front of his; her lips thickly coated with a light pink translucent gloss with fine glitter that sparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight. She pulled a strawberry lollipop from her mouth, puckering her incredible, shimmering lips into an ‘O’: the gloss gathered slightly in the tiny creases and immediately smoothed back out as soon as she relaxed her mouth or stretched it into a teasing smile. Then she leaned close to Ilya’s face and, with a wave of warm, sugary, slightly damp breath, whispered right into his ear: “You don’t look like a tenth-grader at all.” Experiencing this fantasy, Ilya realized: an erection could happen not only in sleep or in the morning before waking, but also as a reaction to the image of a woman’s lips. The hard-on was prominent, painful, and agonizing to the point that Ilya had to ask to leave ten minutes before the last lesson ended, citing a stomach ache, and fled to the restroom at the far end of the long, dark corridor. There, after a few vigorous strokes, he came against the partition between the toilet stalls, which didn’t even have doors. White drops of semen splattered over a compass-carved inscription on the peeling paint: “Lena is a slut.” This orgasm was nothing like the others—Ilya had been masturbating since he was fourteen, his sexual desire catalyzed by the abundance of sports and movement in his life—but right now, for the first time, he managed to construct a cause-and-effect chain in his head: image of a girl -> arousal -> release. What was that, if not crush? From that moment on, Angela’s image became a sort of icon for him—not for prayer, but for daily jerking off. In the flight of his sweet daydreams, three elements typically featured: a long kiss, during which Ilya’s tongue intertwined with Angela’s, which felt slightly rough on top, like a kitten’s, and perfectly smooth underneath; Angela’s lips, coated in that light pink slutty gloss with fine glitter, wrapped around Ilya’s cock; and Angela’s palm with long pink plastic fake nails, unzipping his school trousers and slipping under his underwear, scratching the skin on his hairy pubis slightly. These three scenarios lasted for about a week and a half, then stopped being enough, and he wanted something more—but what exactly, Ilya didn’t know. He had no frame of reference. He knew that if his father found porn on his computer, Ilya would be thrown out the window along with the monitor, so before committing this crime, he asked the class nerd, who was into computers, how to clear the browser history. The classmate quicklycaught onto why Ilya was interested, tore a piece of paper from the last page of his math notebook, and wrote with a blunt pencil:www.dojki.com. “Don’t mention it,” he said and smiled with an extremely mysterious expression. That evening, Ilya discovered the amazing world of online porn. The number of videos and variety of categories was countless. Before his eyes flashed genitals of all shapes, colors, and sizes: black, pink, straight, long and thin, short and thick, long and thick—surprisingly, mostly black, as he noticed. Sometimes Ilya accidentally opened a video where a young guy was fucking an old woman, or, conversely, a young busty girl was giving it to an old man who was burying his mouth between her legs; the mystical meaning of this movement wasn’t clear to him, but he quickly figured out it was something like a blowjob, but for girls. Sometimes the weak home internet would cut out at the most crucial moment, but Ilya didn’t give a damn: now he knew what real sex looked like, so from that day on, Angela could be imagined in the most numerous positions. At one point, it seemed to Ilya that his cock, from excess friction, had become swollen, red, and started to itch, so for subsequent sessions he used a children’s cream with a gentle, oily chamomile scent, which was a poor fit for the process it was used for. Unfortunately, Angela had already graduated, making it hard to fuel her bright image in his fantasies without the chance to catch her eye in the school corridor and inhale the cloying floral scent of her perfume, its colorless trail lingering behind her. After a month or two, Ilya grew bored with it all, and the infatuation gradually faded without ever turning into anything.

