Plus you need more cash for them.” “Good thing you came on such a hot afternoon. Otherwise in an hour or two, she will be servicing her regulars and your Rs 250 won’t even buy you a…(he moved his hand over his cock and rubbed it obscenely). You won’t be able to handle the younger Nepali girls. Pleased as punch at having fleeced me, he patted me on the back avancularly. How was I ever going to fuck this lady—-this would be like raising the Titanic. In other words, none of the tell-tale signs I had thought would tell me that I had arrived at pussy palace and needed only to make a down-payment and start riding. There were one or two girls about but again they looked so ordinary—no ladies in blouse and petticoat winking as far as my eye could see. Not that they were not horny (I have subsequently come to realize this) but in those days when MTV was just taking root and there was no chat, no sex websites and no SMS-ing non-veg jokes, one never got to know which of the girls were No Entry and which were not. As a result, he had lots of cash with little parental supervision. That meant I would envy his escapades and listen with barely concealed awe as he told me his experiences with whores and of playing satta in Chetla. One of my aunts who stayed in Zambia came to India and flush with money sucked off the natives, she displayed her munificence by giving me a sizeable cash “gift”. Consequently, everyone appeared stern and stand-offish, by default. In retrospect, there may have been more than a grain of exaggeration in those tales of debauchery but they were not simple castles in the sky. Sizeable for the standards of those days and for someone as perrenially deprived of cash and pussy as I was. I had to go to my maths tutor and somehow, as if seized by an invisible force fulcrumed near my crotch area, I lost my way and landed near Beadon Street and Chittaranjan Street.
Sure I can see some unsavoury low-lives playing carrom or chatting among themselves. Pot-bellied, sweaty, beaded eyes with a uneven moustache in a faded shirt and pyjamas. Nobody comes here to look and that too on a hot summer afternoon. The guy looked at me and with more than a tinge of threat said: ” Look here son. There were some dirty pictures on the wall of Samantha Fox and other assorted favourites looking down at me like the frescos in Sistine Chapel. I said: “First I want to see you naked.” Having said that I thought: Do I really want to? Somehow the fact that those pimps were not here had made me bold. Everyday the sight of so many girls would send my hormones raging and yet there was nothing I could do to satiate those liquid devils. I used to study in a reputed co-educational school in Calcutta. I cursed myself for not shagging and getting rid of the spermatile pressure that was building in my ball bearings. Since I was a “good boy” and to be honest, I never really trusted that bugger. Men have problems with their memory once they shoot their load.” I did as was told. Once I had bought a pack of condoms just to feel how it is like to wear them.