#5 – I Don’t Want My Son to See His Father’s Dick

“When I am gone, I’ll still be heard — singing in the voices

Of all my children and their children’s choices.

We’re only switched in time and space — that's how Samsara plays,

A circle spun with human face, oh mama, endless days.”

This Russian rap flowed through Diana’s AirPods as she stepped out of the metro. It was Sunday, just two days after International Women’s Day. That morning, she had swapped roles with her mother: the grandmother had taken her son out for the day, and Diana was, for a moment, a woman unbound—unchained by motherhood or men.

The fluid exchange between Diana and her mother felt almost destined. Their resemblance made it seamless: her mother looked like a young Meryl Streep, and Diana, in turn, was her mother’s mirror.

As Diana stepped out of the metro, she saw the golden domes of a Moscow church — the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. The wind carried the faint, resinous trace of incense from the cathedral, mixed with the citrus scent of a detergent used for washing cars.

One large dome and three smaller ones rose into the sky like a mother with her three daughters, all gleaming with a pure, innocent light. Yet this was the same church where Pussy Riot once performed their punk prayer and were sentenced to two years in prison. The same church where those politicians shamelessly threw drunken parties. The same church that even has its own car wash — reserved for luxury vehicles of the elite.

The weather was perfect for a walk, but her destination was just a short distance from the metro. She was headed to the Institute of the Russian Language, the same building that once served as a residence for Stolypin, the greatest prime minister of the Russian Empire. Her friend had somehow managed to rent an apartment on the third floor, but it was no stranger than the carwash for the luxury cars just beneath the main Moscow church.

She could have asked her friend to meet her outside, but that wasn’t really their routine — they usually just had sex, played PSP, and ate pizza. She got to the third floor, entered the door and saw the bright shine of the Cathedral domes from the windows of her fuck buddy.

His flat was nearly all white—lime-washed brick walls, pale furniture, and a white ceiling.

That day the ceiling seemed to ebb and flow above Diana as her friend rhythmically pressed her into the mattress. She couldn’t reach orgasm through her own touch, so once a week she relied on this warm, muscular body to stimulate her clitoris and vagina, finally allowing herself the long-awaited release.

Her breath caught and unraveled in waves. A warmth bloomed low in her belly and spread through her chest like hot milk—safe, thick, heavy. She gripped him like a child clinging to a parent through a storm. She clung to him tightly, wrapping her legs around his body to still their movement. Above her, the ceiling stopped its rhythmic sway.

The two green eyes of the Maine Coon cat stared at them the entire time they played with each other in bed. Diana was so dazzled by the gleaming cathedral domes and so desperate to relax that she had completely forgotten she’d left her cat with a friend after her son developed an allergy. Now, still naked, she scratched the kitten behind the ear like some ancient ancestor who once chose to tame the wild.

“They're so natural… I mean, cats,” her friend began. “When I have kids, I won’t be ashamed to walk around naked at home. Why should people feel embarrassed about their children seeing the natural human body? Don’t you think so, Diana?”

“Maybe you also propose to show them how we fuck?” Diana replied, frowning her black eyebrows and holding the six-month-old kitten against her bare chest.

“I imagine we can save them from a lot of mistakes by talking about how sex works, and that human bodies are natural.”

“I think you’re insane. Isn’t that kind of perverted? I mean, I definitely wouldn’t want to see my father’s… ding-dong,” Diana noted, her voice like metal.

At that moment, a ding-dong echoed through the apartment—the solemn call of cathedral domes summoning believers to evening liturgy. The domes of Christ the Savior filled people’s ears with the notion of his immaculate conception, which spiritually supported Diana’s point of view: that children shouldn’t be near their fathers’ penises—even at fertilization. She could have used this sign to argue in a more sophisticated way, but she preferred to just use the word “pervert” to assert her point of view.

Calling somebody a pervert means that you know for sure what is right and what is wrong, and it doesn’t allow you to admit your own possible mistake in the future. Because in that case, you become wrong—and that means you are the pervert.

