A young man's story about his insatiable mother.
My mother was a woman irrepressible. Batya woke me up a couple of times overnight. And during the day when we ran away, she dragged him to bed. Times were Soviet, all on trust, so even the thought did not occur to put a hook on the door. And quite often, running home for something, we saw our parents lying in bed in broad daylight. Dad was older than his mother, sicker. And then he cleaned up. And it was just us. There wasn't much to go around in the village and Mom's appetite was over. She didn't quite humble herself, found ways to amuse the flesh, passion and thirst to quench it, but she didn't take anyone home. We were at the age when we could make the conditions. The house was big, without a man it was bad, the farm. Thank God I was fifteen years old, my shoulders moved apart, my muscles poured, I got stronger myself. I started looking at the girls, wondering: what are they hiding under the hem there? And he started to look at Mom differently. I saw a woman in h...