We were discussing Sanskrit poetry and talks turned to erotic poetry as is wont with a lot of lecherous old men. It was my forte. Starting from quoting Amaru I went to recite something from Caurapâñcâśikâ, of Bilhana 11th century Kashmir poet,Still when her eyes, as lotus petals long,Like Fortune’s, goddess lotus-born, I see,And see her wearied by her bosom’s load,With both my arms clasping her close to me.And our eyes met. She was listening to every word, attentively, appreciatively, almost devouring like a gourmet,And everything else ceased for me.Hand painted saree d****d in a careful carelessness, a kutchi heavily embroidered choli barely able to hold her voluptuous assets, a bindi on her forehead, but no sindoor, no mangal sutra.And we were alone immediately (actually after 45 minutes) sharing Masala chai, from authentic kulhads in an ethnic tea shop. And before I could ask who she is, she recited,“I’m Nobody! Who are you?Are you – Nobody – too?”And I completed,Then there’s a. She scribbled something, emptied her glass and turned directly toward me. In four steps she reached my booth, slipped the napkin on the table and turned for the exit. “Let’s do this,” the note read. I paid my tab to the bartender and made my way to the door. As I left the cool air of the bar I could see her standing next to a small, green import. I walked toward her. “Would you rather drive?” I asked. “No,” she said, holding up her keys. I took them, opened the door for her and was treated to another view of her long, luxurious legs as she swiveled into the seat. I closed the door carefully and rushed around the rear toward the driver’s door. As I slid behind the wheel I asked her: “Any destination in mind?” “You know the Sleepy Nest?” “Yes,” I replied. It wasn’t exactly top of the line, but neither was it a rent-by-the-hour hellhole. As I pulled out of the parking lot I felt her hand rest on my thigh. She stroked it up and down, eventually bumping against the growing erection that.
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