At times it became quite sad. The fact that I found gay meeting places did not live up to my expectations. I stopped visiting these places, because I realized that it was useless. One evening - it was in the late 1960s – passing through a railway station I met a guy. It turned out that he was from a small town two miles kilometers from our Big City. Blond, tall, broad-boned, with a simple plain face. I don't even remember his name. He worked at the Research Institute of Antibiotics, as a laboratory assistant, or something. He worked night shifts sometimes. It was on one of his night shifts that we went to his institute. I remember the smell of penicillin mold that wafted throughout the building. In some laboratory, among the autoclaves, we pushed six chairs together and lay down on them. It was good with him. We had a fuck. True, the chairs were constantly moving apart ... Later, he came to me several times to my suburb, when I was alone in the house. I liked that he had a man's ass, with pimples. I don’t remember anything else, how we broke up and why. Only now, several decades later, when often passing by train along this railway - it is a seedy and abandoned place, almost extinct, a rundown railway station - I remember that I once had someone from here, there was a person here, who left fond memories. Memories are vague, weak and immediately crumbling if I try to delve into them.
