Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life)
(…you can imagine nothing meaner than the betrayal of your chums… Yet, from all the mean deeds in my life that particular one, for some odd reason, I regret the least. Although, of course, I am sorry.
"A skirt chaser, a dishrag, he betrayed his homeboys for a piece of the smelly hole, betrayed for a ho!" would say 95 percent of real bro guys… well, okay, it was overdone – 93 percent is the exact number.
And I would understand them. Moreover, I'd fully agree with them. But most of all I would pity the poor boobs. Too bad luck, they had not come across a woman for whose sake it's worth betraying…)
Now, Olga.
Her breasts certainly lacked the yummy splendor of the melon-like treasures by Natalie. And the nipples were not jutting rigidly as prescribed in the literary tradition to the mentioned parts in the virgin anatomy. Yet, on unbuttoning both her blouse and my shirt to press her topless chest against mine for the first time (she did not have a bra on that occasion after dropping for a sec into the dark khutta yard) I was stunned by the immensity of the sensation caused by the naked female flesh.
The fact of her breasts being small and the nipples not too stiff she explained by diving from a cliff after rapans in the sea which happened to be too deep there and that’s why at the hospital they had to pierce her breasts.
(..some whopper for of a gaping sucker’s ears? I have no idea.
As a champion dupe, I believe anything they tell me. Faith, I mean it, while listening, I believe anything at all from whoever they be.
And because of my fundamentally delayed mental processing, the logical evaluation of the bullshit they fed to me takes place the following day if not later.
However, at that period I did not care for no logic – be it rapans or other fish. It's only now I feel curious at times – what kind of crap could be them those rapans? But then I'm too lazy to go Googling after them…)
Yet, the most captivating feature about her was her legs.
(..the sexual revolution was raging then all over the world reaching its apogee, and the laws of revolutionary times have no mercy, moreover, the laws of revolutionary fashion.
In modern, democratic times, you can wear whatever you want – be it maxi or midi or unisex. You can even choose to spend all of your life in sportswear and have no problem about it if only the pants legs bear those nice stripes from Adidas.
The sexual revolution established the dictatorship of mini all over the world so that if you considered yourself a woman, you had to bare your knees. The law was simple and short – either your skirt is for at least two inches above your knees or go and join the pack of pensioner lady-oldies idling on the common bench in the yard.
Dura lex, sed lex…)
Olga's mini was 10 inches above her knees. Therefore, when getting seated she chastely dropped her hand between her sportingly ripe thighs so as not to flash her panties. And on that bright and shining sunny day, when I stood next to the Under-Overpass tunnel and stared at her skipping in a nimble athletic style down the stairs from the Plant Park, flashing her yellow sports haircut and the ruby-red mini of hers, it became so clear to me that I was born in the epoch really worth to be born into.
A flick of the breeze tossed up the loincloth of her mini and she, on the run, sat it back with the everlasting gesture of Marilyn Monroe from some other, pre-revolutionary era.
(…at the like moments all the rapans in the world and hungry bros chewing the scraps of dry bread sprinkled with fine riverside sand can go to hell for all I care!
"…two legs…though sad, and cold, and weary
I still remember them…"
Or, as another, surely more pragmatic, chosen of Muse, cared to put it:
" Olga, for them those legs of yours, I'd give anything
except the payday and day off!"…)
He was her co-worker at Rags where she got a job because she hadn't gone to her mother in Theodosia but stayed in Konotop by her aunt.
"Rags" was how they named Recycling Factory on the very outskirts of Konotop, by the first stop of the local train going towards the Seim and farther.
Why not pick a job somewhere closer? Because at Rags they didn’t care too much for the labor legislation, and Olga then was barely just 15…
~ ~ ~
On the first of September, I walked to the Konotop Railway Transportation College together with my brother and sister who were also admitted to the institution after graduating their eighth grade that summer.
The students were split to groups and lined-up in the courtyard and the College Director started to push his annual speech. I felt like a zek who served his ten-year time and somehow ran into additional 3 years for no misdoing at all. After the line-up finished, I went to the Personnel Department of the College, took my papers back and went to enter the KahPehVehRrZeh Plant. There I was given a job at the same shop floor where Vladya was already a locksmith apprentice – in the Experimental Unit for Metal Constructions by the Repair Shop Floor…
Like most other shops at the KahPehVehRrZeh Plant, the Mechanical Shop Floor was built of refractory-like brick. Its walls bore no flamboyant ante-revolution extravagances of lace-like brickwork, simplistic evenness stretched plainly from corner to corner in the massive masonry of the building whose spacious inner dimensions comprised 130 meter in length and 8 in height while being thirty-eight-meter wide.
