My girlfriend and I once had a fight. But we were both generally calm and reasonable; we didn't yell, just argued. We didn't reach any conclusions and decided to put the conversation off because I had to go to work. We were living separately. The next day, I thought, «Well, she's wrong, let her call first.» She must have thought the same thing. It's been 11 years since then, and we still haven't spoken.
One day I came to my boyfriend’s place to watch a movie. Nothing foreshadowed trouble, but my intestines suddenly decided to declare jihad on me. I knew that any minute now, the bolts would burst.
What to do?
The bathroom is separate and cannot be disguised by the sound of running water. But even if we manage to carry out the operation silently, what about the smell? Judging by the pressure in the shaft, something hot and fragrant was clearly inside.
Should I suddenly get up and go home? It's a good idea, but I doubt I'll have time: it feels like the head will appear soon.
Think, think. We have no room for error.
I notice chips, nuts and other snacks prepared for watching the movie.
«Chips and no beer?» I ask with a smile on my face and a pain in my ass.
— Damn, I wanted to offer, but I thought you'd take it the wrong way. Let me run out quickly, and you'll pick out a movie in the meantime?
-Great plan! What are you waiting for?
The guy, unsuspecting, goes for a beer run, and I go to the toilet.
Finally, the shipment is shipped, the evidence washed away, the perfume sprayed. The perfect crime. The guy comes back and suddenly starts sniffing the air, looking at me strangely.
Everything inside froze. We were exposed.
-Have you been smoking IQOS here?
Oh, no. He didn't noticed it.
-Um… Well, yeah. I didn't want you to know...
— I have nothing against it. Just go out onto the balcony next time, it smells like shit.
So IQOS and beer unexpectedly saved my reputation.
And I kept iQOS in my bag for a long time afterward. Just in case.
My uncle had a criminal tattoo—a mark of high status. It was inked back in the days when such things weren't given to just anyone. I was always curious about what he’d done and what he’d served time for, but no one would tell me. I didn't find out until I was probably twenty-five—and even then, it was only after his funeral. Back in the nineties, some scumbags raped his wife. They threw her into a car, drove her out to a secluded spot, and violated her. He tracked down one of the rapists before the police did; he beat him to a pulp, hauled him out to the woods, and buried him alive. Ironically, he ended up serving his sentence in the same penal colony as the second rapist—who hanged himself just six months into his term. I have a feeling my uncle gave him a helping hand with that.
I had quite a lively childhood and adolescence. My mother worked from home sewing wedding and evening gowns, and all I ever did was peek into her studio whenever clients came over for fittings. To facilitate this, I’d specifically carved a small hole in the wall from my bedroom—one that was completely invisible from the other side. Nine out of ten women would definitely bare their breasts, and some would even change their panties right there—presumably to make sure they matched the dress. What else was I supposed to do? There was no internet back then, and nobody was buying pornographic VHS tapes either. I had to resort to these kinds of perversions just to blow off steam as a horny teenager.
I was riding a bus. I was sitting there, glancing out the window at a traffic light, when a car pulled up alongside us—a guy in a BMW, looking all mysterious. And then I noticed him jerking his hand around… After taking a closer look, I realized he was jerking off right there at the traffic light! What on earth was going through his mind? How can you do something like that while you’re behind the wheel?!
I’ve been a dancer for 16 years now (I’m 28). It would be fine, except—fuck—whenever I’m having sex with someone, I’m constantly counting in my head: «One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight.» You guys might get a laugh out of that, but I’m fucking sick of it!
A girl from my building became completely obsessed with a guy she was in love with. For two years, she relentlessly pursued him—stalking him, declaring her love. Somehow, she managed to sleep with him and ended up pregnant. She thought that would be her ticket to keeping him, but—yeah, right—she picked the wrong guy to mess with. She gave birth, but the guy told her to get lost; he already had a wife, and this chick had gotten so damn annoying that he decided to take drastic measures to get rid of her. He’s a real piece of shit, too. Late one evening, he put her in his car, drove her out to the woods, and dropped her off. He threw the car in reverse, then slammed on the gas—driving straight at her. He fucking ran her over. She ended up with a broken leg and severe bruising. He came to his senses, drove her to the hospital, and she didn't press charges against him. She just said, «I love him, and I’ll put up with anything.» Later, during another hysterical outburst, she jumped out of her third-story hospital window and broke both her legs—one was an open fracture. It was brutal. A year has passed; she’s still walking on crutches, her mom is raising the baby, and she *still* «loves» that asshole.
