Seven Shades of Grey

by Vivek Mehra

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that but I will find out from Bindu.’

  ‘No don’t do that and I will tell you something here. I am sure that the husband will not see the light on this meeting, but at the same time if a similar situation arose with him he would expect Bindu to understand.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean is that if her husband was to be in your shoes and another woman was in Bindu’s shoes he would want Bindu to understand that it was an innocent meeting and nothing else. But he has become angry because she has met someone in person that she had only met on the Internet.’

  ‘I hear ya.’ And Bindu ceased to be discussed, at least for some time to come.

  *

  Neil Diamond wrote a beautiful song called Solitary Man. I am that, technically, alone in the waiting room, but not the character the song is based on. Solitude always plays on a human mind, sometimes bringing dark fears to the fore. Rationality wants me to take the plunge, to confront my nemesis, thankfully reined in by overpowering concern for Dolly. And Rationality changes track to soften the blow.

  Take it one step at a time, don’t let thoughts race … saner half prompting me. And for once I listen.

  I was Solitary Man then, alone with my books and the Internet testing the edges of my sanity. I am doing that even today, alone with no books, no Internet and yet my memory is as sharp as the day I met Insanity!

  *

  I had informed my friends on the Net of Dolly’s trip well before she actually left me alone in Bombay a year ago. Marilyn, halfway around the globe, would log in at the times that I usually did even if it meant staying up all night, different time zones playing spoilsport. Reshma tried to be online as long as she could whenever she was in her office. Once home, she would send me an email for me to read when I logged in the next day.

  In one of the chats Reshma asked me how I coped with loneliness, especially since men usually missed physical intimacy more than women did, or so she believed. I was not overly surprised by her question. I had asked the same question to myself, a few years ago, the only similarity being the fact that I was alone that day too, Dolly away on her annual visit.

  I tried to tell Reshma that I was way past getting my rocks off, she unconvinced, firmly believing nature to have equipped man physiologically demanding sexual release persistently. A week was not that bad, but two or more and the male body (read organ) got restless, resolutely seeking activity. It was true in most cases, but mine had a mind of its own, a mind that I know exists today, did not know it then. It happened once upon a time when I was just three years into my marriage.

  Dolly was on her annual visit, her departure without incident, her return dreadful to my guilty mind.

  She had been gone for close to two weeks, and I was suddenly longing for physical contact, longing for a hug, a wet dripping smooch, a brush with her ample tits, long passionate play with her honey box; yes, I was down right horny.

  It was true that like all men, married, single or in between, I knew how and when to use my hand to ensure that little brother down there was well attended to. But it was nothing like the real thing; one can’t satisfy hunger by looking at pictures of food or taste pizza in a slice of well-layered bread. I was role-playing an average man, average thoughts, average reasoning, average answers for average problems.

  It was a day like any other. I was trying to drown my horniness in work and failing miserably. A friend walked into the office that morning, a bachelor, who, I am sure, had the same average problems as I had in my temporary bachelor-hood. I was soon to know that he had the same average bachelor solution to the average bachelor problem.

  He started by kidding me about the women I had had in my life and how I could still seduce one when his bhabhi (Dolly) was away. With the wisdom that a married man possesses I retorted that I was happy where I was and needed no complications in my perfect marriage. However, married men sometimes have a nasty habit of not quitting when they are ahead, and I had to choose that day, that very moment, to prove that I was one of those imbeciles.

  Gloating at my own high standard of morality and righteousness I let my guard down, blurting that I would rather pay for sex and get it over with than create complications seducing a woman who was not a lady of the night. And he jumped in with both feet, gleaming at my mediocrity.

  A knowing smirk crossed his face in contrast to the pale look adorning mine as I tried hard to explain that it did not mean I was going to do it, but the damage had been done. He had an ‘all-knowing’ look on his face accentuating his smirk. The smirk gave way to nervous laughter followed by banter suggesting I was more experienced and hence knew where to find willing ladies-of-the-night. I got some reprieve when I told him that I had been out of the market since my marriage, had no clue where the current hot-spots were. The balance surely tilted a little.

