I’ve always craved friends. True kindred spirits. As it turned out, I had been starved of this connection since childhood, and those who were supposed to be my closest family, alas, played the exact opposite roles.

I used to actually blow out birthday candles and make New Year’s wishes for my people to finally show up. Sure, cynics will smirk and say it makes more sense to ask the Universe for a billion bucks. And yes, being lonely at a five-star resort is certainly more glamorous, but the absolute value of genuine intimacy is immeasurable.

And then, my little miracle: out of nowhere, a friend appeared! Her predecessor, a college classmate, after years of friendship, couldn't find the time to offer a word of support when a deranged stalker who had been threatening me actually showed up to kill me. Right at that exact moment, she was swamped with highly crucial business at her daycare job (not even at NASA, though even there, one could carve out a minute).

Nine years have passed since then. And suddenly, I’m having girl talk again, hopping on calls in whatever state I happen to be in, and I am ridiculously happy about it.

A friend! Of my very own. After all these years. It’s both bizarre and profoundly beautiful.

As for the birthday loot, I scored a badass smartwatch! It talks to me during my runs and gives me a full debrief on my athletic output afterward. Better yet, there are entire online forums filled with psychos—proud owners of the exact same watch—who trade custom watch faces and geeky tech hacks. And I am now an honorary member of their club.

My academic advisor once told me that you don't make new friends after thirty. Supposedly, they only come from your childhood. But if the childhood inside us survives and reaches out to the childhood in someone else’s soul—doesn't that mean we can still build a friendship? These are exactly the kinds of miracles that happen even after you've completely stopped believing in them.

Author's photo, July 23

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel

The chrome-gleaming column rolled along the Kyiv embankment. Traffic in the oncoming lanes had been brought to a dead halt. And as luck would have it, it was packed bumper-to-bumper. Frozen in forced anticipation, the drivers stared at the bikers cruising slowly past, practically radiating pure badassery. They took their time, letting the crowd get a good, long look.

If raw, living swagger exists in this world, this was it. Basking in the gaze of the entire city, the riders wore expressions of grandeur and triumphant power! And the sheer volume of sexual energy oozing from some three hundred rugged men, decked out for the occasion in every piece of obligatory biker hardware... The absolute luxury in the way they steered their tricked-out steel steeds!

I was riding pillion behind one of these tough guys, a man practically dripping with chiseled, legendary masculinity. A handsome, brooding foreigner who had ridden in for the festival had wrapped me in his massive jacket, pulling over right on the Paton Bridge to do it. He did this over my protests after getting no answer to his question:

"Are you cold?"

He simply touched my ice-cold fingers as they clung to his torso.

Once I thawed out, pressing myself hard against my escort's back, I could finally appreciate the miles he was wringing out of his iron beast. Sure, it felt like I was about to fly right over his shoulders and dissolve into the drizzling May rain above the Dnipro River, but mostly there was just the sensation of flight—and, oddly enough, complete safety. A serene sense of security at 110 miles per hour.

Among the onlookers watching this strutting pack was an unassuming kid of about twenty. His totally beat-up junker barely qualified as a motorcycle. Did "that" actually run? Judging by its spot in the third lane of the highway—it was still kicking.

The owner's grimy, tattered clothes clung to a scrawny, fine-boned frame. Aside from some shiny studs sewn onto a leather jacket that clearly belonged to his dad (judging by the oversized fit), the little D’Artagnan had absolutely nothing to boast about. Yet his proud posture and high-held head carried more weight than ten potbellied guys on priceless Harleys. And then there was his gaze—touching, yet so deliberately fierce. God, he was endearing, this defiant little stray!

And all these expensive, intensely magnetic birds of prey (modern bikers aren’t cheap thugs; they’re successful businessmen out blowing off steam) nodded to him as they cruised past. Calmly. Without a shred of arrogance. And the boy... He nodded back as an equal. No fawning, no groveling gratitude like, "Thank ye kindly, milords, for noticing a lowly peasant like me!" He just greeted them as one of their own, because he truly felt like one of their own. And they recognized it, too.

Groveling is repulsive. You only get accepted into the pack if you're an equal. That’s exactly why the only master you should ever serve is yourself. That fierce little kid was the absolute embodiment of this psychological truth.

You tiny little man. Just how massive you were in that moment...