***

However, everything changed in late April 2008. “Hey,” a pleasant female voice called out to Ilya as he was almost at the exit of the large first-floor hall. He stopped and quickly looked back over his shoulder. Yes, it was her. Angela. Over the past year, she had become even brighter and more beautiful: she wore low-rise skinny blue jeans tightly hugging her long, slender legs, a bright pink strappy top revealing part of her stomach and a navel piercing with a heart-shaped crystal, and a denim jacket, apparently from the same set as the jeans. Angela glanced around the school hall, now empty after the bell—the janitor had even dimmed the lights since most students had already scattered home—and, making sure no one was watching them, approached Ilya. Hestood rooted to the spot, just watching as those long female legs in terribly tight blue jeans came closer. “You’re Ilya, right?” she asked, rolling gum in her mouth. “Rozanov.” “Yes,” he answered in a voice a couple of tones higher than usual—from the surprise, fear, and delight that instantly swirled in his head. “You play well,” Angela blew a bubble from her fragrant mint gum and popped it with a loud snap. “I’ve seen you at the matches. My younger brother plays hockey too, but he’s for Dynamo.” “Got it,” Ilya began to tremble slightly: he saw the white wad of gum flashing in Angela’s mouth and instantly remembered all the variations of scenes he’d imagined with her over the long weeks. Blood rushed to his cheeks in an instant. “You’re funny,” the girl looked into his eyes, tilting her head slightly to the side. Strands of her long black hair fell over her shoulder. She could see perfectly well that Ilya was devouring her with his darting eyes and simply allowed it to happen. “Maybe we could hang out sometime?” An explosion. It was a real nuclear explosion in Ilya Rozanov’s heart and pants. “Sure,” he acted dumb mercilessly, not knowing how to continue the dialogue; Ilya simultaneously felt crushing shame and the greatest happiness that could ever happen in his life. “I mean, yes, of course, I’d love to.” Angela laughed, revealing a row of slightly crooked teeth: her canines protruded in front of the others, like a lynx’s. “Are you on ICQ?” “Yeah, of course.” He, of course, did not have ICQ. “Got a pen?” He shrugged off his half-empty backpack—by the end of the school year, he couldn’t be bothered to carry textbooks—and with trembling hands took a pen and the first notebook he found from his pencil case. Angela wrote an 11-digit number on the cover. “Add me,” she popped another gum bubble and leaned toward Ilya’s ear, exactly as he had once imagined—“we’ll chat.” After that, her sticky gloss-covered lips touched his skin, a centimeter away from a large mole on his cheek. Angela left. Ilya was slain. He immediately dashed back into the school corridor: he needed to find out what ICQ was and how to use it as quickly as possible. Ilya found his almost-friend—the nerd who often stayed in the computer lab after school—and nearly grabbed him by the shirtfront, scaring him badly. “Sorry, sorry,” Ilya rattled off, released the bewildered classmate, and told him what he needed this time: explain what ICQ was, tell him how to use it, if possible install it on his phone, or guide him on how to set it up on the home computer. The nerd didn’t refuse the request but asked for a favor in return for his help—to score a good ticket for the CSKA vs. Dynamo game scheduled to close the season. Tickets for such matches were often given free to junior team players, so it wouldn’t be a problem for Ilya. He replied: “I’ll do it, just help me out, buddy. Please.” The classmate beamed, and half an hour later, in the “Applications” section on Ilya’s scratched Nokia, a program called “Jimm” appeared. He helped Ilya create his profile, or rather, his number, and showed him how to search for and add other contacts. Rozanov was so happy that he hugged the skinny, bespectacled guy goodbye and promised to bring the ticket next week. The number written on his notebook cover yielded only one contact with the name Angel8989. With bated breath, having checked his message for errors three times (how could you misspell a single word?), he sent the contact one word: “Hi.” Then he thought and added: “It’s Ilya.” There was no reply. The only added contact was marked with a red flower icon, which, as his classmate explained, meant the person was offline. Maybe she was joking, Ilya thought gloomily, pulling his phone from his pants pocket every two minutes to check if Angela had come online. She only replied a couple of hours later: the icon next to her contact name lit up green. “Hi <3,”she wrote, and Ilya beamed, having no idea what that symbol made of a “less than” sign and the number “3” meant. They exchanged standard “how are you?”s and agreed to meet the following weekend, Saturday afternoon. Ilya just had to survive Thursday and Friday. Just two endless, warm spring days, after which he would see Angela again, feel the sweet scent of her clothes and hair, and listen to her popping mint gum bubbles. In the evening, out of habit, Ilya opened the porn site, already clicking on the first video that came up, his other hand pulling down his shorts, but suddenly he stopped as if paralyzed: how could he watch porn with other women if Angela, the beautiful muse of his most shameful fantasies, had asked him out? At that thought alone, his boner grew even harder, but Ilya held on with all his might, waiting for their imminent meeting.

