3

In the most ruthlessly devastating of her gait styles, waitress Sally neared their stall. So it was announced in the badge on her magnificent breast, the left one, pinned over the dazzling white blouse (for the folks who tend to read in fits and starts, like, for instance, me at times, when not sufficiently concentrated—that was said about the badge, the damn thing was pinned and nothing else whatsoever, so as to remove any groundless expectations and keep staying on the safe side)...

As always in his intercourse with the fair sex, V gave free rein to his habitual instinct or, which also possible, to his instinctive habit, notably aggravating at the instances of communication with the distaff segment in personnel of both budget organizations and private business (the time of day, it might be mentioned, had no effect on his deep-rooted habit or, maybe, ingrained instinct).

At times he gave it a shot at reckoning location of tattoos in private nooks of their anatomy, for intimate exposure besides those on the show at their working hours.

However, the imaginative detours were merely spells of an aside activity and for the most part V stayed unobtrusively keen on intercepting the flickers of the random signals emitted by female subconsciousness. Those will-less weather balloons to scout out and plumb you. The unexpected winks or, say, playing the tongue along their parted lips then leaving its tip to stick forgetfully from the corner of her mouth. Subconscious, unpremeditated impulses are numerous and unforeseeable.

Why?! Pray I earnestly, tell me why learning all those grammar rules and phonetics? Why enrolling courses of differently foreign languages online or strain yourself with a paid tutor? They are intended only to obscure the simple and ultimate truth conveyable which is so easily imparted by means of body language. And bodies, moreover so lavishly opulent and graceful as by this here representative of millennials, Sally the waitress, do have the right for self-expressing. Unrestricted. The opener, the better.

Even for the reps of earlier generation branded with offhand “X”—fretted with wear and worries, wasted by their useless anxieties and utterly worn out by the unsparing exploitation of their poor selves and those by their side they only could put their hands on—there always remained a warm nook in the big heart of true knight and gentleman, that of V.

To boil it down, enough is to remark that even for a lady fairly advanced in her years, whose puberty coincided with the times when beatniks (another since long lost and safely forgotten generation) revolutionized jigger-bug into the rock-n-roll acrobatics, even for her—faith!—could V politely wind some sixty years back and there inadvertently admire the high tempo of her strong legs’ step enfolded tightly in sleek nylon. The stockings of black nylon—the ritzy vogue, the seam shot plumb up from her heels—squeak tinily and rub each other in between her heated thighs… gee! girl! No need to haste. You’ll be in time and everything OK, and he will surely be waiting for you chain-smoking his Lucky Strike, and that’ll become the best date in your whole life, yes! In swaying swoon till midnight and beyond it to the predawn twilight sipping into the interior of his chicest of all Ford models, Crestline Victoria, over lie-down seats… A!. Babe!. O!. O!. Moreee!. mmm... Tommy… dear…

With a sad smile of understanding would V watch after that silly brimless hat of hers, and the single feather stuck up from the teensy roll of mash veil tripping in her bouncing hops which are impossible to abate, keep down… she runs on… she doesn’t hear him… the distance is too great...

By his nature, which he doesn’t flash too freely, he is a ladies man in love with all the women in the world both in stock and separately, and ready is he to go on down that road, free of charge and not overly exacting (do it!) but with gentlemanly chivalrous laziness: his yes to welcome yes, and if no then so be it, he does not press too far too hard. In short, to use just a couple of couples of words – ‘womanizer and benevolent sociopath’ would be a fit description of this here cat, V.

As for the rest (more and more diverse) spectrum of advocates for the emancipation of non-traditional appetites, he never speak up against them, so is his principle. At most (and without further comments), he may shrug his shoulder (the left one as a rule), like, so what? Jedem das Seine and let everyone be the master of what they got while he (which is not superfluous to repeat) upholds the principle of non-interference and respecting the right for self-determination and inviolability of preferences in private life and in the international arena.

Yes, pathetic they are and, on the whole, coyly overacting, however, a crowd like any other one, passable for communication if abstaining from in-raids into your personal space. Yes, they wince at free-style speaking and, unaware of enlivening paganish power of incantation, grow too melodramatic, at once. But then who is without a blemish?

