Soulsaving virginity

As if the night had come too early, the spring darkness of Kyiv was heavy and damp. Wet from the constant rain, the streets were still deserted, but alive with the downpours, the wind that yawned on our skin, and the wet shoes that vibrated on the sidewalk.

He was tall and walked beside me. It was our first date. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if he had a habit of defending himself. The black, wet coat seemed too wide. His curly brown curls clung to his caramel skull, and the rain dripped from his hair in almost a trickle. He had the face of a 90s movie star with sculpted cheekbones, a seductive, sleepy smile, and warm but slightly icy eyes. Even when they weren’t looking at you, they seemed to be secretly studying you.

I made an effort to control myself, but for some reason, halfway to the metro, my heart naturally started to beat. If he hadn't been acting like a fool, his soft voice and funny Arabic accent might have calmed me down.

In the midst of an epic tirade about the difficulties of being a man in 2024, he abruptly asked me, "Do you like rain?".

I squinted as I watched him from behind the umbrella:

“I’d stand in the rain forever to listen to some stupid philosopher babble on about vulnerable masculinity.”

He seemed to miss the irony in my words because of his slightly elevated smile. I bit my lips and felt peachy flavor of the lip oil, which I always use in a cold weather. 

“Rain is cleansing. You know, it takes the crap out of you—it washes away all the crap. Even from your thoughts.”

“You haven’t felt that amazing effect yet, have you?” I joked.

He stopped talking. After maybe two more blocks of walking, I thought we should hide in a pub to relax and dry off. But he kept walking, as if he knew exactly where he was taking us.

“How long do we have to go?” I said plaintively. My leather boots were already losing the war to the muddy puddles.

“Just a little more. We’re almost there.” His gaze roamed over my body. “Are you cold?”

“No,” I said. “Your unpredictable nature makes me feel warm.”

He laughed. His caramel eyes sparkled.

“You’re a funny boy,” he said. “Not like the others.”

“Um…thanks…I guess.”

He fell silent again. I didn’t see anyone on the streets when we turned into the alley. Too deserted, even on a rainy evening.

“Hey, if you’re taking me somewhere too far, please tell me where we’re going.” I tried to sound easy, but my voice was filled with impatient irritation.

He tilted his head toward me.

“You’ll like it. This place is amazing.”

“I trust you like I trust my hairdresser, but you could have at least warned me if you were planning something mysterious.”

We kept walking until the city lights turned into a gray fog. After a few more blocks, we were enveloped in the dim light of streetlights. . The only sounds around us were the rain beating against my umbrella overhead and our footsteps.

A vacant lot loomed before us as we rounded the corner. An old, abandoned house with cracked windows. The branches of the surrounding trees looked like the twisted hands of the dead.

He said,

“We’re here.”

I stopped, feeling my legs weaken.

“Are you serious?”

He reached out and grabbed my wrist.

“Follow me.”

“Listen, I’m not a fan of abandoned houses or horror movies. Maybe we should head back to the city center?”

He took a step toward me, and I felt my heart start to beat faster.

“I said follow me,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

I had no choice but to obey.

We entered the building. Inside it was even darker than outside. The only room was filled with a deadly green light. A shabby wooden table, covered with a pile of books, hid a cast-iron plate.

I dared to sit on the only surviving chair. There was only one thought running through my mind: "If I'm destined to die right here and right now, then I need to pray. I need to ask God for forgiveness for all my sins."

The guy took something out of his pocket. Judging by the sound, it was a matchbox. He moved the table, threw some wood into the stove, and lit the fireplace with a piece of paper from the table.

"This is my grandfather's house," he said, coming up to me. "His name was Amir, like mine. And he... He died defending this city from the Russians in 2022."

"I'm so sorry," I replied.

"You don't have to feel sorry for me," he waved his hand sharply, but there was something soft, almost vulnerable in his voice. "I'd rather tell you why we're here."

I clenched my jaw, expecting anything from a story about dark family secrets to another strange pranks. But instead he suddenly sat down opposite me, leaned over the fire, and continued:

"Grandpa built this house himself. I thought they would tear it down when the war was over. But you know what? They left it."

He opened a drawer on his desk and took out a small copper samovar. Then from the same cupboard he took out a small jar of tea.

“You wanted to go to the bar, right? “, He smiled in a way that made me feel warm for the first time that evening. 

“But instead of a cocktail, we’re going to have the best tea you’ve ever had.”

I stared at him, not knowing how to react.

“Grandpa told me that this tea brings good luck. And…” He looked at me with a serious, almost solemn expression on his face, “I decided to drink it with someone special today.”

I felt how my tension fades, replaced by a strange, inexplicable lightness.

“Are you serious? Magic tea for me to stop complaining about the rain?”

“Not only that,” he poured water into the samovar, and the faint smell of wet wood and warm iron filled the room. “Each of us has our own stories. And our own people to share them with.”

“So I’m your audience now?” — I said, taking the hot mug from his hands.

— You are not just an audience, — he said, looking me straight in the eye. — You are my guest. That means a lot to an Easterner.

His words sounded unexpectedly sincere, and I felt the strange heaviness in my chest that had accumulated over the evening begin to disappear.

The tea was delicious and rich, with a slight bitterness. We sat by the fire, and he told me about his grandfather—how the Russians had shot him when they found out that he had treated them to poisoned pies. The guy showed me a portrait. A gray-haired old man in a beret, somewhat reminiscent of Hemingway, sat on the threshold of a colorful house. I recognized the carvings on the windows. So this is what this building looked like before it was demolished.

— Have you ever been with a man before? — he asked. — You know... In a sexual sense.

I took a big sip of tea. My cheeks grew warmer and probably redder.

“Um… I don’t think I should tell you about this.”

“Just as I thought. Chaste,” he said, his voice seemed strangely proud.

Silence filled the space. All I could hear was the crackling of the fire.

“You know, this place is really special,” I said finally.

“I told you. It’s scary. But it’s healing.”

When I left the house, the rain had stopped. The air was fresh, and for the first time in a long time I felt calm inside.

“Thanks for the tea,” I said, turning around. But the guy was gone. The orange light from the fireplace still flickered in the cracked windows.

The next morning I decided to learn more about this building. I Googled: “Abandoned house, Dobra Street, Kyiv.”

The latest news immediately appeared on the screen. 

“A maniac, who killed and raped exclusively gay men, in the Kyiv region for six months has settled in an abandoned building near the forest on Dobra Street,” said the first article I came across. “Last evening, the city police were following the criminal. The man, who resisted law enforcement officers, and they had to use firearms. A mug with a trace of lip balm was found at the scene. These traces were probably left by the latest victim of the serial rapist.”

I repeated in a whisper several times: “God Almighty, God Almighty, God Almighty.” 

I swallowed my saliva and exhaled deeply. No more Tinder dates. I’m searching for the next guy at Sunday mass.