***

During their walk, Ilya felt strange, out of place: it was the first time he was hanging out like this with a girl he barely knew in reality, whom he had imagined in dozens of various positions, images, and roles in his thoughts. They walked through Gorky Park, flooded with soft April sunlight, turning from one alley to another. Angela talked about her first year at university—so Ilya learned she was studying marketing—then suggested getting ice cream from a nearby kiosk; Ilya instantly realized this was his chance to be a gentleman, as his mother had once taught him. He was inwardly glad he had brought several hundred rubles from his stash of pocket money—more than enough to cover anything the girl might want. Ilya and Angela settled on a bench in the shade of lime trees already covered with a mane of tender green leaves and silently ate their ice cream. After a few minutes, the sky began to cloud over with gray clouds, and a few sparse raindrops fell on Ilya’s shoulders through the tree crowns. “Didn’t bring an umbrella,” Ilya muttered with annoyance, realizing the outing was coming to an end. “I can walk you home if you want.” Angela turned to him and tilted her head to the side, just like that moment in the hall before leaving school. Every time, she accompanied her teasing smile with this head tilt, and her long hair spilled over her shoulder. “We could go to my place together.” Ilya kept his composure as best he could; now he clearly understood that next to this beautiful woman, he couldn’t afford to be lost, mumble, or act dumb. A chance like this only comes once in a lifetime. He sniffled, more for his own reassurance, shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, and replied: “Okay, I don’t mind.” Don’t mind, for fuck’s sake, what a dumb idiot you are, he mentally cursed himself, but didn’t show it. On the metro, Angela took his arm and rested her head on Ilya’s shoulder. Her hair smelled of that same sweet floral scent, and Rozanov barely restrained himself from burying his nose in the smooth black strands. His heart was raging in his chest; Ilya was afraid she, being so close, would feel it. It was cool at her place from a draft, smelling of the slightly bitter aroma of cut branches of blooming bird cherry standing in a vase on the windowsill in her small room. The walls were covered with posters of popular music bands; a woolen checkered blanket lay on the double bed. Angela disappeared into the tiny, cramped kitchen: the gas stove clicked, a kettle landed on the burner. The first kiss was quick, neat, dry. When Ilya entered the kitchen, she herself took a step toward him—without warning or delay, kissed him at the corner of his mouth, softly touching his skin with her lips, those very lips. It was clear: this was the green light, at least Ilya hoped for it with all his soul’s effort, leaning slightly to meet her, trying by instinct to deepen their first kiss but not knowing exactly how to do it right. Angela’s tongue turned out to be exactly as he had imagined: rough on top, like a kitten’s, and smooth and slippery underneath. She clearly had far more experience with kissing. Angela asked, pulling back slightly: “Is this your first time?” Ilya, by inertia, leaned toward her lips, trying to close the distance that had arisen. “If I say no, will you be offended?” She made that gesture again: smiled and tilted her head to the side: “No, of course not. But this is better now, right?”—Ilya only gave a small nod in response, approaching her face again. His movements were guided by bare instincts and memories of what kisses looked like when performed by porn actors during short foreplay. Instincts decided more: she smelled intoxicating, she had long thick eyelashes shading her brown eyes, her saliva tasted of mint from the gum she had chewed on the way from the metro to her home; she held Ilya by the back of his head and kissed him deeper and deeper, sometimes running the tip of her tongue along his upper palate—it tickled so much that Ilya shuddered, took a few short breaths, and hot moisture instantly gathered in his eyes. He knew he would forever remember the smell of her skin, the touch of her cool fingers on the back of his head, the pattern of the wallpaper on the walls of her tiny kitchen, the slightly worn edge of the dining table pressed against the wall on two sides, and the fresh scent of spring rain and bird cherry brought by the