While having sex with my boyfriend, I strained myself so hard that I let out a loud fart—right onto his balls, complete with a gust of wind. I immediately claimed it was just air escaping from my vagina, and he actually believed me. Thank God it didn't smell at the time, so he never caught on—but man, was that embarrassing...
During my pregnancy, I managed to go through three different boyfriends. It was a mix of hormones, being only 18 years old, and the fact that my husband was too grossed out to sleep with me while I was pregnant. He eventually forgave me, though; he figured, «Well, at least you can't get pregnant a second time while you're already expecting.» During my second pregnancy, he finally decided to fulfill his marital duties himself. He even gave me a vibrator—just in case. But I already had a baby by then, so I wasn't exactly in the mood for any hanky-panky.
For all three years I worked at one place, I had a crush on this one guy, but for some completely nonsensical reasons, I was too afraid to even say a word to him. Three whole years I spent drooling over him. And then, on the very day I quit, we slept together. I guess I just snapped.
I used to get so annoyed that my husband would leave his socks lying around everywhere. I’d scold him, grumble, pick them up, and—just to make a point—ostentatiously fold them and place them right on his pillow. It was useless. Then a friend gave me a tip: «Don't pick them up. Just get a box.» I placed a nice-looking basket right next to the bed and announced that it was the «temporary sock storage station.» It worked. Now he tosses them in there, simply because it’s exactly the same distance away as the floor. A week later, T-shirts, phone chargers, and various scraps of paper of his started finding their way into the basket, too. The room became tidier, and I stopped feeling like an angry cleaning lady.
My boyfriend had a fantasy: he wanted me to give him a blowjob in the car while he was driving. I flatly refused for the longest time, as it seemed like a dangerous idea. Recently, however, we got stuck in a massive traffic jam. It was late at night, and the traffic was moving so slowly that I swear turtles probably mate faster than we were inching along. Since the side and rear windows were tinted, I finally decided to go ahead and give him a blowjob—just so he wouldn't get bored behind the wheel. Oh, the look in his eyes afterward… I hadn't seen that much pure joy in his eyes in ages! Dreams really do come true.
I’d watched too many movies where women show up at their lovers' places wearing nothing but a trench coat—or just their lingerie—underneath. I guess I was craving that same kind of excitement. I tried it out with three different men (visiting each separately, at different times, and by prior arrangement): I’d arrive wearing sexy lingerie underneath a fur coat. They’d undress me—usually rolling their eyes playfully—but, surprisingly, sex never actually happened on any of those occasions. Everyone was thrilled and delighted, and they certainly enjoyed the view, but nobody skipped the «standard program»—the obligatory spread of sliced fruit and champagne. Not a single one of them actually ended up screwing me right there in the entryway.
My upstairs neighbor—an old broad with cats; I figured she was classic witch. One time she flooded us, so I went up to sort it out. She opens the door—wearing a corset and stockings, bright red lipstick, a spiked collar around her neck, and a goddamn whip in her hand. She said:
«Sorry, kiddo—it’s just that my handyman broke the main water pipe.»
I blurted out, «As long as it’s not his *own* pipe.»
And then I walked home, absolutely fucking stunned. 
My first husband cheated on me with my sister. I divorced him, and I haven't spoken to my sister in over 15 years; I never forgave her. My second husband cheated on me with my best friend. Neither that husband nor that friend are in my life anymore; I kicked them both out without a shred of regret. Now I’m seeing a new man; everything was going great—he proposed, and we were planning a wedding for August. But just the other day, I found out he’s sleeping with my 19-year-old daughter. It’s not rape—it’s entirely consensual. It’s a total fucking nightmare. There won't be a wedding; I kicked my fiancé out, and I’m no longer speaking to my daughter—I kicked her out of the apartment, too, even though, technically, we’ll have to split the place since she owns a one-third share. Why do I keep getting hit with these «surprises»? Do I genuinely just attract assholes? And it’s one thing when it’s them—but my own family? The people I didn't get to choose? How could *they* do something like this to me?
