Prologue

 

The name of the painter Nikola Matovic as a modern Raskolnikov is still on everyone's lips. Only a few months ago, the named artist killed a Swiss Countess who was nearly three times older than him in a manner that all debauchers would call the best ... with an orgasmic heart attack. Except for the fact that the silver-haired lady wearing a witch costume died during sexual intercourse and left her enormous wealth to her young husband, there weren't many proven details about Mrs. Vanfonherden's scandalous tragedy. All sorts of speculations circulated in the media, some even claimed that Nikola was poisoning his wife and intentionally exposing her to too much excitement. But the autopsy didn't find any traces of illicit substances in her system and the aforementioned excitement couldn't be the basis for prosecution since you can't bring a man to trial just because he was making love to his wife.

Matovic called me and said that he would like me to write a book about him. I have no idea how he came across my phone number, but I do know that I'm not an established writer and that a novel linked to any kind of publicity would launch me to a better position than the one I'm in now. The painter moved to a house on the outskirts of Belgrade. Without a trace of hesitation, risking to become the victim of a practical joke that my idle buddies schemed, the next morning I went where I was told to. I walked through the open gate, crossed the stone pathway framed with weeping willows and ringed on the door of the large two-story stone house covered with dark wood.

After a few moments, the artist appeared. He was dressed casually in a Hawaiian shirt, swimming trunks and flip-flops. Matovic greeted me kindly, "Sorry for waiting. I wish you a good day. Follow me to the studio, don't ask any questions and close the door behind you."

With those words, he turned and hurried forward. We passed through the anteroom, a narrow corridor, a huge living room full of books and paintings, climbed the spiral stairs to the dark attic and ended in the place where we will actually start ... in his studio.

"This is my little private gallery. My favorite. It is called Stories from the Brothel," he said. "And you are the first who has seen it, after the Countess."

I made a few hesitant steps on the creaking floorboards to take a look at his works. There were no women on the paintings, which was unusual. I could see high school students with backpacks and bottles of rakia, cabbies, priests with babies, cookies, buildings, strange white hills and many more objects that seemed randomly thrown together, but there wasn't even one hint of a female being. I opened my mouth to say something about that, but he preceded me.

"Answer my question with a short yes or no," Matovic said curtly. "Do you hear me clear enough to understand what I'm telling you with crystal clarity?"

"Yes," I answered confusedly.

"Okay. First of all, you have to keep in mind that it is crucially important to protect my identity. Whatever you decide to do, write and publish ... my identity must remain completely hidden! Am I clear?"

"Yes," I replied briefly, although I couldn't understand why this eccentric man who was dancing on the edge of a knife between sanity and insanity was insisting on secrecy? He surely knows that his name is on everyone's tongue on TV and in the papers for days now.

"Okay," he said. "The next thing I want is authenticity! Am I clear?"

"I don't understand."

"Answer with a yes or no!" Matovic shouted. "If you don't understand, then I wasn't clear enough. I will clarify! These paintings are true stories from Belgrade brothels. And there must be no blanketing. Everything must be the way I tell you."

I looked at him cluelessly.

"Vulgarity! I'm talking about crudity. If a man is able to put souffle in his mouth, turn it into shit and push it out as feces, then he is a being of vulgarity. And in his pants, he doesn't have a penis, but a dick. His life is a fucking show in which he scores a success only when he shags the people he has been jerking off to. We exist because someone fucked our mothers. And that happened long before we had a brain to think. So, dear Descartes, rest in peace, but you thought and existed only because someone screwed your mother. And the history of humanity created by sex without condoms is a long orgy that is slowly yet unquestionably losing control..." he kept talking. "And because of these irrefutable facts, my stories must be real. Or vulgar. Am I clear now?"

"Yes," I replied.

"The next important thing is to explain why I chose you, Nikola Misovic." He took a deep breath and clarified. "I have read your novel ʻThe Murder of Santa Clause'. While reading the conversation on the bridge between virtuous, moral Vasilii and the potential suicidal guy, I felt that spark. I felt that we share the same passion for women. For whores!"

"I don't have such a passion."

"Don't interrupt me. It doesn't matter what you say. What I think matters and I think that a literary character whose decision to commit suicide is triggered by the lack of money to pay a whore must be the creation of a man who is squirming in a quicksand of brothel passions," he said. "And that's why I am offering you the chance to write the manuscript as well as the money for the first circulation of five thousand copies and aggressive marketing."

"But I have no passion for..."

"You can't say," the artist interrupted me again, "that you have never been in a brothel. I can see it in your eyes. How they light up when you hear the word whore! You love them! Because you know the truth. And the truth is that no work of man, however great it was, throughout the centuries can't be raised to the heights a woman's beauty can reach in the blink of an eye. There is no reason to waste time any further. I was completely clear about everything I wished to say. Absolute secrecy and certain vulgarity. Are you ready for that?"

"Yes," I answered resolutely.

