I hate you, I hate you with all my heart,
I will fell trees if they are meant to break your back.
I will leave you rotting in hell to face devil's wrath.
But still, I want to fuck you before all that.
-Jester of Sodomia
"Yes, I am wearing a grey T-shirt, can you see me?" I asked, panting like a dog in hot afternoon, wondering how much of the deodrant still remained in my pores. From the smell of it, not much was left.
"Yes, I think I see you, parking the bike in the mall. Cross the road, as soon as you are done with the parking, I am waiting there." She said and cut the phone without waiting for my reply, without considering that I still hadn't located her. But that is what cellphones are for, to waste your time and balance for frivolous ten second calls, that leave you guessing more often than providing an answer.
I sprinted across the road, more out of instinct than necessity. The other side of road presented me with a familiar reality; I was still unaware of her location. That offered just two alternatives. Call her and ask for her whereabouts, or keep scouting the length of this road, in the hope that I will see her eventually. Not that seeing her would have helped much. It had been three/four months since our last meeting, so I couldn't recollect her face. All I remembered about her physical appearance was that she had a short height, pouted lips and big titts; and this was true for every other girl roving on this road.
With heavy heart, I took out my cellphone and dialled her number. A ring, then another. A girl, some 20 paces from me, takes out her phone from her purse. She fits the small height, big titts description fully. Without another thought, I wave to her frantically. She doesn't wave back.
Meanwhile the phone is picked up.
"Hey what's up, where are you??"
"Right behind you, in a silver car, watching you wave to strangers."
Ouch. Strike1.
I got into the car. It's a silver coloured Suzuki Ritz. The dent on the passanger side door, and the big red 'L' on the windscreen brooded ominously at me. She put the car in gear, and started driving. I expected a few jerks, but there were none. Somehow, when you suck as a driver, you expect the whole world to follow the suit. Not here. It seemed that she had been driving for a while and was adept at it by now.
"Where do you want to go?" she asks, probably oblivious of the fact that it was she who was behind the wheel and not I.
"Wherever you want to, you are the one who specializes in this field," I said, no sarcasm intended.
She drove on, thinking out aloud, permuting all the possible locations this path had to offer. Awkward silence for a while. Then some small talk.
"How's your job?" she asked, looking towards me, probably to give weight to this prosaic question, flouting the most basic traffic rule : 'Eyes always on the road.'
'Barhiya (Good),' I blurted the only answer I ever knew (most guys for that matter).
"What about yours?"
"Very tiring, leaves me with very little time," she replied.
"Yeah, that shows; you really look very tired." I said, realizing the dumbness of my words only a second later. Strike 2.
"Really?" She suddenly became very conscious, adjusted the rear-view mirror to see if tireness showed on her face; all the while without taking her foot off the gas pedal. There goes 'eyes on the road' rule down the drain again.
My grip around the seatbelt tightened. If she continued to shower her attention on the mirror instead of the road, my mistake would cost me dearly. To assuage her uneasiness, I fed her lies.
"I didn't mean your face, you look fresh out of shower." I said, adding that her quivery voice gave away subtle signs of tiredness. I hoped that she believed it. Even if she didn't, she played along well.
She told me that she had more drinks than she could handle last night. It culminated in a bitter hangover in the morning which she just couldn't shake away.
A little while later, she asks me if I wanted to get drunk. I wondered if there was an irony involved.
"Sure, why not." I replied, not mentioning the fact that I am a lousy drinker and that most of my drinking sessions follow the same pattern: Start drinking -->drink mightily fast --> get rowdy and sentimental --> puke. Lately this pattern disgusted me so much, that I had shunned anything stronger than a beer. But I had no aversion to backslide, if it meant I had a chance to grab her thighs or grope her tits; and then there is a certain level of sexiness I associate with girls, who handle their drinks well (a quality I try hard to emulate).
She cruised her car through an upscale market, the one she had heard a lot about from her friends. After a good deal of effort, she managed to find a parking spot wide enough to suit her parking skills.