draft from the bedroom. Angela gently pushed him toward the kitchen exit and took a couple of small steps, stepping with her toes on Ilya’s toes. That was the final chord: if a minute ago Rozanov could still shift his hips a little to hide his arousal somewhat, now, after that short, innocent touch of toe to toe, everything became obvious. Angela saw everything and smiled right into their unbroken kiss as they moved from the kitchen to the small bedroom, bumping their backs and shoulders against the walls of the short corridor and pulling clothes off each other. “Have you done it before?” Angela asked when they fell onto the bed without breaking their embrace. He shook his head slightly. Lying was pointless. “Do you want to?” “Very much,” Ilya exhaled, embarrassed to death. To hide the expression on his face, which had suddenly turned stupid, he moved his lips to Angela’s neck; her skin felt like warm, slightly damp silk, as if from under a slightly steam-heated iron. His heart pounded so hard that his pulse seemed to rise up his esophagus to his throat—it felt like a little more, and Ilya would simply turn inside out. “Have you tried it already?” “Yes,” Angela nodded and cupped Ilya’s face with her palms, placing her fingers between his ears and on his cheeks. “Don’t be afraid. It’s very nice.” This amazing woman helped him every second, guided him with soft, delicate, even somehow caring gestures and movements, touching his hair, pulling him higher or lowering him as Ilya touched her naked, slightly tanned skin at a rate of a hundred kisses per minute. Her flat stomach smelled of naked female body, not perfume, but her natural, inherent scent, and the lower he descended, the brighter and more pronounced this smell became. “Wait,” Angela wove her fingers into the hair on his crown and pulled Ilya up a little. “I want to put on some music.” Ilya watched her slender silhouette with greedy longing as she moved toward the dull gray light in the window: Angela jiggled the mouse to wake the monitor and pressed a few keys on the keyboard. From two small speakers on either side of the monitor, the intro of a recently released song by a female pop group called “Vintage” began to play. Angela returned to the bed, grabbing a condom on the way and humming the song’s lyrics under her breath, which she hadn’t yet memorized, so she mixed up words and lines. She was out of Ilya’s arms for less than a minute, but he already missed the warmth and tenderness of her body. “If you want a girl to enjoy being with you, you need to make sure she… well, you know, first?” Ilya didn’t immediately catch on to what she was talking about. His desire was so strong that he would have gone to war for her if it brought her even a little pleasure and joy. “Anzhi,” he exhaled, touching his forehead to the skin below her navel, right under the heart-shaped crystal piercing. The elastic of her tiny panties was right before his nose. Angela, who saw and understood everything, moved his hand from her breast to her pubic mound. Ilya’s fingers quickly slid under the underwear—the sensation of heat and moisture under his palm seemed to strike him in the solar plexus; beside himself, he pulled off the last remaining piece of her clothing and placed his head between her bent knees, while he knelt by the bed. From somewhere to the side and behind, the words of the pop song, set on repeat, reached him. The female pubic area was shaved, but under his lips, tongue, and the skin above his upper lip, he felt the prickly friction of black hairs slightly protruding above the skin surface. Ilya tried to reproduce with his tongue the movements he had seen in videos on the porn site, guided by how Angela was directing his head—her fingers with pink fake nails sometimes scratched the skin on the back of his head. Was that good or bad? The first time she moaned was when Ilya tried not just licking, but taking her clitoris into his mouth with his lips and sucking it in slightly. She exhaled one short “yes,” and that was the best possible reward for his efforts. The gold medals he’d won at competitions weren’t worth a fraction of that moan. The taste was salty, strange, unusual for his taste buds, but what the hell difference did it make if that was what the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen tasted like? She was very wet, but Ilya, remembering what the actors did in the videos he’d watched, suddenly spat on