The Algorithm of Chaos. Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
those grammar rules and phonetics? Why enrolling courses of differently foreign languages online or strain yourself with a paid tutor? They are intended only to obscure the simple and ultimate truth conveyable which is so easily imparted by means of body language. And bodies, moreover so lavishly opulent and graceful as by this here representative of millennials, Sally the waitress, do have the right for self-expressing. Unrestricted. The opener, the better.
Even for the reps of earlier generation branded with offhand “X”—fretted with wear and worries, wasted by their useless anxieties and utterly worn out by the unsparing exploitation of their poor selves and those by their side they only could put their hands on—there always remained a warm nook in the big heart of true knight and gentleman, that of V.
To boil it down, enough is to remark that even for a lady fairly advanced in her years, whose puberty coincided with the times when beatniks (another since long lost and safely forgotten generation) revolutionized jigger-bug into the rock-n-roll acrobatics, even for her—faith!—could V politely wind some sixty years back and there inadvertently admire the high tempo of her strong legs’ step enfolded tightly in sleek nylon. The stockings of black nylon—the ritzy vogue, the seam shot plumb up from her heels—squeak tinily and rub each other in between her heated thighs… gee! girl! No need to haste. You’ll be in time and everything OK, and he will surely be waiting for you chain-smoking his Lucky Strike, and that’ll become the best date in your whole life, yes! In swaying swoon till midnight and beyond it to the predawn twilight sipping into the interior of his chicest of all Ford models, Crestline Victoria, over lie-down seats… A!. Babe!. O!. O!. Moreee!. mmm… Tommy… dear…
With a sad smile of understanding would V watch after that silly brimless hat of hers, and the single feather stuck up from the teensy roll of mash veil tripping in her bouncing hops which are impossible to abate, keep down… she runs on… she doesn’t hear him… the distance is too great…
By his nature, which he doesn’t flash too freely, he is a ladies man in love with all the women in the world both in stock and separately, and ready is he to go on down that road, free of charge and not overly exacting (do it!) but with gentlemanly chivalrous laziness: his yes to welcome yes, and if no then so be it, he does not press too far too hard. In short, to use just a couple of couples of words – ‘womanizer and benevolent sociopath’ would be a fit description of this here cat, V.
As for the rest (more and more diverse) spectrum of advocates for the emancipation of non-traditional appetites, he never speak up against them, so is his principle. At most (and without further comments), he may shrug his shoulder (the left one as a rule), like, so what? Jedem das Seine and let everyone be the master of what they got while he (which is not superfluous to repeat) upholds the principle of non-interference and respecting the right for self-determination and inviolability of preferences in private life and in the international arena.
Yes, pathetic they are and, on the whole, coyly overacting, however, a crowd like any other one, passable for communication if abstaining from in-raids into your personal space. Yes, they wince at free-style speaking and, unaware of enlivening paganish power of incantation, grow too melodramatic, at once. But then who is without a blemish?
Pardon my axiom, tastes in any direction are preconditioned by Nature, you can’t skirt around the ineluctable, right? Though at times it’s hard not to feel sorry for a Nature’s critter who locked their vintage vehicle up and keep the artifact of brightest ingenuity incarcerated, devoid of rides because the fucking mother Nature directed them to drive some complete shit of a car. Yet, nothing doing, no way to resist Eff Mother and, for the tolerance’s sake we close the discussion of tastes as well as other surplus idle talk. Lada Kalina is their choice? Be happy, enjoy your ride, gourmets. Fuck!
Still no accouterments from a sex-shop can be better than a live partner of the right size that suits you, thanks to the fitting and careful tuning of the standard set of pleasures presented by loving Mother-Nature who didn’t get enough sleep at night and sweated over her blissful tweaks to the process, eons upon eons since the articulated origin of species, go consult Mr. Charles Darwin, the expert in this field.
On the other hand, wizzing against the wind is not a too healthy undertaking, akin to disapproving the thriving industry outfitted with the production lines of growing capacity, and the managerial pundits experienced in the particulars, turning out a wide range of accessories for any taste imaginable, accompanied by the glossy booklets where to to insert and how to ram (intuitiveness is a good thing yet better be safe than sorry), for steady growth of consumer demand, jobs in the industry, and a not negligible share in the total gross income of the nation.
To tell the God’s truth, V isn’t quite sure as to which particular trade union the workers of this industry had poured into, yet you may bet your bottom dollar plus your dear ass that the national economy is a vehement supporter of the emancipation—chain of retail stores, franchises, exports are not the things to wave off when in sober state of mind.
Dictators might pull tight “iron curtains” (tastes differ), play the card of fundamentalism, introduce bans, decree return to the traditional moral values, to burqas, kokoshniks, and kirza high boots – vain are their labors and belated because tolerance arrived in earnest so as to stay.
Or what reason for would the knife-wielding contingent in medical profession cut up the golden-eggs-laying hen, huh? The mere cost of fumbling about insert-remove the Adam’s apple? Do you know how much it is? Huh?. No? Lucky guy! Me neither. God save us from ever knowing…
So, welcome aboard the super-duper liner Reality, Ladies and Gents! The process has passed the tropic of Fail-Safe and become irreversible. Congrats! The real gourmets every other season change their genitals. Take a shot at! Feel the difference! You might like the wear! Transgender change inside-out-and-back is easier than to master the switch from Linux to Microsoft or backwards.
‘How d’you dig this, babe? When I was a male—before last year February—the posture was my fave. Come on! Giddy up, my macho!’
Turning to Lex, you wouldn’t need a shrink to see with your naked eye that no awesome breasts under the half-sheer blouse rocked him as should naturally be expected. The dark matte swarthiness in the heavenly cleavage within her low V didn’t work either. In vain delineated the gossamer cloth—so closely and exquisitely—the bumps of her admirable nipples (the left one playfully nudging the badge thru the airy light fabric separating them).
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