Once out of the car, I could manage to breathe easy. Her driving wasn't bad, but my anxiety was. We wandered in the market for a few minutes, looking for a restro-bar. None was open. In fact half the market was closed. One hookah bar was open, but I consciously avoided it, because smoke has consistently failed to give me any high. All it managed to do on a previous occasion was to dry my throat for full three days, and still confused about what I was supposed to expect. If there was a bar around, I was going to find it and get her drunk, come hell or high water. In my resolve, I made her walk with me up and down several flights of stairs. Her short stride and high heels meant that she had to literally jog to keep up the pace with me. And the fair amount of fat she was hiding under her Tshirt (how I was longing to squeeze it) didn't help much. Still panting, she asked me if we could make do without drinking.
"Yeah, right after we scan the last nook of the market, I am not that hungry you know, I just had my supper." I said, striding towards the corner where I thought some watering hole was present. Any trace of chivalry she might have noticed in me earlier was long dead and probably rotting by now.
After a bit more of prodding, I was satisfied that there was no serving bar in this shithole market.
Cursing my luck and suppressing my disappointment, I ask her to pick a place we could get some food. Her ass halted in front of the first restaurant she saw. Walking obviously was a task too hard on her legs. What she failed to notice was that this restaurant was not fully furnished, and its owner had decided to carry on the renovation while serving the patrons. She didn't seem to be bothered by this fact. Nor the fact that we were the only customers. Hell! her majesty was content as long as there was stuff going inside her belly. I really mean stuff, because she took almost perfunctory look into the menu and ordered Chop-suey. It was called Singaporean chop-suey, but they could have named it Kardashian's Titts, and it still would have tasted like animal fodder. She was also intent to wet her throat with cold black bubbly sugar water (aka cola), but all she got from me was a cold shoulder.
The next ten minutes till the order arrived, passed in serious discussion. By discussion, I mean monologue. She had a sacks of stories about her awesomeness. She told me how she had surpassed sales targets in her company, how she cracked tough interviews, how she shits rainbows in the morning and cherubs in the evening. Once every few minutes, when I had all but yawned in her face, she would narrate one of her slutty anecdotes to grab my attention back. When the order arrived she stuffed her plate with it, and then proceeded to stuff my plate too, when I interrupted her. I don't take kind to condescension. If you can't trust a person to be competitive enough to fill his own plate, you might as well write 'retard' on his forehead.
The meal continued, and so did her stories. By the time her plate was half empty, I knew more about her family and her addictions than I knew about my own. I kept on eating the stuff, punctuating with an insincere laugh and a cursory eye-contact whenever it seemed necessary. I toyed with the idea of grabbing her thighs from under the table, but ofcourse, that would have been too extreme. So instead, I squeeze my thigh against hers. If she reciprocated, good; if not, I could say that it was a mistake. Unluckily for me, she drew back her thigh, the second my knee touched it.
In the back of my head an aching knot was developing, partially due to her chirping, and partially due to the fact that this date was not going to get physical in any manner. If she meant to get physical, this deserted restaurant was as good as any shoddy bar.
My hypothesis about her being a 'Cock Juggler' was alas true.
Let me elaborate.
If you consider the whole species of men as an ocean of cocks, the desirable women are the vaginal islands that occur few and far between (Assumption = Most men are shallow like me, judging desirability on good face + full bosom/ass/both basis; women not possessing these features are as good as invisible zombies for us). These vaginal islands are still classified as further:
1. Bear trap emotion sucking cock teasing monster vaginal islands.
2. Beguile obliging pygmy vaginal islands.
All the vag islands I have seen till this point of time fall in category 1. So does, the girl in this story. I guess I should give her a name, after all there's a limit to which you can exploit pronouns. Call her Auto Girl, since I first met her in an auto-rikshaw.
Auto girl has a habit of calling me up every few months to meet me. The reasons for these meetings are still unknown to me, but now I suspect that there was some ego-raping involved. I treated each of these meetings as a possibility to get laid without having to pay for it. Now I know better. Free fucks are even bigger a myth than free lunches. You pay for your fucks either overtly or covertly. In this case, auto girl was simply brandishing her 'gal power,' feeding her ego with satisfaction of commanding several boy toys simultaneously. Cut her supply, and she will move over to newer prey. In a city sprawling with dicks, it is never too difficult for her to find one. Your phone number will keep on gathering dust in her contacts. That's until she is too lazy to prey in a 40 degree hot hunting ground. Then she will shake off dust from those old contacts and if you are alphabetically endowed like me (my name starts with 'A'), you get a call from her. The call will invariably be patterned along the lines "I am sorry, I couldn't give you a call since our last meeting. You see, I had a lot of stuff on my mind", which roughly translates to "My orifices and hands were busy dispensing oral sex to all the cocks except yours." Despite this epiphany, despite the predictable outcome, my balls will still drag me towards her. If there is a winner in this game, it's not me.
