Author of quotes: Victoria Richer

There are men with whom I want to be a woman. Inquiringly, gently tilting your head, squinting through your eyelashes, shaking your head with an understanding look, listening to inspired speeches, glowing with a half-smile of the style "we are of the same blood." I want frankness - but not on all topics, but only on those for which frankness is not accepted, the rest of the topics with them are not important at all. I want an outstretched hand, I want to fall to my shoulder, and also: to know that all this nonsense from books for teenagers is still not quite nonsense. Well, do not whisper "dear", of course, and generally without vulgarity, but somehow. To sparks in the pupils and surprise in the interlocutor, because it is beautiful, because the game. Yes, I, of course, pick up the bag. Yes, I certainly hold. Yes, I definitely never in my life will be able to pour myself tea. I will spill, splash, mix, burn, stretch, fall, break, cut, become infected and die. Thanks. Yes, save. Yes, stir. Yes, stretch. And let them straighten their shoulders and attach themselves: it suits them. Not everyone, only them. With the rest, it looks ridiculous and childish, inappropriate and almost obscene, but just stupid, after all. And with these you can: at least for the fact that only they alone have this tender, weak, unbearable, soft, warm fossa at the neck a little to the shoulder, into which one can be buried in a grateful tired nose. And there are men with whom I want to be a man. Friend, comrade, brother. Thus, with whom “back to back at the mast”, who is a colleague and like-minded person, whose relations are once and for all defined, are warm and understandable, and which you never need to find out. It’s ridiculous. With them there is nothing to find out, with them everything has been clarified in advance, once and for all, and does not require confirmation. Discussing things at work, drinking beer together, watching football, changing clothes in public, not thinking of abandoning the eternally feminine squeaky “turn away”, bathing in the bath, yelling at each other in a fierce debate, forgetting for weeks and remembering suddenly, making friends at home, slowly complaining about each other a friend for lovers and wives, clap on the shoulder, give alcohol, smoke side by side, talk about everything, not crafty, and not think about it - but what, actually. To be equal, without idols and subordinates, to be close without anguish and passion, to be appropriate, like that same beer, may have some friends in common, but never divide women, never divide anything. To be simple, like a stamp on the island of Malibu, on which there are only images - on a white background, the black letter M. There are women with whom you want to be a man. To carry on hands, to hold an umbrella over thin skin, to breathe an iridescent vein on a gentle neck, to delight, to admire. Fingers stroking, albeit mentally, where people are not stroking, and do not care about decency. To embrace. To give flowers, because it's just normal: to give flowers to those who want to give them. Pour, treat, feed, feed even: so thin. Or so pale. Or not thin and not pale, but there is something in her that requires the phrase "my poor girl." A person who knows how to say, with the right intonation, “my poor girl” is the king and God. This is the only phrase that must be seriously taught to those who are going to love those women with whom they want to be a man. And there are women with whom you want to be a woman. Almost a child. Come, fall, even fall, at the feet, at the legs, at the hands, at the eyes, demand, receive, demand again, receive again, or not receive, but it doesn’t matter, and let him feed, feed and look, but look differently hungry dog, and as my mother looked in the old kitchen. Tell everything, and let him react - or not tell anything, and let him guess. Naughty, but not in the name of the game, but because the jeans were torn, and let it sew. To ask you to read aloud to you, and to whine that he is reading something wrong and wrong, and urgently bargain another book, and get it, and send it off to look, and fall asleep without waiting. You will tell me that it is not a matter of belonging to either sex at all, and you will be right. You will tell me that in any person a combination of all these traits can be in different proportions - and you will be right. You will tell me that it does not happen that both the first and the second are in one glass, that different people perceive differently and that everything is multifaceted. You will be right again. You will tell me that all this had to be explained in other words, and that was not the point. Well yes. But there are men with whom I want to be a woman. And there are women with whom you want to be a man.