"Good. They say that a painting is worth a thousand words. And if a painting can't speak for itself, then it isn't good. I don't agree. Actually, I believe in the very opposite. Speech is for mouths. A painting should be silent because it has its creator who can talk about it. You don't see a pussy on the canvas, but I will explain where it is hiding. Behind each painting is a story which embellished the canvases with paints through my hand," Matovic concluded.

Then he approached the first painting, showed me the name under it and, emphasizing that I shouldn't interrupt him no matter what, began his story.

 

 

Chapter One

The First Circle of Hell ... Popping The Cherry

 

That day, I resolved to lose my virginity. Since school classes were in the afternoon, I had the whole morning to figure out how to do it. I wanted a beautiful, attractive and provocatively dressed girl. But there weren't such girls in my surroundings, which left me only one choice: a hooker. And even if there were girls like that around me, it is a big question whether my charm and physical appearance were good enough to grant me an invitation between their legs. Were there any girls willing to fuck with me for free? Sure there were. I just needed to make a small effort but, as you might already sense, I am a specific person. If I can't have the girl I like, I will rather spend my whole life jerking off while thinking about her than fucking the one that doesn't attract me.

It doesn't matter to me whether a girl loves me or not. Or if she unconditionally surrenders to me, or what kind of person she is. I don't care if she is faithful, promiscuous or avaricious. The most important thing to me is that she haves beautiful feet. Nails on hands and feet must be regularly subjected to skilled manicures and pedicures. I prefer red nail polish and lipstick. Yes, I have a foot fetish, but another painting speaks about that. The third important thing beside her feet and hands is her look. Not her eyes, not their color, size and shape. But their look. They must have something wild. Wild, or should I say untamed. Evasive. I don't like when a woman looks at me like a sheep. I can't stand monotony in the eyes of the ones I fuck. When I look at them, I want to feel like I am driving a motorcycle and only one moment of carelessness is standing between death and me in the darkness of an empty highway, while the throbbing of wheels fills my ears and air slaps my face. It may seem a bit weird to hear that there were no ladies around me who could satisfy my tastes since many will say how our city is overflowing with beautiful girls. But my dear namesake, I assure you that it was rare to come across a girl that had all the required attributes.

If she had a beautiful face and gorgeous body, her nails weren't manicured. "Well, that's the least of your problems," people would say, glad to criticize me. "She only has to put some nail polish."

But I am talking about the psychological moment. Why didn't she already get her nails done? How could she step on the street without a manicure and pedicure? Why isn't she committed to her aesthetics? I want a girl whose instincts, together with the breathing reflex, make her pursue beauty. And I don't want her to be beautiful and glam up for my sake. No, I want her to look beautiful for herself whether I am by her side or not.

And even if she was gifted with beauty and the urge to groom herself, her style would ruin what otherwise promised to be a perfect whole. She would dress plainly, like some pre-war auntie who baked a pie in the morning and headed to her little nephew's birthday party in the afternoon. And she looked at you and laughed like a calf. Without an ounce of boldness or seduction in her eyes. I have heard so many times that physical appearance isn't everything, but my heart would not pump blood into my penis without it, and my soul trembled at the thought that I would end with a girl like that one day. Of course, there were attractive ladies whose existence embodied everything that I loved. Or, rather, adored. They wore high heels, had beautiful hands and feet, big breasts, phenomenal style, beautiful hairstyles, penetrating eyes, and to my disadvantage, a perception that didn't allow them to consider me as a potential sexual partner. Sometimes, I would come across my vision of a sexually desirable girl while walking down Njegoseva or Knez Mihailo Street, but most often I met them in nightclubs. They were sitting in booths, alone or in the company of a handful of guys, drinking glamorous champagne in long glasses as elegant as their lovely fingers which were holding them.

When I had just started going to nightclubs, the question was whether one of the guys was their boyfriend because I didn't want to cause any trouble. However, on several occasions, those enchanting ladies happened to be alone. I didn't have money to sit in a booth and usually stood at the bar so I had to wade through the crowd to get to them. I would wave to the girl, approach and offer her my hand. She would look at me in astonishment and accept my hand with disbelief. I would ask for her name and does she have a boyfriend. The girl usually wouldn't respond or just mumble something before turning her head. I would get the message and leave to save face. After a while, I changed my approach. Instead of stepping to the booth, I would approach from the side and wave. The outcome was the same. I was an athletic guy, but it occurred to me that maybe I should pump my neck and biceps some more. I addressed that issue but it didn't help. I wasn't too surprised since many guys who enjoyed the company and kisses of those interesting girls looked quite unsportsmanlike. Something else was the problem. I thought that I might be ugly. In the end, it occurred to me that the obstacle could be a combination of aesthetics and lousy pick-up lines.

However, all the shortcomings of this world couldn't change my desires or make me give up. After all, persistent boys manage to take girls to bed, not the pretty ones. Only later did I realize that persistence could become boring and that a boy doesn't get to fuck if he doesn't have a fat wallet or isn't good friends with the girl's astrologer. Given the circumstances, I think it's quite clear why I had to turn to whores.