It's about the time we bid each other goodbye.
Her meal ended. I on the other hand, was busy munching the chopsuey. About half still remained in the bowl. It might have been snack for her, but it was dinner for me. Once you start cooking your meal, wastage of food is irreverence. Her sack of stories was empty by now. She might have been waiting for some follow-up questions. There were none. Now that catharsis was over, it was time to get rid off the sandbag. My hermit like calmness in finishing off food, was making her uncomfortable. She took out her mobile from her purse and started flubbing with it. Probably searching the next scapegoat. Restlessness had set in her legs. If she wanted to escape quickly, I won't let her have the pleasure of it. I get along with the food very well. In fact, eating is second only to jerking off, in my to-do list (This list is highly dubious, rankings change on ad-hoc basis). I keep on munching, taking eyes off my plate once a while to relish her unease, which is mounting every passing second. Payback time, bitch. This uneasiness was giving me a boner. I took another 20 minutes to finish the meal. Then I let her foot the bill. If she wanted to use me as her purgatorial whore, she might as well started paying for it.
We make our way to her car, she asked me if I enjoyed our meeting today. Not to risk getting deserted in this alien market, I told her that I did, not adding anything explicitly. She beamed, perhaps realizing the control she had on me in this situation. While driving, she told me how I was one of the most well mannered guys she had met. I guessed that her past dates didn't respond to cock teasing as passively as I did. That made me the most pliable sandbag. She dropped me to the place where I had parked my bike and bid me goodbye. I got out of the car, and made my way to the bike without looking back. Looking back would have translated to losing. She might have stayed, or she might have rushed to her home. Most probably latter. For me tryst was luckily over. She might call me up after another 4 months and bowing to my balls, I might end up being her sandbag once again. That only time will tell.
Till then I won't bother her, she won't bother me, and we will live happily ever after.
I will fell trees if they are meant to break your back.
I will leave you rotting in hell to face devil's wrath.
But still, I want to fuck you before all that.
-Jester of Sodomia
"Yes, I am wearing a grey T-shirt, can you see me?" I asked, panting like a dog in hot afternoon, wondering how much of the deodrant still remained in my pores. From the smell of it, not much was left.
"Yes, I think I see you, parking the bike in the mall. Cross the road, as soon as you are done with the parking, I am waiting there." She said and cut the phone without waiting for my reply, without considering that I still hadn't located her. But that is what cellphones are for, to waste your time and balance for frivolous ten second calls, that leave you guessing more often than providing an answer.
I sprinted across the road, more out of instinct than necessity. The other side of road presented me with a familiar reality; I was still unaware of her location. That offered just two alternatives. Call her and ask for her whereabouts, or keep scouting the length of this road, in the hope that I will see her eventually. Not that seeing her would have helped much. It had been three/four months since our last meeting, so I couldn't recollect her face. All I remembered about her physical appearance was that she had a short height, pouted lips and big titts; and this was true for every other girl roving on this road.
With heavy heart, I took out my cellphone and dialled her number. A ring, then another. A girl, some 20 paces from me, takes out her phone from her purse. She fits the small height, big titts description fully. Without another thought, I wave to her frantically. She doesn't wave back.
Meanwhile the phone is picked up.
"Hey what's up, where are you??"
"Right behind you, in a silver car, watching you wave to strangers."
Ouch. Strike1.
I got into the car. It's a silver coloured Suzuki Ritz. The dent on the passanger side door, and the big red 'L' on the windscreen brooded ominously at me. She put the car in gear, and started driving. I expected a few jerks, but there were none. Somehow, when you suck as a driver, you expect the whole world to follow the suit. Not here. It seemed that she had been driving for a while and was adept at it by now.
"Where do you want to go?" she asks, probably oblivious of the fact that it was she who was behind the wheel and not I.
"Wherever you want to, you are the one who specializes in this field," I said, no sarcasm intended.
She drove on, thinking out aloud, permuting all the possible locations this path had to offer. Awkward silence for a while. Then some small talk.