Trying to change the subject, her friend proposed ordering a pizza, and while they were waiting, the PSP joysticks—just like a week ago—welcomed their touches. They played Taken, the analog of Mortal Kombat, and she tried to kill her opponent as if it helped her find an alternative to those Sunday masturbations. She thought about the guy who had given her peonies two days ago, and the pearl on her chain jumped up and down near her naked breasts as she furiously pressed buttons on the joystick.

The pizza they ordered came from IL Patio, a restaurant nestled between the Institute of the Russian Language and the Cathedral. It was a thin crust, topped with bubbling mozzarella, where long, gently curled slices of smoked salmon rested in warmth—exuding a rich, briny aroma with hints of wood smoke and melted cheese—ready to be sent into the warm depths of Diana’s mouth, onto her eager tongue.

The ligaments in her legs, strained from the past hour of sex, ached in protest—pleading for either a proper stretch or at least a decent walk. Her friend hadn’t suggested going out, and now Diana didn’t feel like asking him either. She had already defeated her friend—and any benefits—in the PSP battle. In that moment, she decided with certainty that this relationship was a dead end. She didn’t want his ding-dong anywhere near her six-year-old son—or the daughter she planned to have in her next marriage.

Already standing on the sidewalk, she texted the guy who had recently brought her peonies:
“Hi! Do you think it’s okay to walk around naked at home when there are kids around?”

While waiting for a reply, she walked down Ostozhenka Street, leaving the Institute of the Russian Language behind. Through her AirPods, a song blared:

“I’m going to the Gucci store in Petersburg. Yeah!

She swallows my dick as if it were a burger.”

On her left, she passed Filatov’s house—also known as the Shot Glass House.
Legend has it that Filatov was a heavy drinker, and when his habit nearly drove him to bankruptcy, he commissioned a turret to be built above his five-story home. The turret, shaped like an upside-down shot glass, was meant to remind him not to drink anymore.

Diana didn’t know that story. Instead, she thought the house looked like a scrotum with a shrunken penis—probably designed that way by some eccentric pervert.

Her phone buzzed. A breeze brought the green, earthy scent of thawing soil as her screen lit up. Den had replied: “We live in a society where things like that aren’t acceptable. Just imagine your kid going to kindergarten and saying, ‘Mom walks around naked at home.’ That would be a serious issue.”

Diana’s face relaxed. The tension between her eyebrows eased, and the next building she saw, she really liked. It looked like a little castle, finished in pink ceramic tiles, with tall arched Gothic windows and one large round window that resembled a wind rose. It reminded her of the house her mother lived in, in the suburbs of Moscow. It even smelled, in her memory, of her mother’s rose perfume.

This house is renowned not only because a lion, poised high above, seems ready to leap from the rooftop, but also because it was immortalized in The Master and Margarita by Bulgakov. In the novel, it is the residence of the main female character, Margarita, and the lion famously comes to life as a talking cat—probably a Maine Coon.

Diana hadn’t read the book, but had she done so, she might have quietly drawn a parallel between her mother and Margarita. Like Margarita, her mother lived in that elegant home, surrounded by comfort and wealth, fulfilling the roles others assigned her. Yet, beneath the beauty of her surroundings, she lived without true love. Though never divorced, Diana’s father often lingered in the company of neighboring women, always finding some reason to help—fixing this or that.

To her right, Diana spotted a souvenir shop filled with the usual Russian clichés: an ushanka hat and a set of Matryoshka dolls—wooden figures that nest inside one another, each smaller than the last. The same year the Eiffel Tower debuted at the Paris Exposition, the Matryoshka dolls earned a bronze prize there. The concept behind the toy is simple but symbolic: daughters are like miniature copies of their mothers, sharing the same face, the same fate.

Diana longed to have a daughter too—this time, though, only with the right man.

Near the traditional female Matryoshka dolls stood their male counterparts. Some featured Putin on the outside, with Stalin and Lenin nestled inside. Others were simply layers of Putin—Putin within Putin within Putin. Diana recalled a song she had heard some twenty years ago:

“Someone like Putin — who calms my fears,

Someone like Putin — who dries my tears.

Someone like Putin — who knows my soul,

Someone like Putin — who makes me whole.”

For sure, these dolls had something eternal—their shape resembled domes, and they made children through immaculate conception, since no doll had genitals.

“Genitals make things complex,” thought Diana.