High overhead, under the roof, there rambled a bridge crane rigged with the cab for her operator driving the crane along the rails fixed close to the walls up there. The huge pulley-hook hung on the thick steel cable pulled by the mighty winch running almost all of the bridge length for except the cubicle of cab at the left end where the crane operator got climbing up the iron rungs planted in the brick wall.
The Mechanical Shop Floor building had three wings of lesser height attached to it. The first wing to the right from the entrance gate was the separate Tools Shop Floor, and the remaining two were parts to the Mechanical Shop Floor, only not so tall and without any bridge crane.
The central aisle in the Mechanical Shop Floor was wide enough for two dolly-cars to drive side by side. A dolly-car was a self-propelled cart on small but sturdy wheels with no tires. It had a small pad in its front for a driver to stand upon. Between the driver and the cargo platform, there was a narrow upright metal box with two levers stuck out from its sides, so that the driver could hold onto them. But it only seemed so, in fact, the driver steered the dolly-car with those levers taking left or right turns.
Dolly-car was, actually, a kind of a pullmi-pushyu. It needed no space for U-turns and, after getting loaded or unloaded in some cramped place, instead of the vehicle, the driver themselves turned round about on their pad and drove back, some clever invention.
The floor in the Mechanical Shop Floor was concrete but, with all those engine oil splotches and smudges from dolly-car tredless wheels, it ages before turned asphalt-black.
Some 30 meters before the end wall, the aisle was crossed by the road from one of the abutting wings to the other, with the fence of upright iron pipes bounding the opposite roadside. Those pipes marked the border between the grounds of the Mechanical and Repair Shop Floors. The border, of course, was transparent and the fence provided three duty-free entries – 1 straight from the central aisle and 2 more alongside the walls…
Past the left-hand border-crossing, beneath the flight of iron stairway, there was a wooden door in the wall opening to the workmen locker room. Next to the door, a small wooden table with a couple of thick, pretty smeared, cardboard folders dropped on its top was abutting the wall, 2 single-plank benches put close by the longer sides of the table completed the arrangement of the Overseers’ Nest which was immediately followed by the line of 8 huge vises screwed, with big intervals, onto the edge of one common workbench running alongside the row of tall windows in the wall.
The first in the line was Yasha's vise, then – Mykola-the-old's, farther on – Peter's, still farther – Mykola-the-young's and so on to the gate at the end of the workbench where the sideway track entered the Repair Shop Floor parallel to the inside part in the butt wall of the building.
The sheet-iron-lined front of the workbench had sheet-iron doors in it, under each of the vises, with a neat well-oiled padlock on each door opening to the toolbox. The first was Yasha's box, then Mykola-the-old's and, well… so on…
On the second floor, over the locker room, there was the Management Office of the Repair Shop Floor. That was where led that iron stairway of two flights furnished with iron handrails which also bordered the landing in front of the office door. And from that same landing, the narrow fixed-in-the-wall ladder went up to the cab in the bridge crane for the operator to get there in the morning, or after her midday break, and rumble away to the space above the Mechanical Shop Floor.
The sideway track entering the Repair Shop Floor was a dead end. Bulky contraptions in need of repair came in there heaped on slowly crawling railway platforms, while those of smaller size were brought to the Repair Shop Floor by dolly-cars.
Behind and parallel to the track, there stretched the butt wall which also had hugely tall windows latticed with iron bindings to hold the panes of dusty glass. In the center of the wall above the windows, under the very roof, there hung a large electrical round clock like those at the railway stations. From time to time, the peaceful slumber of the timepiece got perturbed with a sudden "tick!" which made the half-meter long hand jump for two-three minutes at once and there fall asleep again until the next "tick!".
The third wall had the same five-meter-tall windows. Next to the right-hand border-crossing from the Mechanical Shop Floor, there stood a drilling machine for anyone who felt like using it. Then came the steel-topped acres of the marker's table and, in the corner behind the tracks of the dead-end, the lathe with its turner.