"How's your job?" she asked, looking towards me, probably to give weight to this prosaic question, flouting the most basic traffic rule : 'Eyes always on the road.'
'Barhiya (Good),' I blurted the only answer I ever knew (most guys for that matter).
"What about yours?"
"Very tiring, leaves me with very little time," she replied.
"Yeah, that shows; you really look very tired." I said, realizing the dumbness of my words only a second later. Strike 2.
"Really?" She suddenly became very conscious, adjusted the rear-view mirror to see if tireness showed on her face; all the while without taking her foot off the gas pedal. There goes 'eyes on the road' rule down the drain again.
My grip around the seatbelt tightened. If she continued to shower her attention on the mirror instead of the road, my mistake would cost me dearly. To assuage her uneasiness, I fed her lies.
"I didn't mean your face, you look fresh out of shower." I said, adding that her quivery voice gave away subtle signs of tiredness. I hoped that she believed it. Even if she didn't, she played along well.
She told me that she had more drinks than she could handle last night. It culminated in a bitter hangover in the morning which she just couldn't shake away.
A little while later, she asks me if I wanted to get drunk. I wondered if there was an irony involved.
"Sure, why not." I replied, not mentioning the fact that I am a lousy drinker and that most of my drinking sessions follow the same pattern: Start drinking -->drink mightily fast --> get rowdy and sentimental --> puke. Lately this pattern disgusted me so much, that I had shunned anything stronger than a beer. But I had no aversion to backslide, if it meant I had a chance to grab her thighs or grope her tits; and then there is a certain level of sexiness I associate with girls, who handle their drinks well (a quality I try hard to emulate).
She cruised her car through an upscale market, the one she had heard a lot about from her friends. After a good deal of effort, she managed to find a parking spot wide enough to suit her parking skills.
Once out of the car, I could manage to breathe easy. Her driving wasn't bad, but my anxiety was. We wandered in the market for a few minutes, looking for a restro-bar. None was open. In fact half the market was closed. One hookah bar was open, but I consciously avoided it, because smoke has consistently failed to give me any high. All it managed to do on a previous occasion was to dry my throat for full three days, and still confused about what I was supposed to expect. If there was a bar around, I was going to find it and get her drunk, come hell or high water. In my resolve, I made her walk with me up and down several flights of stairs. Her short stride and high heels meant that she had to literally jog to keep up the pace with me. And the fair amount of fat she was hiding under her Tshirt (how I was longing to squeeze it) didn't help much. Still panting, she asked me if we could make do without drinking.
"Yeah, right after we scan the last nook of the market, I am not that hungry you know, I just had my supper." I said, striding towards the corner where I thought some watering hole was present. Any trace of chivalry she might have noticed in me earlier was long dead and probably rotting by now.
After a bit more of prodding, I was satisfied that there was no serving bar in this shithole market.
Cursing my luck and suppressing my disappointment, I ask her to pick a place we could get some food. Her ass halted in front of the first restaurant she saw. Walking obviously was a task too hard on her legs. What she failed to notice was that this restaurant was not fully furnished, and its owner had decided to carry on the renovation while serving the patrons. She didn't seem to be bothered by this fact. Nor the fact that we were the only customers. Hell! her majesty was content as long as there was stuff going inside her belly. I really mean stuff, because she took almost perfunctory look into the menu and ordered Chop-suey. It was called Singaporean chop-suey, but they could have named it Kardashian's Titts, and it still would have tasted like animal fodder. She was also intent to wet her throat with cold black bubbly sugar water (aka cola), but all she got from me was a cold shoulder.
The next ten minutes till the order arrived, passed in serious discussion. By discussion, I mean monologue. She had a sacks of stories about her awesomeness. She told me how she had surpassed sales targets in her company, how she cracked tough interviews, how she shits rainbows in the morning and cherubs in the evening. Once every few minutes, when I had all but yawned in her face, she would narrate one of her slutty anecdotes to grab my attention back. When the order arrived she stuffed her plate with it, and then proceeded to stuff my plate too, when I interrupted her. I don't take kind to condescension. If you can't trust a person to be competitive enough to fill his own plate, you might as well write 'retard' on his forehead.
