Fucking Diary

Blank Page

Dear diary, dear reader, and maybe… dear readers.

There you go, that’s the beginning. This blank page, offered before me like bare skin, awaits my words, my sentences, my memories, my fantasies... my life.

My life is not very long—officially. I am twenty-five years old. But I feel like I have lived a hundred. Or a thousand.

Existences stacked on top of each other. Faces, cities, beds, departures. Bodies too, often. Many.

I am Kristina Sylvanevna T. — daughter of Sylvain T., a french diplomat, and Ania Leonidovna D., an ukrainian woman as beautiful as she is wild, with clear eyes like the Dnieper in winter.

I was born on a hot morning of June 12, 2000, in Rostov-on-Don, a large city in the south of Russia. A city tense between two worlds, like me.

One million inhabitants, a harsh post-Soviet city center, suburbs with cracked concrete, noisy markets, girls in mini-skirts in summer, men who smoke and scream. The Don flows in the distance, lazy.

In summer, the city is cooked. The alleys smell of dust and overripe watermelons. Stray dogs lie down under burning cars.

In winter, everything freezes, then everything melts. The snow becomes mud, the sidewalks are traps. I have always found it beautiful. Tragic, dirty, alive.

I am Gemini. Two faces? No. Three. Sometimes four. It depends on the moon.

For the Chinese, I am Dragon. And they, they were not mistaken: I have fire in my veins, claws under my red nails, and a hunger that nothing calms.

My father, Sylvain, was stationed in Kiev when he met my mother. A look in a theater, a cigarette shared under the snow, and the rest followed.

They got married quickly, in the Russian style. And then we moved to Rostov, where my father headed the Alliance Française. He believed in culture, books, bridges between languages. My mother, she, believed in him.

I have a brother, Sasha. He is four years younger than me, but sometimes I feel like I’m his mother, sister, father, anchor.

The year I turned 14, everything changed. A snowy road. A car that slides. A tree. One night.

And then nothing more.

My parents are dead.

There were only two of us left. And no one really wanted us.

Except my maternal grandparents, in the gray suburbs of Kiev. A small cold building, at the rickety entrance, with worn ground.

Mamina, dry but dignified. Diedouchka, silent, former physics teacher, skin spotted by years and memories.

They took us in. They did what they could. And me... I started to become someone else.

Sex arrived like a slow poison. Or like a power, on the contrary. Maybe both.

I did not look for him. He is the one who found me. And since then, he has lived with me.

He guides me, he pushes me, he sometimes loses me. He is my chaos and my outlet.

It is him that I am going to tell here.

My desires, my nights, my excesses.

Not to shock. Not to seduce.

Just... to remember.

If you open this notebook, it’s because you want to know.

Then come.

I will tell you everything.

To say that today, I am in France, a few kilometers from Paris.

Another city, another life. Polite faces, overfull metros, bakeries that smell like hot butter, and people who pretend not to look at each other.

Diedouchka passed away a few years ago.

His ending was sweet, almost clean. He faded away like an old yellowed paper, silently, in his armchair, hands crossed on his stomach.

Mamina, she, left at the very beginning of the pandemic. Blown by a horrible coronary crisis, in the middle of the night.

We didn’t even watch over her properly. No ceremony. No farewell. Just a call from the hospital and a plastic bag.

I cried for a long time, then I stopped.

Sasha, my little brother, this tender and loyal fool, has enrolled in the army.

He says that he "defends Ukraine", but he does not understand that he serves two crazy camps, that he threw himself into a bloody trap that transcends everything.

He still believes that one can be a hero in this world. It’s noble. It’s silly. It’s him.

And me?

I have been in a relationship for six months with my roommate Valeria.

A nervous, funny brunette with a mouth too big and a laugh too loud. We love each other like two cats that turn around, we sleep naked, close together, or at the opposite, depending on the nights.

It’s soft. It’s simple. It’s rare.

I found a semblance of peace.

I work as a receptionist in a big business real estate company. I have an access card, a badge with my name on it, a well-placed voice when I pick up.

And when I go out, I become me again.

I read a lot.

I write here.

I take photos, sometimes more daring videos, when I feel like playing with the gaze of others.

I discuss on social networks, I observe, I provoke.

I go to the gym two or three times a week to keep in shape — and my ass is amazing, as Valeria says while slamming my buttock in the bathroom.

And today, the call of this newspaper has become obvious.

This is where I want to put all that: my nights, my bodies, my wounds, my games, my fantasies, my encounters, my demons.

Everything I am going to write is true. Or almost.

Yes, I have fictionalized some memories. Because it takes a bit of velvet to slip the bite.

But what you will read here—the crude words, the harsh scenes, the caresses, the rattles, the submissions and the impulses — is me.

If you are afraid of dirty words, naked bodies, truths that stick... close this notebook.

Otherwise: stay. Read.

And above all, write to me.

Your words, your criticisms, your kisses or your slaps, I take them all.

Kristina.