her vagina. That somehow made Angela laugh a lot; she took Ilya by the shoulders and pulled him toward her, which upset and alarmed him—there shouldn’t have been any room for error, he thought. “I want you,” she said calmly and confidently; she didn’t feel as awkward and scared as Ilya did. “I want you too,” he blurted out, hovering over her face: his eyes darted left and right, trying to follow the expression in her brown eyes, trying to find a hint in them of what to do next. In his mouth, Ilya still clearly felt the taste of her natural lubrication. “I know,” Angela replied with a good-natured smirk and tore open the condom package with her teeth. Oh, lord. Inside was breathtakingly tight, slippery, and hot. Angela’s fingers, adorned with long pink nails, landed on Ilya’s round buttocks like on a control panel: she pressed them with her palms, hinting that he needed to push deeper, indicating the direction in which to thrust. All that was left was to follow her movements, carefully watching her face: slightly furrowed brows, apparently indicating pain, but it was precisely at that moment that Angela made Ilya move further and deeper. Particularly surprising and pleasant was the fact that Ilya was right now fucking the older sister of a young hockey player just like him, who played for the Dynamo team, the main rival of the school Ilya trained at. Her parted lips released breaths that slowly transformed into quiet moans—Ilya tried to catch them with his mouth, absorb the moisture from her lips and skin, her scent, which made everything tighten under his hip bones. In these minutes, he understood why there was so much porn on the Internet: it was so fucking awesome that, if he could, he would do nothing but have sex for the rest of his life. In all his life, Ilya had never experienced anything better. Whoever invented hockey had obviously never fucked in their life. “Is it good for you?” Ilya asked, noticing how the brows on the female face beneath him arched in the opposite direction, upward. “Rotate your hips inward a bit,” Angela said in a slightly instructive tone. “Imagine like you want to push as deep as you can with your cock, and then even deeper.” Anything you say, Ilya thought. He was often told what to do and how to yield, but for the first time, these instructions didn’t irritate him or provoke resistance. He was ready to be directed like that. Rozanov tried to do as she said, and after a few such wave-like movements, her voice sounded different—higher, louder, brighter, swelling with each second. Thoughts raced in his head: Is this it? Is it now? Is she… now? Is this really happening? The tight walls of her vagina first squeezed Ilya’s cock, then performed a few jerky contractions; sharp nails left four long scratches on his pale back, dotted with moles, from his shoulder blades to the dimples above his buttocks. He pushed inside with effort, speeding up his movements to come after her a few thrusts later, exactly in time with the singing female voice in the background, which drew out one word: “All!”—accompanied by the insistent whistle of a long-boiled kettle they had forgotten on the stove. Tears trembled in Angela’s black eyes. Ilya intuitively moved his lips to the corners of her eyes, then kissed her on the lips. Angela kissed him deeply and wetly, pressing her whole body against him, wrapping both arms and legs around his unnaturally muscular-for-his-age body.

***

After that evening, they met twice more—during May. Everything was great, as it seemed to Ilya, but after the third time, Angela began to reply to his messages on ICQ less often and more slowly, and then disappeared altogether for a week. It was a bit painful, but without excessive drama. She wrote one simple message: “I don’t love you.” That was strange. Had Ilya wanted or demanded that she love him? He wrote back just that: “I don’t love you either. It's okay?” Angela didn’t reply. A couple of weeks later, toward the end of the school year, Ilya stopped logging into ICQ altogether because he simply stopped waiting. A logical thought, as it seemed to him, appeared in his head: apparently, there’s so much porn on the Internet because you have to change partners every three times. His heart was slightly broken, or rather, cracked, but not so badly that he couldn’t handle it. A whole summer lay ahead, which finally divided his youthful life into two unequal parts: “before” and “after.”