The meal continued, and so did her stories. By the time her plate was half empty, I knew more about her family and her addictions than I knew about my own. I kept on eating the stuff, punctuating with an insincere laugh and a cursory eye-contact whenever it seemed necessary. I toyed with the idea of grabbing her thighs from under the table, but ofcourse, that would have been too extreme. So instead, I squeeze my thigh against hers. If she reciprocated, good; if not, I could say that it was a mistake. Unluckily for me, she drew back her thigh, the second my knee touched it.
In the back of my head an aching knot was developing, partially due to her chirping, and partially due to the fact that this date was not going to get physical in any manner. If she meant to get physical, this deserted restaurant was as good as any shoddy bar.
My hypothesis about her being a 'Cock Juggler' was alas true.
Let me elaborate.
If you consider the whole species of men as an ocean of cocks, the desirable women are the vaginal islands that occur few and far between (Assumption = Most men are shallow like me, judging desirability on good face + full bosom/ass/both basis; women not possessing these features are as good as invisible zombies for us). These vaginal islands are still classified as further:
1. Bear trap emotion sucking cock teasing monster vaginal islands.
2. Beguile obliging pygmy vaginal islands.
All the vag islands I have seen till this point of time fall in category 1. So does, the girl in this story. I guess I should give her a name, after all there's a limit to which you can exploit pronouns. Call her Auto Girl, since I first met her in an auto-rikshaw.
Auto girl has a habit of calling me up every few months to meet me. The reasons for these meetings are still unknown to me, but now I suspect that there was some ego-raping involved. I treated each of these meetings as a possibility to get laid without having to pay for it. Now I know better. Free fucks are even bigger a myth than free lunches. You pay for your fucks either overtly or covertly. In this case, auto girl was simply brandishing her 'gal power,' feeding her ego with satisfaction of commanding several boy toys simultaneously. Cut her supply, and she will move over to newer prey. In a city sprawling with dicks, it is never too difficult for her to find one. Your phone number will keep on gathering dust in her contacts. That's until she is too lazy to prey in a 40 degree hot hunting ground. Then she will shake off dust from those old contacts and if you are alphabetically endowed like me (my name starts with 'A'), you get a call from her. The call will invariably be patterned along the lines "I am sorry, I couldn't give you a call since our last meeting. You see, I had a lot of stuff on my mind", which roughly translates to "My orifices and hands were busy dispensing oral sex to all the cocks except yours." Despite this epiphany, despite the predictable outcome, my balls will still drag me towards her. If there is a winner in this game, it's not me.
It's about the time we bid each other goodbye.
Her meal ended. I on the other hand, was busy munching the chopsuey. About half still remained in the bowl. It might have been snack for her, but it was dinner for me. Once you start cooking your meal, wastage of food is irreverence. Her sack of stories was empty by now. She might have been waiting for some follow-up questions. There were none. Now that catharsis was over, it was time to get rid off the sandbag. My hermit like calmness in finishing off food, was making her uncomfortable. She took out her mobile from her purse and started flubbing with it. Probably searching the next scapegoat. Restlessness had set in her legs. If she wanted to escape quickly, I won't let her have the pleasure of it. I get along with the food very well. In fact, eating is second only to jerking off, in my to-do list (This list is highly dubious, rankings change on ad-hoc basis). I keep on munching, taking eyes off my plate once a while to relish her unease, which is mounting every passing second. Payback time, bitch. This uneasiness was giving me a boner. I took another 20 minutes to finish the meal. Then I let her foot the bill. If she wanted to use me as her purgatorial whore, she might as well started paying for it.
We make our way to her car, she asked me if I enjoyed our meeting today. Not to risk getting deserted in this alien market, I told her that I did, not adding anything explicitly. She beamed, perhaps realizing the control she had on me in this situation. While driving, she told me how I was one of the most well mannered guys she had met. I guessed that her past dates didn't respond to cock teasing as passively as I did. That made me the most pliable sandbag. She dropped me to the place where I had parked my bike and bid me goodbye. I got out of the car, and made my way to the bike without looking back. Looking back would have translated to losing. She might have stayed, or she might have rushed to her home. Most probably latter. For me tryst was luckily over. She might call me up after another 4 months and bowing to my balls, I might end up being her sandbag once again. That only time will tell.
Till then I won't bother her, she won't bother me, and we will live happily ever after.
1 comment:
haha
funny yar
i am she would have had a second hangover that day
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