  He was smart, did not want to be too open about the solution, not overly discreet, somewhere in between. In a manner that was chic he brought the entire conversation to a close, providing his version of a bachelor-problem-solution.

  He mentioned a very discreet massage parlor, one that was clean, inexpensive and stocked with broads from slim model types right down to buxom Georgia shithouse wonders, all very willing.

  My horny brain lapped up the information, pearls of immortal wisdom flowing from knowing lips. And my demeanor gave away nothing, as my bumpy journey continued on the high road of righteousness and morality. I chided him for visiting such haunts and staunchly reiterated that I would never be caught dead in one of these. He sat for a while, sharing a cup of tea, and though his smirk had left him I detected residue of an ‘all-knowing’ look.

  For two full days I fantasized about the place. With every fantasy came a fresh and more intense ache in my loins. Try as I did my hand refused to provide satisfaction with all the assistance it continued to provide. At times the fantasy made me salivate at visions of mountains of quivering molten lust, topped with different colored cherries, some pink, some brown, some in between. And the mountains were of different dimensions too; buxom, ample, small, varied sizes making me salivate in varied degrees. And there were visions of assorted love-nests snuggled between willing loins; some thick and bushy, some sparse, others as naked and soft as a baby’s bottoms, all very wet and inviting; more inviting than beer, more orgasmic than a triple layered chocolate truffle cake.

  On the third day horniness numbed my brain, the Garden of Eden way too inviting. I made an excuse to visit a client and left my office, heart pounding, brain whirling and, for once, loins throbbing. The directions were etched in every contour of every grey cell, and it was not long before I stood before a neat, curtained and colorful door, the entrance to my Garden of Eden.

  Inside, an old flower, one that had seen better days, sat adorning a not too colorful desk. As I entered she tried to blossom, flashing a smile at me, trying hard to impress or perhaps suppress the bile that probably rose in her gullet at the mere sight of another John. A discreet gesture under the table and a bell sounded in the far corners of the Garden away from me, soft and musical.

  On cue a curtain to the right of the old flower, also known as Madam in some quarters, parted, and then began a parade of younger, smiling, still blossoming, long-haired, short-haired, buxom, model-type, fair, dark, sari clad, skirt clad, trouser clad, tall, short, and hopefully willing flowers. Their sheer number impressed me, confused me and aroused me, a kid in a candy store not knowing where to begin gorging.

  I chose one that was about 20ish, slightly buxom, fair, long-mane, sari clad and I hoped very willing. Once the choice was made the others dropped their smiles like one would drop a hot potato, turning and exiting to the back, going wherever rejected flowers in a Garden of Eden went. The one I chose smiled, waltzed across to me, slipped her calm hand into my trembling one and led me to an air-conditioned cabin, in the back of the Garden, dimly lit, a single bed in its corner, mirror on the wall with a little ledge below it. She politely ask
ed me to strip, voice dripping honey, and accent not local.

  I stripped right down to my underwear, still not having courage to go right down to my bare skin and bare loins. A quizzical smile crossed her face, and my eyes tried to count the tiles on the floor. In her soft honey dripping voice, she instructed me to lie flat on my stomach on the clean-sheeted bed in the corner. Some talcum powder was dusted on my back and suddenly magical fingers were working their magic on my tensed muscles. A soft groan of appreciation left my throat, the magic working on me.

  For ten minutes the fingers worked on me, from my tensed shoulders, past my quivering shoulder blades, past my arched lower back and on to my ample behind. A hand slipped under my briefs, kneading the flesh of my glutomus maximus. That felt heavenly and suddenly eye-popping, the magical touch having hit some hidden switch making my loins stir even more. It was then on to my legs, my calf muscles right down to my toes and then they stopped. The honey dripping voice asked me to turn over, ever so gently. And turn I did, lying flat on my back.

