‘Aap mauka dhoondh rahe they, lagta hai,’ she said to him. (You seem to have been waiting for an opportunity). ‘Haan,’ he replied, ‘Warna tu... aati kahan ho.’ (Yes, otherwise you never come to me). Both hands held her at the waist. ‘Itni bhari ghar mey, koi dekh lega toh kya hoga?’ she asked. (In such a full house, what if we get spotted?). ‘Pehle toh kisi ne nahi dekha,’ he replied. (No one ever saw us before.) He now lifted her skirt revealing her ass to him. There were those panties, ever. I wrote a poem about it, and he read it matter of factly. He laid it down alongside his crypt and fucked me non-chalantly. He smelled like stale cigarettes to me. It disgusted me, and I gathered my things and left him. The image never left me. He is married now to a rotund little girl he met online and who enjoys playing Holly Homemaker with him, while he skulks the nightclubs of N.Y.C. looking for a new freak to replace me. He calls once in awhile. At least I know I am not easily replicated. I. More

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