Let's get back to the story. So, I decided to lose my virginity and a task of indescribable importance presented itself. Even before I found a prostitute, I had to make sure that I will leave the impression of a great lover. As soon as I woke up, I went to the bathroom and shaved my pubic hair to make my dick look as big as possible. However, size isn't the only relevant factor for acquiring the image of Casanova. You need to show experience. Knowledge. Sensibility. Or at least endurance, if you want a girl to believe that you were with many women before her. I had cardio workouts all day, if you understand what I mean? I will be explicit, just in case.

From the moment I woke up until I went to school, I jerked off. I came four or five times. Since my cock jumped whenever a dressed girlfriend sat on my lap, I was convinced that the touch of a naked woman would make me explode. After I fixed those two problems, the third one was easy. It was necessary to invent an explanation for seeking out a hooker. I planned to say, "Listen, after two long relationships, I'm disappointed in love and now I just want to chill out and change chicks." All my friends had lost their virginity when they were sixteen-year-olds. What was interesting and common for all of them was that the young ladies with whom they had sex for the first time left soon after that or, rather, traveled to exotic destinations and nobody heard about them again.

One friend, Vuk, had a really turbulent first relationship. According to his story, he started shagging his girlfriend when he was fifteen, but not only that ... he often had to flee from her parents who had a habbit of appearing suddenly. That's why he had to hide in the tub and behind the curtain, squat in the wardrobe, stand naked on the windowsill, and sometimes even hang from it... I didn't believe him since it was obvious that he was lying.

Later, I found out that lying was his pathology and often told him, "If you were Pinocchio, you would be guilty for the end of the world because your nose would puncture God regardless of how far away you lived."

He would always curse me. But I have strayed from the topic. So, I was faced with the problem of finding a prostitute. My friend Damir agreed to look for a brothel with me after school.

"It will be easy," he assured me. "We will ask taxi drivers where we can get a massage with a happy ending. They know everything."

When I got home, I threw my school bag and took a shower. Then, in order to ensure endurance, I jerked off once more. I told my parents that I'm going for a walk with a friend, put two hundred euros in my pocket and walked out. The money was saved from my eighteenth birthday a month ago, October the 9th, when my godfather gave me five hundred euros.

Damir, a foot taller than average guys, with 120 kg of doughy skin and a stomach like a pregnant woman carrying five babies in her womb, was walking in front of me. He approached the cabbies, knocked on their windows, bent and asked with a smile, "Good evening. Do you know where we could get a massage with a happy ending?"

They smiled and replied that they didn't know. Nevertheless, we continued enthusiastically. Night had already fallen when we came across a tall man with long hair and a roguish face behind the wheel of a gray cab.

When Damir repeated his question to the cabby called Dejan, he laughed and exclaimed, "So, you two champions want to fuck?"

"Yes," Damir confirmed. We were grinning from ear to ear. Dejan explained that there is a well-known brothel in a suburb before Novi Sad. He added that he could take us there and wait for sixty euros. Fear raced through my gut. I knew that prostitution was illegal in Serbia and I assumed that there were many tricks. My brain immediately envisioned the worst scenario: Organ trafficking.

My mother's furious ravings echoed in my ears, "Just fool around God-knows-where with all sorts of bums until someone abducts you and rips all your organs! Then you won't be able to cry for your mum or dad! If you manage to survive! Without kidneys! Without a liver!"

This Dejan will take two kids to that kind of place, where other criminals will be waiting. Then they will throw us in a basement, stun us with gas, take what they need and leave us to bleed to death. Is he crazy? I am an athlete, but what good could the intestines of my fat pal be to him? Maybe it isn't organ trafficking after all.

"If you wish me to go along, I want you to treat me to a girl," Damir said.

He sensed that I didn't want to go alone and decided to reap something from it. The taxi driver wanted sixty euros, as much as a whore charged for thirty minutes. I didn't want to squander all my money, so I promised to treat him next time. Damir accepted unwillingly and we entered the vehicle.

I didn't talk much during the drive. Damir had no idea that I was a virgin and was already pestering me with questions. "Why would someone with such an athletic body go to a hooker? Why don't you make out with some girl from school, many would gladly fuck with you?"

If he found out that I was a virgin, he would make fun of me for the rest of my life. Damir popped his cherry when he was sixteen in Red Light District in Amsterdam.

Of course, I kept silent about my preferences, even with my closest friends. The girl had to be an attractive slut with red nail polish and high heels; otherwise I will remain a virgin my whole life. I'm not interested in other girls. The very idea of screwing an ordinary girl made me sick. Of course, an erection might occur, and a very stiff one too. I could strip, jam it into her and release myself, but it reminded of going to the bathroom. When you put it off for a long time and finally take a dump, the feeling is great on every toilet bowl, but the ass is always dirty. You can wipe your asshole with toilet paper, but you can't wash away the memory of desecrating yourself with a girl just because you wanted a substitute for your right hand... I would have to live with that memory.