Other Trash Stories
Unfortunately, most people just can't help but steal if the opportunity presents itself. I used to work at a gift-wrapping company. Most of the staff would quietly snack on the candies there—even though, naturally, it was strictly forbidden—simply because no one was watching.
Anyway, there was this one woman who ate those candies like a total maniac. She actually developed an allergic reaction and was itching all over, yet she kept stuffing her face with them. She claimed she just couldn't bring herself to stop—simply because they were free.
I’ve always held the belief that when you’re at work, you should actually *work*—and not just by warming a seat while watching the clock, but by focusing on results.
With this mindset, I landed my first real job. I worked myself to the bone there; by the time I got home, I barely had enough energy left to sit in front of my monitor for an hour or two before bed, just staring blankly with my mouth open. My work schedule was mapped out in such minute detail that I even allotted myself specific time slots just to go pee. Naturally, an eight-hour workday was of absolutely no interest to anyone there. Management would only start acting friendly toward you if you were putting in twelve-hour shifts. If you stuck to eight hours, people—including your own colleagues—would stop even saying hello to you. The result? After I had meticulously built and polished the entire production process until it gleamed, and my contract subsequently expired, they unceremoniously booted me out the door without so much as a wave goodbye.
And so, I moved on to my second job. I’m a stubborn guy; I don’t abandon my convictions easily, and I’m not particularly cunning. In this new role, my supervisor quickly began offloading his own duties onto me—and I was more than eager to take them on. Especially since I considered his own working methods to be inefficient. After all, I felt I needed to prove myself and show what I was capable of. By the end, he was doing nothing but creating a *semblance* of frenetic activity while whining constantly about how incredibly busy he was. Eventually, my supervisor simply got fed up and bailed.
When I asked if I would be promoted to fill his position, upper management informed me that while I would indeed be inheriting his responsibilities, I was still «too young» for the actual title. Since, in principle, nothing else had really changed—aside from the fact that I no longer needed to get my decisions approved by anyone else—I simply carried on. Productivity began to climb, and six months later, management tossed me a bone in the form of a pay raise. This was presented as an act of unprecedented generosity—and, naturally, I was expected to jump up and down, squealing with delight. Naturally, management demanded that I boost productivity in return—even though, at that time, they didn't have anything resembling actual performance metrics to begin with. Oh well—we’re all about results, right? Some time later, a promising vacancy opened up; when I expressed interest, my bosses once again told me that I was too young. Instead of me, they installed an energetic tyrant—a guy whose excessive busywork and total lack of understanding of the job only served to get in his subordinates' way.
That was the moment I finally realized the truth: a workhorse will never become the chairman. The people who get promoted are the ones who know how to whisper the right things into management's ears at just the right time. It’s better to *simulate* intense activity while actually chilling out than to work your fingers to the bone. It’s better to play the fool at the opportune moment than to act like a *real* fool and saddle yourself with a mountain of obligations for absolutely no reason. So, naturally, I left for a new job. Now I just sit here, keep a low profile, do the bare minimum, and everything is just fine. Work isn't going to run away from you—and your paycheck certainly doesn't grow just because you work harder.
By the way, back at my old job, they ended up having to split my former duties among three and a half people—and their performance metrics are *still* in decline. So tell me: why bust your ass at a salaried job when you can *not* bust your ass and still end up with the exact same outcome?
Why waste your energy chasing career advancement when that advancement isn't guaranteed by the results of your labor, but rather by sycophancy and hypocrisy?
Why take on a 50% increase in workload for a mere 10% bump in pay, accompanied only by fairy tales about «future» career growth? Young people today understand that we only get one life—and they have no desire to trade it away for a carrot dangling just out of reach.
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