Pardon my axiom, tastes in any direction are preconditioned by Nature, you can’t skirt around the ineluctable, right? Though at times it’s hard not to feel sorry for a Nature’s critter who locked their vintage vehicle up and keep the artifact of brightest ingenuity incarcerated, devoid of rides because the fucking mother Nature directed them to drive some complete shit of a car. Yet, nothing doing, no way to resist Eff Mother and, for the tolerance’s sake we close the discussion of tastes as well as other surplus idle talk. Lada Kalina is their choice? Be happy, enjoy your ride, gourmets. Fuck!

Still no accouterments from a sex-shop can be better than a live partner of the right size that suits you, thanks to the fitting and careful tuning of the standard set of pleasures presented by loving Mother-Nature who didn’t get enough sleep at night and sweated over her blissful tweaks to the process, eons upon eons since the articulated origin of species, go consult Mr. Charles Darwin, the expert in this field.

On the other hand, wizzing against the wind is not a too healthy undertaking, akin to disapproving the thriving industry outfitted with the production lines of growing capacity, and the managerial pundits experienced in the particulars, turning out a wide range of accessories for any taste imaginable, accompanied by the glossy booklets where to to insert and how to ram (intuitiveness is a good thing yet better be safe than sorry), for steady growth of consumer demand, jobs in the industry, and a not negligible share in the total gross income of the nation.

To tell the God’s truth, V isn’t quite sure as to which particular trade union the workers of this industry had poured into, yet you may bet your bottom dollar plus your dear ass that the national economy is a vehement supporter of the emancipation—chain of retail stores, franchises, exports are not the things to wave off when in sober state of mind.

Dictators might pull tight “iron curtains” (tastes differ), play the card of fundamentalism, introduce bans, decree return to the traditional moral values, to burqas, kokoshniks, and kirza high boots – vain are their labors and belated because tolerance arrived in earnest so as to stay.

Or what reason for would the knife-wielding contingent in medical profession cut up the golden-eggs-laying hen, huh? The mere cost of fumbling about insert-remove the Adam’s apple? Do you know how much it is? Huh?. No? Lucky guy! Me neither. God save us from ever knowing…

So, welcome aboard the super-duper liner Reality, Ladies and Gents! The process has passed the tropic of Fail-Safe and become irreversible. Congrats! The real gourmets every other season change their genitals. Take a shot at! Feel the difference! You might like the wear! Transgender change inside-out-and-back is easier than to master the switch from Linux to Microsoft or backwards.

‘How d’you dig this, babe? When I was a male—before last year February—the posture was my fave. Come on! Giddy up, my macho!’

Turning to Lex, you wouldn’t need a shrink to see with your naked eye that no awesome breasts under the half-sheer blouse rocked him as should naturally be expected. The dark matte swarthiness in the heavenly cleavage within her low V didn’t work either. In vain delineated the gossamer cloth—so closely and exquisitely—the bumps of her admirable nipples (the left one playfully nudging the badge thru the airy light fabric separating them).

Nope. He was too far for temptations to catch him were they even performed by a topless top model role-playing a waitress taking his order.

Nah! Not a chance for all badges in the world, pinned up at whichever spot, would pull, and tempt, and swerve him in the direction of lascivious frivolity. What? Giving however flitting thought to anything carnal? Gosh, no! Not for him.

At this very moment he was coming without all that stuff because Lex was a devoted and staunch lover of grub-devouring and before a dinner pending so nigh he turned bulletproof altogether to any kind of reflectively unconscious flirting or other non-gastronomic dreams even if, by some black or white magic, in Sally’s stead had there popped up Cleopatra in the buff, wearing neither badge nor blouse (moreover, the Egypt’s government once again appealed to the global community with their announcement that Cleopatra was not black to which end they once again have found irrefutable archaeological evidence).

At this prelusive moment Lex turned a slightly balmy clot of lewdness that dims the sight with wabbly haze of lust and—lo!—all of him was in the foreplay already. His trembling fingers reached out to scratch, stroke, caress the sensual, awaiting folds – the corners of his mouth, all in small uncontrollable tremor (both the corners and the fingers).