  My manhood was awakening, getting harder and slightly wet. The hands moved to my neck, then started their descent to my collarbones, my heaving chest and rested on my nipples. I shut my eyes to feel the warmth the touch provided, experiencing the relaxation the massage brought.

  Relaxation?

  This was just foreplay, would love to meet the guy who relaxed at foreplay!

  The honey dripping voice asked me my name and my eyes opened. The hands were gently kneading my nipples softer than they had kneaded my butt. My eyes saw visions of Helen of Troy, long-mane-beauty smiling and proclaiming that she was so very willing.

  ‘Rahul,’ I blurted. I was sure I was not going to give my real name.

  What if the visit was traced back to me? - saner half at its stupid best.

  My excited mind was too far-gone to contemplate all the eventualities should this impossible situation ever arise. She smiled an ‘all-knowing’ smile.

  Every one around me knows-it-all.

  The hands moved lower to my stomach, caressing, lips bending to nibble on my aroused nipples. The lips clamped gently on to the left one, sucking for god knows what. My eyes closed in tandem to my stirring loins, an underwear tent now sharply piercing the sky. Two and a half weeks of abstinence and my nuts were raring to go. The hands moved lower and brushed the tent. The touch was sensational, my back arched, a low moan leaving my lips, louder than the previous one. Her lips continued exchanging nipples even as her hands wandered all over me. Then they gave up and spoke.

  ‘Shall I tell the madam that we will be doing it all?’ the honey dripping voice cooed.

  My eyes opened again, doing it all?

  Visions of impending ecstasy raced through my mind, eyes soaking in the beauty of Helen of Troy, sensuality of Cleopatra, and my ears gently resonating with the honey-dripping put-on voice of a Bombay whore. But my will was stronger than the entire buffet spread before me. Sex with a commercial sex worker was an absolute no-no in my book. I had read, heard and been lectured on the pitfalls of being reckless. If I was lucky I might contract a curable social disease, if not would be doomed to carry the HIV virus till it consumed me.

  ‘French please!’ my quivering voice spoke in stark contrast to my ecstatic mind wanting to rip off her clothes and screw her brains out. She almost lost her smile, and the voice changed tones too.

  ‘French? I thought you liked me, you know I never have sex without a condom…’ her voice trailed, trying to convince me to change my mind.

  Not today honey! – saner half grinning at the show of strength.

  ‘French only please!’ She smiled a half smile, kissed my nipple and told me the price. I readily agreed. She asked me to wait while she informed the madam, the old flower at the sparse desk. She exited the little cabin and I lay there with my eyes staring at the ceiling. In sharp contrast to the rest of the interior the ceiling had plaster peeling off. Cheap job!

  Cheap!

  Like the cheap place I was in, doing a cheap thing, with a cheap woman. My eyes narrowed and my brain ran amuck.

  What was I doing here?

  Me a happily married man, who loved his wife, loved his life - well most of it, lying on a cheap bed, adorned with a cheap bed-sheet quite like scores of others had before. My skin was actually touching the sheet that had been stroked by scores of these ‘others’, a mute witness to their sexcapades. Their body fluids mingling with scores of willing women, draining and staining the sheet, seeping into the mattress, incubating in the cotton stuffing and I was lying on it!

  The throbbing in my loins dissipated.

  I am mad, certifiable! – saner half taking over

  They wash the sheets every day – insane half, relentless!

  It was comical to watch the fight between rationality and the little brain that existed between my loins. One gave me visions that made me want to run and throw up while the other only focused on luscious mounds of lust, willing hands, willing loins and vivacious sex. One made my body sit up ready to run while the other pushed it down wanting to savor the ecstasy. The battle raged on, a decision held in abeyance, and the buxom, long- maned, sari-clad woman returned.

  The first thing she noticed was my manhood gone a little limp, a quick half-smiling look flashing to me one that did not know why or knew why.

  If she only knew the truth!