Along the central axis in the Repair Shop Floor, there stood another long workbench or rather two of them abutting each other face-to-face, with an iron-mesh partition in between. Common-sense-based safety rules, if you think of it: had a hammer slipped out of grip, the mesh would prevent knocking out a workman at the opposite workbench.
Walking the Repair Shop Floor, you had to watch your step carefully to safely navigate between giant worm gears, oil-smeared casings, and other whatnots strewn indiscriminately upon the floor. Those things, brought by dolly-cars and dropped at vacant spots a couple of months before, were waiting patiently for the due attention because there always popped up something else, more pressing for urgent repair. But that was not our concern. We were the Experimental Unit by the Repair Shop Floor, sited at the workbench next to the Overseers’ Nest.
No, we did not meddle with repair, our task was to implement the projects experimentally drawn at the Design Bureau in the Plant Management building, to endow them with the real-life forms of metal constructions. The handcart of four wheels, for example, or the stand "Glory to Labor!" to be placed in front of Main Check-Entrance to the Plant. Or all kinds of bearing constructions made of solid rolled-steel channels and joists, like, brackets, pillars, roof trusses.
However, for so bulky products there was no room at the Repair Shop Floor and we assembled them under the open sky outside, on the rack-deck between the welder's booth by the sideway gate and the window of the locker room. By the by, the parts for the city TV tower were also constructed on that rack-deck, and then the team of workers from our Experimental Unit assembled the tower at its site. But that was before me…
For the initial three months, I was a locksmith apprentice couched by Peter Khomenko. For him, it was a good news because a locksmith's wages somewhat increased when he was in charge of training a newbie. On the other hand, Peter was not sure what else to do about his apprentice, after he handed me a spare key from his toolbox in the workbench under his vise, so that I could keep there my hammer, chisel, and file they handed me at the Tool Shop Floor. Okay, he showed how to produce a scratcher out a throwaway length of thin steel wire to draw marks on a sheet of iron but now what?
Along all our line of vises by the Overseers’ Nest, a workman at work was a completely rare sight. Unless at the end of the working day when someone was tinkering up some kind of shabashka for household needs at his khutta.
Nevertheless, the entire workforce was principally always busy. A couple of locksmiths pottering with the welder at the mainstay props outside the locker room window. Some went to dismantle the roller table in the Foundry Shop Floor. Another group was led by Senior Oversee to the Boiler Shop Floor to install four anchor bolts for a jib crane under the construction there. In general and on the whole, the work was running high. Somewhere… If not at one, then at the other place… Maybe.
The managers of the Repair Shop Floor were doing their work in the office upstairs even though the CEO of the Repair Shop Floor, Lebedev, visited the premises no oftener than two times a day. Where he worked before and after those visits I had no idea.
He wore a black greatcoat of the railwaymen uniform. In summer, of course, it was swapped for a jacket of that same uniform with silver-colored buttons. At walking, the CEO’s back was held so plumb upright that it didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out the man’s being in a well-befogged state already. However, even though his front side could betray the fact of Lebedev's being drunk as a fiddler, he never stumbled the slightest bit. No, never. The workers respected him, probably, for his never staying in the office longer than for five-ten minutes.
In the table of ranks, the CEO was followed by Managers of the Units by the Repair Shop Floor. The Repair Unit was headed by Manager Mozgovoy, whose thin falsetto somehow did not fit his portly frame, still, he also was respected for his being harmless.
Once at the Repair Unit, they were restoring the concavity profile of some bulky incomprehensible thing. Whoever you asked what the crap was that thing, the answer was invariably uniform, "Who the fuck knows what hooey it is." And even that "hooey" was pronounced identically, almost in a howl, like, "…hooooey it is."
So for half of a month, they kept scraping that concavity in turns. Whoever got tired of doing nothing took the hand scraper and commenced to scrape. Eventually, it got polished to a mirror shine and another hooey (the convex thing) began to freely enter and rotate, back and forth, inside the scraped one. Mozgovoy, sure thing, was delighted by such a labor achievement at his Section…
Well, now, locksmith Lekha from the Podlipnoye village, freshly after his army service, in the end of a working day puts a chisel at the shiny surface of the polished hooey and asks, with the hammer raised to his shoulder, "Look here, Mozgovoy, wanna me fuck the fucker?"
