Cultural Institution Blesok • Established 1998
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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 10-11 | volume II | August-November, 1999



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 10-11August-November, 1999

If I Were a Man

p. 1
Marina Filatova

    All men are boys when they're small. If I was a boy called Peter, I'd ramble along the forest path to our secret fir-tree and wait there stomping on a red toadstool in my impatience, chewing on a stringy stalk of grass and spitting this way and that. She wouldn't come, and I'd go back to our secret place the next day, and gnaw the fir-tree's bark and break off a few branches, then dig a hole with a stick and stare into it for a long time, then piss into the hole, fill it in and go away. Later I'd come back for the last time when the weather's bad with no-one to meet and through the whispering of the rain I'd hear a familiar voice giggling – and someone else laughing – and in that laughter I'd recognize Victor from the end dacha, the boy that no one would even fight with, he smelt so rotten. I'd set off in a rush and take a floundering leap and fall, and start crawling, scraping my knees raw and bloody, and then from under the fir-tree I'd glimpse the pale little heels covered all over with rust-brown needles, and I'd understand everything, without really understanding anything at all, and I'd fly into a rage and draw myself up to my full height, and for the first time I'd feel something stirring in my blue polka-dotted trunks, and I'd stroke the place and take a closer took at it and I wouldn't give a damn any longer about the others and I'd become totally engrossed in myself – and then I'd grow up and forget all about it. I'd pump iron, read boring books, memorize facts, follow sports events, laugh with my foul-smelling mouth, and snort out of turn in company, feigning weariness and disillusionment. And then I'd decide I want to get married (Why? I can't really say why – I suppose it would make some kind of turning-point). I'd meet someone and see her home and get exasperated and buy her the wrong kind of flowers, and on our wedding day I'd set up a final sexual fling on the side, and come running into the registry office, smart as a new button, my eyes glinting devilishly behind my spectacles. I'd mumble a vow to be faithful that no-one would be able to hear, and I'd keep my promise

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