cherry-garden_minors-remix
Chapter 10:
But Yulia. What about Yulia?
Of course, I lost interest in texting with Yulia. One thing calmed me down: there had been no sexual contact between Yulia and me. So, in a way, it wasn’t really cheating. Complicated. The next day, Barbara and I texted. She replied only “yes” or “no.” I downloaded a Romanian translator and a self-study app. She was on a contract. Close contact with clients was forbidden. I tried to take her out of the puff, but she refused—she was still short of the full amount for the car. I think the contract explicitly forbids meeting clients outside the club.
We saw each other many more times. Each time, the sex became stronger and stronger. I bought her perfume shaped like a high-heeled shoe and smuggled it into the brothel. In a few days she is supposed to fly out; she asked me to help her buy a car in Germany, and I agreed. For now, that’s it.
How did Yulia appear?
You’ve already heard briefly. Let’s go back to January 2020. After the Persian princess and a few more encounters with local women, I realized I had to act. I found the first marriage agency I came across online—in Kyiv—called the owner, and she showed me a catalog. I immediately pointed at Yulia. She was from a small Ukrainian town—cunning, attractive, and somehow homely, not like the other brides. For a small sum of money, I got her phone number.
The first phone conversations were difficult. We were strangers. An endless correspondence began—long and drawn out, but without strong feelings.
Dear friends, are you still here?
Barbara is not flying away. I don’t understand the reason. And Yulia writes more and more often.
Yulia and I have been corresponding for eight months now. She understands that Barbara exists, but she can’t really say anything—we have never met. We have a long-distance romance; we want to start a family. And Barbara is here. She is real. After Barbara said she wasn’t leaving, we started spending almost every day together—in the brothel. Gradually, our sex began turning into something else. Not client and prostitute anymore. I’m looking for a car for her. We text all day long. I’m learning Romanian and I don’t feel like eating—nausea comes in waves.
On our second “date,” if it can even be called that, Barbara asked me whether she could stay here for another three months. That surprised me greatly. What kind of question is that? I’m not her man. This is a brothel, after all. By asking that question, she confirmed her agreement that I would take her away from the brothel—just a bit later.
Yulia is not a simple girl at all—a police officer. Beautiful, smart, and sexy; I can see that even from a great distance. Understanding that she would never meet anyone in Korosten (Ukraine), she filled out a profile at a marriage agency—and ran into me. Imagine that. A man who has seen everything in this life. And she isn’t afraid of that at all—on the contrary, she tries to manage me from afar. We are from different worlds, but at the same time we share the same mentality. About mentality: ours is tougher than the European one.
She abruptly ends conversations, says it’s time to sleep—and I obey. I even like it a little. After all, I’m being guided by my own Ukrainian woman.