  She did sense something and the weeks or months or years of handling Johns came to the forefront. She replaced the half-smile with her best reserved-for-John smile and went back to sucking my nipples. The feeling was good but the excitement had already started deserting me. Her hands moved to my underwear and skillfully she started sliding it down, her lips never leaving my skin, just trailing from my nipples moving lower and lower. The cool breeze that hit my manhood made it quiver and retreat but she was not about to give up. Her magical fingers moved to enclose it and begin gently tugging as if to detach it from my body. Slowly she worked her hand on the appendage her mouth moving lower and lower till it was nuzzling in my forest. She had won this battle, and what a victory it was!

  Saner half exited, ecstasy and an earth shattering orgasm-to-be pervaded all.

  She was good, weeks or months or years of training were helping the balance tilt firmly in her favor. I was hard again and very soon was hidden in the depths of her warm, wet and gently sucking mouth.

  She was good, very, very good!

  Ecstasy continued to rock me, in sync with the undulation of her head.

  My mind started whirling, a zillion thoughts racing through it. The joy the warmth brought to my aching loins was all that remained powerful and clear.

  What in heaven’s name are you doing, vikram? – saner half tried one last futile attempt.

  She was good, very very good. Without leaving my aching manhood she grabbed my hand forcing it between her loins. On autopilot completely under orders of the little brain between my legs, my hand raised her sari, groping to find her honey pot, lunging at the gash, fingers encountering wetness and warmth.

  She could feel my manhood grow in her mouth, a gentle moan escaping her throat, vibrating at the tip of my hardness, and the weeks of aching, all reaching for release.

  She was good, very, very good!

  My body was responding to her tricks trying hard to reach the point of no return and yet nothing happened.

  She was good, very, very good!

  But that day I was better.

  Ten minutes into furious sucking and she had to come up for breath. She looked at me, half panting, half-curious, completely into the act she was performing. My fingers still lost in her thin forest soaked in her juices and yet orgasm evaded me. And then it happened.

  The moment her mouth let go of my member it started retreating. She glanced at it, and then at me, her fingers still holding on to the base, mine unconsciously exiting and dropping down. Her brows arched even as her sari fled back to its ordained fate, its edges sweeping the floor again. Her fingers tried to resurrect the
dying manhood and I knew she had lost the battle.

  Lie down, you stupid jerk! – insane, ecstatic and orgasm-seeking half yelled.

  ‘What happened?’ she cooed.

  Like I know!

  ‘Nothing’ I replied in a blunt, cold voice, one that surprised even me. Her free hand tried to gently push me back on to the bed. ‘It’s not you, its me, I can’t do this’ I protested feebly.

  ‘Oh please, if I am not good enough you can choose another.’

  Saner half won that day as it reached for my underwear, my mind reacting to a thousand flash bulbs going off.

  ‘No, its OK. I have to leave.’

  My orgasm? – whined insane half. And there was no one listening.

  Her face looked horrifyingly at me, as if she had seen a ghost rise from a grave. I guess I was that, in a way. The ghost of my sanity that had deserted me, the one replaced by insanity that had made me make excuses at work and come to this vile, cheap Garden of Eden, had indeed returned. The garden suddenly resembled a graveyard that almost housed my desecrated carcass. There was urgency in my actions and I was off the bed. She tried to hold me down, prevent me from reaching for my clothes. There was me, bewildered at my own actions, in a tearing hurry to get out and yet stealing glances at the woman before me.

  Tears started to well in her eyes. ‘I will be severely dealt with if I don’t do it.’ Oh, so that was it!

  I reached for my wallet and handed her the money and a little extra, a smile suddenly making its way on to my pale face.

  ‘No you won’t be because no one will know, OK?’ I said in a soft and understanding voice. ‘But I must go’.

  She took the money, counted it, and it was her turn to be bewildered.

  ‘You are paying me for something I have not done.’

  ‘You earned it.’ I don’t know what possessed me then as I reached out and gave her a gentle hug. This must have really caught her off-guard as I could swear I heard a sniffle escape her lips. While I got dressed she left the room. Within seconds she was back with another flower: ‘You could choose her, she is very good, better than me’.