The Way Home.

The Way Home. (From lived experience. Personal)
The orgasm approached inevitably, but agonizingly slowly, and in the end, mercilessly piling on, crushed him with all its might. Sidorov shuddered, groaned heavily, unsuccessfully trying to inhale air through his widely flared nostrils, then started wheezing. As if a multi-ton concrete slab had pinned his body, squeezing a meager male tear from his bloodshot, bulging eyes. The grimace that distorted his face unclenched his tightly pressed, cyanotic lips, revealing a tongue bitten by implants that had fallen out, from under which a bloody trickle of saliva seeped, flowing into the thick thickets of sweat-matted hair on his heavily heaving chest. A spasm tossed Sidorov up, then his body went limp and he passed out.
Images of a distant barefoot childhood surfaced in his subconscious. An old house, a yard with a skewed, creaky wicket gate, his milkmaid mother with a mug of fresh milk, his eternally tipsy tractor-driver father in a padded jacket and huge dirty boots, overgrown with stubble and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, the cow Murka, smelling of fresh manure and licking the child Sidorov's face with her rough wet tongue, the mangy dog Laika, running around the wretched yard on a rattling chain, impassable mud, simple village life.

— It's time, time to go home! How many years have I not been to my homeland, — Sidorov thought agonizingly and, sighing heavily, drove away the remnants of the fading orgasm.
His clouded consciousness cleared up and he gradually began to distinguish his surroundings - antique furniture, a wall-to-wall TV, a jacuzzi in the corner of a huge salon, a high-priced prostitute lying next to him on the bed.

— Take your bucks, — looking at the girl with disgust, Sidorov wheezed, unfastening $200, — and leave, get out! It's all disgusting, I'm sick of it. Come tomorrow, I need to finish watching this. I can't remember the name of my village. Maybe in my blackout I'll meet one of the neighbors, I'll ask.
Taking a sip of "Whiskey" from a designer glass, Sidorov lit a "Marlboro", sighed heavily, closed his eyes and, turning to the wall, fell silent.