In a wistful, tired falsetto, Mozgovoy responded, "If you have no brains, go – fuck it."
Lyokha, certainly, was just horsing around, yet Mozgovoy did not tell on him although he could…
Then followed Manager of the Experimental Unit, Lyonya…
(…hmm, it’s embarrassing, I can recollect the mole on Lyonya’s upper lip but his last name gives me the slip…)
About him, it was not clear yet: to respect or not to respect? He was still wet behind his ears and until recently was sitting in the Overseers’ Nest by the locker room door. Then he graduated something in absentia and got raised, with his diploma, up the iron stairway, to the Management Office where were already sitting Engineer-Technologist (at the desk with his back to the window, but I don't even remember his name) and Senior Overseer, Melai, Anatoly Melai's father. He had a wide horizontal gash of a mouth and he was always silent, unlike his yodeling son…
Twice a month the stairway to the Management Office was climbed by the cashier with her tarpaulin bag from which she portioned out the advance or monthly payment to the workers depending on which of her two visits it was. The very first time, she gave me the advance of just 20 rubles.
When I brought my first earnings home, then, before Mother’s return from her work, I scattered those 20 bills all over the couch in the kitchen, one by one, so that it would seem more. And when she was back home, I said, "Mom, that's for you to dispose of." And right away I asked 2 rubles for cigarettes, without going into detail because she did not know that I had started smoking…
The working day began at eight in the morning. We passed thru the still silent aisle in the Mechanical Shop Floor to our locker room with tall plywood boxes along three blind walls and two additional rows of lockers put back to back to split the room into the oblong halves.
Each locker-box had two vertical sections: one for the clean clothes and the other for the working dress, aka spetzovka, given out to a workman once a year. From above, the sections were spanned by a plywood shelf for the hat and the package with the midday meal. However, at the midday meal breaks, both Vladya and I went home over a stile in the concrete wall to Professions Street from where it took just five minutes to get to our khuttas.
While we changed and had a smoke in the locker room, the Mechanical Shop Floor machine-tools started to turn on, one after another. The howling, rapping, and rumbling of their engines merged with the piercing screech of steel peeled off the workpieces. The cacophony of a working day was muffled to some extent by the locker room door but very soon it swung open and Overseer Borya Sakoon drove us out to our workplaces – to the line of vises or to the rack-deck in the yard where we seemed being busy with doing something…
The rest of the day, Borya Sakoon spent sitting by the locker room door on a bench at the Overseers’ Nest table. He leaned on it with his elbow, then with the other one and was chain-smoking cigarettes "Prima", one after another. Short, with thin fair hair and dun faded face, he had the same last name as Vladya but wasn’t a relative because both denied any kinship.
Frequent coughing fits made him pull his cap down and press it to his face to choke the discharge. When his therapeutics did not work, he slammed the cap atop the table and went on coughing with his face dropped into it. Then he snapped out of his pocket another cigarette, lit it up and the cough eventually died away until the next attack. At times, he stood up from the bench to stretch his whole body—a scraggy shrimp with his arms aloft against the tide of mad rambling of the machine-tools in the Mechanical Shop Floor—then he lit another cigarette, turned back and sat down again.
Once Overseer beckoned me with a finger inviting to get seated on the opposite bench at the table and, yelling over the roaring howl of the machine-tools, began to tell how soon after the war he went to dances in the club of Podlipnoye, where the village yobos started bullying him so he cut and ran but they were chasing and he had to lie down in a ditch and shoot his Walther pistol from there, and that he also witnessed how the law enforcing bodies did away with the All-Union thief-in-law, handled Kushch, who came to Konotop but they were following him and in Budyonny Street just neared from behind and banged into the back of his head, one second later a "black raven" drove up and he, a young guy Borya at that time, was told to grab Kushch by the legs and help to heave the corpse into the vehicle.
"Up to these days it’s nowhere you can buy the fabric like to that in the Kushch's suit pants," he shouted out and his fingers picked off his lips a stuck thread of tobacco fiber from a cigarette “Prima”.
However, not always Borya Sakoon looked such a total good-for-nothing. One day, Vladya called me to drop into Loony and watch our Overseer drilling the Ballet Group in the hall on the second floor, where a dozen girls held onto the handrail along the mirror wall, while our geezer strolled along their line like a karra cock sporting a short, diamond-shaped, necktie. Then, demonstrating some of the moves, he shot his leg almost above his head. That’s some Borya Sakoon…
The hardest period in the whole working day was the concluding half-hour. In that half-hour there was no time at all: it just stopped and it was better not to even look at that electric round clock above the huge windows in the end wall. Some endless stretch of vexing disappointment which brought about a strange itch to push the frozen clock hand with a straw.
(…I have no idea why with a straw, but that's what I hankered for at those periods when there was no time, although I fully understood that the straw would only break instead of moving that iron piece of crap…)
The Mechanical Shop Floor machine tools would slow down and fell silent, one after another. The locksmiths of the Experimental Unit gathered from elsewhere to line the workbench with their backs leaned against their respective vises.
The two-meter-tall Mykola-the-old empties his horse-long nose into the crumpled lump of a rag the color of earth-and-ash. Could you ever suspect so gentlemanly habits by the geezer?! Mykola-the-young froze at pensive picking fresh acne on his cheeks.
Tick! Twenty-seven to five.
Swarthy-faced Yasha begins to tell me a story how the Red Army took him along after liberating Konotop of Germans. A solitary shabashka-tinker at the grinding wheel in the corner does not interfere with the calm flow of Yasha's narration.
They ran to attack and the ours supported them from behind shooting the "forty-fivers" when one of the supporting shells shot off the balls of an attacker. With the slow move of his palm-down hand, Yasha demonstrates the low-arc trajectory of a flying 45-mm shell. After which the poor wretch ran another half-kilometer before he died…
Recollecting how I also felt nothing and only saw the ground of the bumpy field jumping before my eyes, as we ran to attack thru the shaggy fog in the military game of Zarnitsa, I believe Yasha.
He shifts his cap far back revealing the sharp, like an arrowhead, angle from which his black hair runs up under the halo of his cap peak. Not a speckle of gray. Looks twice younger than Borya Sakoon who once told me that at the installation of the TV tower something went wrong with the uppermost section. It was in winter with severe frost and Yasha took off his sheepskin coat, climbed up by the cable and put it to rights.
Mykola-the-old two heads taller than Yasha. They're sort of chums and after work go home by the same diesel train, only to different stops.
Tick! Seven to five. Okay, that's that; time to go to change…
Skully also dropped out of the Railway Transportation College and entered our Experimental Unit which was a smart move. They didn’t pay him any scholarship there but after getting the diploma he’d be sent to slave in the middle of one or another nowhere. Did he really need it?
So three of The Orpheuses got together. As for Chuba, he worked at the Car Repair Shop Floor put there by some protective hairy hand because a carpenter’s profession is cleaner than ours and better paid for, we scarcely ever ran into each other in the Plant.
And we continued to play dances even when Vladya chiseling sheet-iron peened heartily his finger. Club paid each of us thirty-six rubles a month. It seemed too little, but what could we do? At our attempt at talking business to the Club Director, he said that after buying the electric guitar for one 150 rubles there remained no funds to increase our salary.
True, the guitar of Iolanta brand was a classy thing – so neatly streamlined and it sounded miles better than make-it-yourself ones after The Radio magazine guide, Iolanta’s smooth scarlet gleam eclipsed and turned them into pieces of spray-painted plywood.
Soon after, I was sent together with Projectionist Konstantin Borisovich to the city of Chernigov after new instruments from the local music factory there – the bass, and rhythm electric guitars. Pavel Mitrofanovich talked to the Plant Management and I was exempted from work for two days, because of the long way to Chernigov and back.
There we stayed overnight in a hotel as business travelers, and at nine in the morning we were at the factory. Konstantin Borisovich went to talk with their management and I had to wait in the corridor for a couple of endless hours. At last, they called me in for checking the guitars which had no cases, and were much heavier than Iolanta, and covered even if with the glossy but black lacquer. It was clear at once that the factory hadn't yet mastered the electric guitar manufacture or, maybe, Konstantin Borisovich did not have enough funds on him to purchase some better products. Although, when we brought the caseless instruments to Konotop, Chuba admitted that the bass guitar would do.
The following Monday in the Repair Shop Floor locker room, Vladya kicked up agitation for us, all the Orpheuses, to get exemption from work for health reasons. His idea was to visit the Plant Medical Center with complaints about the sausage we ate the day before when playing trash at a wedding which snack was certainly stale. Only we had to go all together and keep saying the same thing.