Photos and video by the author

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel

The sheer variety of dicks and balls I saw today was staggering. Sometimes, there were truly astonishing specimens... There were plenty of naked female bodies, too. Against this backdrop, it feels especially wonderful to know you're beautiful. And completely uninhibited—I lay there fully sprawled out, while so many others tensed up, hunching over to hide themselves.

No, this isn't a description of group sex. I was at the nudist beach in Hydropark. We were ferried there and back on a little boat. The ferryman had the exact vibe of a seasoned cabbie. Just on a river.

This place is highly therapeutic. If your self-esteem rides a rollercoaster because of your physical assets and flaws—go to a beach like this. It’s only on social media that we're all competing in a beauty pageant. In our natural state, it’s just reality. And it’s not scary—it’s hilarious! EVERYONE is flawed. EVERYONE. And when you see other people's imperfections, it's so much easier to forgive your own...

By the way, people without clothes seem far more alive and relatable. It evokes this lovely, warm feeling of openness.

Next, we hit an amusement ride called the Cosmic Swings. It spins its passengers at high speed, like the blades of a fan. Plus, the entire contraption swings back and forth.

Ahem. As someone who has skydived, I can confidently declare: this absolute madhouse is much more terrifying. At first, I was laughing with pure delight and screaming at the top of my lungs. But at some point, it got nasty. Not funny anymore, just purely terrifying.

Yeah, they strapped us in with chains and harnesses, which initially seemed like overkill. Oh, right! Suddenly, I was terrified they wouldn't be enough. And the carnie kid running the ride was going all out—thinking I’d gone quiet out of boredom, he cranked it up even faster. I had a lump in my throat and only one single emotion left: the desperate hope of making it out alive... I couldn't ask him to stop, because I knew I'd regret it later, and everyone would think I was a total wimp.

"Want to go faster?" he yelled up cheerfully from below.

Little pervert.

It felt exactly like having sex with a very strong, highly energetic, but hopelessly incompetent lover. He just rattles you around while you're lying there thinking, "When the hell is this going to end?" My hands were shaking afterward. Though at the very end, hanging upside down, I did burst out laughing. It's weird, but I’d probably do it again.

"I need the restroom," I told the security guard at the restaurant across the way.

A flash of fawning subservience crossed his eyes; he sprang into action and personally escorted me to the spot. A waitress swooped in, instantly flipping on the lights and throwing the doors wide open.

"Just how much does a coffee cost here?" I asked my date, after recounting this level of service practically unheard of in the post-Soviet world.

I would definitely go back to that restaurant. If only to use the bathroom like that again...

We also saw a disco for the over-60 crowd. Walked past it twice, and both times I wanted to sob. The elderly go there to meet people and escape their loneliness.

But some of them are still very much alive. This one bearded grandpa was dancing his heart out!

The most professional waltz! His partner was great too, but he was the one who truly stole the show... And when he spun her, she would rise up on her tiptoes.

Ghosts of a bygone century. There is nothing more important than connection and love. Than dances like these, just for the sake of a conversation and an embrace. Hydropark used to be a paradise for Soviet kids. It was so surreal walking through it as an adult. And terrifying! Because if we were kids once, and that time has passed, it means one day we might also end up at that over-60s disco...

So, we have to live right now. Love, play, fly, and absolutely devour life...

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel

In our sprawling nine-story apartment building lived a melancholy old woman. She was utterly alone; her grandson had passed away. I was probably the only soul around who had a soft spot for her, and the feeling was entirely mutual. She was relentlessly bullied by a coven of ancient neighbors who perpetually staked out the bench by the front entrance. That day, she gave me a call:

"The hyenas are whispering about you again! Gossiping about your outfits and where you're going! Put on something absolutely spectacular so those old hags die of envy, and strut right past them! Let them choke on it!"

Alright then, I thought. It was the perfect excuse to take my newly sewn masterpiece out for a spin.

And right on cue, the downstairs tribunal bench was packed with my "most devoted friends." Oh, yes... at the sight of my shimmering, golden gown, their jaws practically unhinged. The absolute sensation of the season.

I meant to head upstairs to my co-conspirator to make her day, but suddenly she marched out the doors herself. Looking utterly triumphant, right in front of the enemy lines, she began showering me with compliments. It takes so incredibly little to make a human being happy. Sometimes, it’s just a new dress. Even someone else’s.

Emotions were running at an absolute fever pitch that day: Grandma was bursting with vindication, her rivals were seething with bitter spite, I was sparkling with pure joy, and even the random passersby couldn't help but smile in satisfaction. Total victory!

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel