2011. I witnessed a young woman get struck by a car right before my eyes. The driver sped off, flooring the gas pedal. I rushed over to her—her body was completely mangled, and her pelvis was twisted around backward. She was conscious at that moment; spitting up blood, she rasped: «Son! Go pick up my little boy from kindergarten!»—and that was it… Those were her last words.

The fucked-up part is that every few months—or about twice a year—I have a dream about this woman, and she asks me if I’ve picked up her son from kindergarten yet.

I have nightmares often, and even though I’ve mentally prepared myself to run from maniacs and fight for survival, the actual sensation of fear is still far from pleasant. Recently, though, I found a cure for it: using vaginal pleasure balls right before bed. The content of the dream is still basically a horror movie, but the scary sensations are gone—especially when the «maniac» turns out to be a sexy guy, and instead of running for your life, you just have some really good sex.

In the high-rise building across the street lives a woman with her elderly mother. For as long as I’ve lived here, I’ve been absolutely flabbergasted by them. A few years ago, the mother started losing her mind, and she’s been acting like a total lunatic ever since. She’s already brought so much shame and trouble upon her daughter. One day she’ll turn on every faucet in the house, then just lie there on the floor in the rising water. The next, she’ll turn on the gas and go off to bed. She was constantly whispering to herself and often cackled for no reason. More than once, she’s put both her own life and the lives of her neighbors in jeopardy. But the absolute pinnacle of her batshit insanity went down like this: one winter day, she climbed onto the windowsill—stark naked—and stood there in the open window, loudly hurling obscenities at passersby until their ears practically bled. Then she started ripping handfuls of hair out of her head and her crotch, screaming in pain, while simultaneously cackling hysterically—laughing so hard she nearly tumbled right out the window and onto the asphalt below. The neighbors called for an ambulance, but the daughter flat-out refused to let them take her mother to a psychiatric ward. Her excuse? «They’ll just pump her full of drugs there and turn her into a vegetable.» Never mind the fact that she leaves her alone all day long while she’s out… She abandons her sick mother to fend for herself, and she couldn't care less. I’m sick to death of both of them.

I did my clinical rotation in the ICU during my first year of med school. As luck would have it, the very last day of my rotation fell on Friday the 13th. We arrived at the ward that morning to find an elderly woman, wrapped in a blanket, sitting in the hallway right outside the nurses' station. We asked the nurses what had happened. It turned out she had woken up from surgery sometime during the night—early Friday morning—ripped off all her monitors and sensors, and started walking down the corridor stark naked. It was three in the morning; the door to the nurses' station swung open, and there, standing in the doorway completely nude, was the old lady, asking, «Girls… what exactly is going on here?»

They could hear the screaming in the neighboring wards.

I’m a doctor. I recently ran into an old acquaintance—we hadn't seen each other in ages. The moment she saw me, she hit me with a question: «So, I’ve got mastopathy and some yellowish-green discharge coming from my nipples. I tasted it, and it’s bitter and salty. What does that mean?»

I mean, how do you even recover from a conversation like that?

I watched an elderly gentleman—probably around eighty—step off a bus and decide not to bother with the crosswalk; instead, he walked straight across the street. It was a four-lane road—two lanes in each direction—and traffic was heavy: rush hour, right in the city center.

Naturally, everyone came to a halt. Meanwhile, he just ambled along unhurriedly, leaning on his cane. Suddenly, two young guys—one from each of the lead cars—leapt out in perfect sync, took the old man by the arms, and didn't just walk him across—they practically *carried* him over to the sidewalk!

They did it silently and matter-of-factly. Then they hopped back into their cars, and everyone drove off. Good people.

We reached that stage in our relationship where I would pop the pimples on his butt, and he would stand guard while I squatted to pee in the bushes. We reached that stage… and then we broke up. And now, for some reason, I feel like I’ll never be able to trust anyone that deeply ever again.

One time, after having sex with a guy, I noticed dirt under my fingernails (I have long nails, and I’d been scratching his back)—it looked as if he hadn't washed himself in a year. I felt so disgusted and offended! I grabbed his toothbrush and used it to scrub the gunk out from under my nails. I never saw him again.

I used to feel pretty neutral about squirting, mainly because I’d never actually experienced it myself. Then I split up with my husband, and my ex and I started seeing each other again—this time as lovers. Now? I can't just have a regular orgasm—I end up absolutely drenching everything around me. Here I sit, wondering: either my ex-husband has really «honed his skills» in the bedroom, or it’s thanks to the diuretics my cardiologist prescribed. Common sense tells me it’s the medication, but my sentimental, womanly nature keeps insisting that I should go back to that jerk—the one who dumped me, yet fucks me until I’m dehydrated.

My fiancé is a wonderful man. A businessman. In addition to running his own business, he holds down a second job. He is constantly busy with work, even at night. In his spare moments, he studies articles and watches training videos. He stays in shape. He’s the life of any party, with a fantastic sense of humor. He takes good care of me. He’s building a house. Our sex is absolutely incredible—the best I’ve ever had—and after two years, it’s only growing more vibrant and exciting.

And yet… he also attends swinger parties—events where up to 40 couples might be present at once. He exchanges messages with «tops» and «bottoms,» and offers advice to women on the best ways to spank or tie up their husbands. He might drive to another city just to blow a woman, finish on her panties, and have her then throw them in her husband’s face—something the husband absolutely gets off on. Or he might screw someone else’s wife right in front of her husband. Women give him blowjobs in his car while he sips his coffee. People send him photos featuring dildos in their asses and vibrators inside their vaginas.

And I live with all of this.

If I could become a guy for just one day, the very first thing I’d do is jump up and down. I want to experience that sensation—the feeling of your cock bouncing around and slapping against your stomach.

Other Trash Stories