So we found Chuba in the Car Repair Shop Floor and the 4 of us arrived in the Medical Center facilities all ill because of the bummer sausage we never ate.
The doctor suggested us get seated on chairs under the corridor wall and sent the nurse to the Plant Bath House after tin basins which were brought and lined on the floor at our feet – one basin for each of the ailing Orpheuses. The morbid preparations were crowned with her fetching a bucket of luke-warm water which she made purple pouring in a handful of potassium permanganate.
The doctor came back from his office and explained that the concoction should be drunk in liters before poking two fingers into the mouth, each person their own, to tickle the root of each respective tongue as deep as possible, which procedure would remedy the obvious food poisoning.
The macabre aspect of the basins in their waiting position on the floor as well as the instructions delivered with an unmistakable sadistic pleasure worked like a charm on both Chuba and Skully, their crises was over in no time to speak of and, leaving no traces, they hurried to their respective workplaces.
However, Vladya’s and my cases evinced a graver nature and we staunchly endured the whole hog of the procedure throwing up into the basins everything that we had for breakfast that morning. The doctor, impressed by our obstinacy, gave us exemption for the current working day.
We changed and left thru the Main Check-Entrance in the crowd of workers going out to the canteen for the midday break. Thus, for all our pains and labors we got just scarce 4 hours of freedom, all in all, and the next morning – get back to the mill, O, boy!.
The Club Director, Pavel Mitrofanovich, kept us informed that Club was fixin' to buy an electric organ Yonika to be played by Lyokha Kuzko as the fifth Orpheus. Lyokha had thinning but long, reddish hair and sported a horseshoe-shaped mustache a-la The Pesnyary to somehow distract the public attention from the severe bend in his nose, the legacy of some old-times fight. Because of that disfigured nose, his handle was Rhinoceros.
He was seven years older than us, yet he was a cool dude who had The White Album by The Beatles on his tape-recorder which he played to Vladya and me when he invited us to his place. His father, Anatoly Efimovich Kuzko, the teacher in button-accordion class at Club, had built for Rhinoceros a red-brick two-story house in the yard of his fatherly khutta. The first floor was the garage with a sheet-iron gate, and on the second floor, there were two rooms and a kitchen. Some folks could live conveniently, anyway. Yet, the garage stayed empty of any car because Kuzko Senior did not buy it for Lyokha who was drinking like a fish for which reason his wife Tatyana left him taking their baby daughter away.
Besides The White Album, Lyokha also shared The Forensic Medicine Textbook to look thru. The yellowish aged pages had lots of black-and-white photographs with explanatory notes beneath them.
Knowing the illustrations by heart, Lyokha shared his favorite spot in the textbook, where there were rows of small-sized pictures (3 by 2 cm, like for a passport), demonstrating the difference between intact and dented hymens.
(…I have a strong suspicion that because of that textbook, all kinds of pornographic publications give me so dreadful shudder.
No kidding, they cram me with panic, I fear on turning a page in The Playboy to get smack midst a murder with the household scissors sticking from the open chest of the body up into my face, or else a guy strangled against an upturned stool, you never can tell…)
Climbing up and down the Plant concrete wall at midday-meal breaks was a real shortcut that spared a half-kilometer walk if compared to going thru the Main Check-Entrance.
At home, I warmed up soup or vermicelli on the kerogas in the veranda and took the meal into the kitchen where I doffed my spetzovka pants and jacket keeping only my tank top and underpants on. It caused no inconvenience to anyone because with the parents at work and the younger ones at their College I was home alone.
The reason for taking off my working clothes was those surplus ten minutes before going back to the Plant. While eating, you could use a stool even with your dirty spetzovka on, yet smearing the couch or an armchair with it was not right.
To fill the odd ten minutes up, I strummed the guitar and screamed different songs to train my vocal skills which I have never had. Yet, I sang all the same – may Beata Tyszkiievich, a professional Polish beauty torn from a color magazine and pinned above the folding bed-couch, forgive me as well as The Who in the black-and-white photo next to her. They also witnessed one time how my wild wails happened to bring about a boner and, grabbing from the desk under the window a ruler left behind by the younger gone to their college, I measured my cock. Locksmithing definitely instills respectful attitude towards knowledge of specific details…
