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?

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