In the attitude of owner the palm splayed over the pubis… (err… what?. not now! not now! we’ll proofread it later!)… the embossed pudenda of menu grabbed tenderly and spread wide to flip the beans of pages before to delve impetuously into and with short repetitive leaps move it (the inflamed gaze) from line to line still deeper to the very bottom… O! The moment of bliss insatiable! O! I’ll have the choicest and yummiest morsel from this jewel box…

The true food-lover way is a lifelong honey moon.

Sally walked off with the order to the folks slaving in the kitchen (one naturalized Czech and two fresh Venezuelan immigrants under the endemic chef, the waitress’ grandmother). Lex sat back a bit laxer yet still retaining his anticipation.

‘Watch me and learn from a wise man,’ instructively told he V, ‘the moment before you get the ultimate pleasure, think of some nasty stuff. Serves as that skeleton at orgies of ancient Roman hedonists. The gratification feel becomes acuter.’

‘My wedding gift for you will be The Anatomical Atlas of Skeleton Bones, richly illustrated. And thanks for sharing the trick.’

‘Any time,’ was Lex’ condescending response. ‘That’s what a guy needs pals for – to collect crumbles of wisdom. For a starter, you may choose thinking about the Malthusian Catastrophe we’re going to give a headlong dive into any other day.’

‘It’s about that screwball geezer who foretold inevitable global hunger because of the population growth? Bosh, threats of the end of the world give me no hard-on. The mankind’s history most optimistically proves that balancing on the razor’s edge since long became man’s main preoccupation and pastime, we glibly jump over every catastrophe scheduled for tomorrow just to land in more deep shit. So save the Malthus’ horror screenplay for amusing your grand kids at bedtime.’

‘He proved it mathematically!’

V gave out a tired sigh:

’At the dawn of the 20thcentury mathematicians rolled out their calculations that in fifty years life in all major cities would come to a crunching halt because of the insoluble dilemma. No way to clear the city thoroughfares of droppings by the horses needed for the in-city transportation. The trained shitheads used logarithm rulers for the calculus which made it undefeated.

Your pessimistic Member of the Royal Society lived in the world populated by less than one billion guys. He missed to take into account the innate ability of people to regulate their optimal numbers by means of mass shootings at schools and kindergartens, ethnic cleansing, world war slaughterhouses, extermination camps and other methods of saving mankind by killing them. A pretty elegant solution, if you think of it. To whet your appetite, you know.’

Lex gave out a disgruntled squirm:

‘Know the difference between a cowboy camp cook and a renown chef? The latter will never dump a sack of peppercorns into one meal.’

With melancholically slow movement Lex reached for his dinner jacket on the seat-back and angled a pinkish pack of chewing gum out. One bar was extracted, unwrapped and put into his mouth. Ruminating thoughtfully, he dropped the pack into the breast pocket of his shirt which action seemingly woke him. Lex perked up and winked at V.

‘Sorry chum. I’ve got no manners!’

Two digits of his dived into the mentioned pocket to fetch out one more bar which he stretched out for V saying:

‘But I am working at it’

‘Alex Tailor Jr.?’ sounded close by.

Lex dropped the offering next to the salt shaker on the table and stared up at a couple of body builders wearing black office suites and tanned maps from solarium.

‘It’s me.’ Said he curtly.

The beefy claw of the strong man flashed a three-block-lettered badge.

‘Follow us, sir.’

‘What the f…’ started V, yet the second of the artificially tanned jocks interrupted his statement.

‘Keep to order in the public place, sir.’ His left armpit looked bumpier than the opposite. A disproportionate result of inattentive muscle pumping.

‘V, don’t, please,’ said Lex getting up. He hung his dinner jacket over his forearm levered from the elbow and went off between the guys in black.

Stunned, watched V after their short convoy making for the exit from the establishment. Then he frowned and lowered his gaze at the chewing gum bar in a blue wrapper apparently wrinkled by a clumsy tamperer.