Take a pick. Alcohol or infidelity? A potent combination if taken together, turns out it gives you great power. There I was, all of twenty-two, fucking the president on both counts and loving it. Power meant nothing to me. I was fearless in mind and as those four boyfriends suggested, in bed as well.
There is no slut shame in being you. Exploring your mind and god gifted, untouched by the gym, full enough to fit your hands and light enough to get on top, body. Just the mention of it, will have every moral policing prick on the block run a verbal smear campaign on you, by day. Of course, by night, they are banging someone’s brain out with a single malt on the table side. Don’t judge me, look into your dark loins.
They called him Fitz. Prez Fitz. Some tonality to it. His aides joked he could fit into any pants. I met him at a campaign rally when my perky breasts brushed over his waving hands. Instant Karma. He turned to glance over his shoulders and I knew, I had him, bra-hook, clothesline and sinker! Oh, those boyfriends of mine thought I had a magnetic smile and that I should use it more often. Turns out, it was a good advice, I got an invite to the campaign dinner party that night at the club.
“What does the world know you as?” he whispered into my earlobes. “Fuckwanti.” The look on his face said it all. He was into me. I liked gob smacking older men. They’d fumble for words and quiver in their pants. Their wary eyes searching for their ignorant wives and their adventurous fingers seeking thrill at every curve, corner or tissue. But he was different. I guess being powerful means, you’ve been done over many times. “And I am Balman Khan!” He managed to get me laughing with the next minutes of pleasantries. But deep inside, the chemical reactions were overflowing, thudding into walls.
Over the course of next few months, we didn’t speak much, drank like barrels being refilled, fucked like wild animals and collapsed like a remnant earthquake. Word got out, people around turned the other way whenever I walked in to his office. His secretary gave me dirty looks all the time, and then one day I decided to do the Fuckwanti on him. I dug my nails into his buttocks. He’s not looked me in the eye since then. It was getting close to a year, when my withdrawal symptoms started to kick in. The sex was still good, but orgasms per outing had dropped significantly. The power parties were good, but the men grew increasingly pedestrian. The class was missing. Besides their bellies were overpowering their dicks.
Acing my masters in communication course, I was soon walking the hallowed walls of power. The party hired me formally as their public relations and social media manager. Get laid and get paid to do Facebook. Ah can life get better? I guess not. The downward spiral had begun. I was falling in love. Shit. I know, even when I think about it after all these years, I feel how Savitri of me to do that. So not me. It was evident when I began missing his text messages on the weekends and before I realized I made the dreadful leap of a nag, I called him before he did.
He began traveling physically and I began following virtually. He began drifting mentally and I started to stalk him. The further he went, the deeper I sank. Gosh. Such a Suckina of me in hindsight. The final condom happened a few weeks later, where he broke away midway for a shower. I lay in bed as his phone whizzed on the side table. Flight Aliya. What the suck. Curiosity picked up the phone and heard the huskiest hellos. A pause later, the speaker uttered the words making it amply clear, he was fucking a mindless bitch midair. Uh. The knife slit the throat and jagged right into the heart. I didn’t even feel that way since I lost my virginity. Fuckwanti, you got handed over the oldest trick in the book. Out sight, out of pussy. Dammed. I swallowed my attitude, sucked it up and destroyed the phone before strutting out of the room.
He chased, wooed, courted, even wore M7 for me. I was not coming. I mean I would come with other men, but not with him anymore. Fuck Fitz. One day, I went to the roof top, the most happening bar in town. One of our earlier fuckhaunts, as I sat there with Margarita, I saw Fitz with the mid-air bitch. He took the mike and said, I want to fly with you. I don’t know what got into me, Margarita, love or the midair bitch? Alcohol on a roof top is a heady combination on a cold winter night. It also makes you pee or puke. My fellow pee mate was puking though. I was about to offer help, when I spotted those midair Jimmy Choos. She gasped for breath as I gagged her with toilet roll. She was flushed. I hate fucked the man next to me like had never done before. He was almost choking and gasping while I kept whipping up a frenzy. It was butt slapping, prick grinding titty-twisting hard ride.
I suppose opposites fuck each other silly till they are no longer opposite and thus start to repel. Fitz and me were over. Alcohol came in handy. Each drink drank me more and drowned me head to toe. Ah those were the nights. The sorrow, the pain and the vein. Carefully slit, just enough to bleed, but not so much to die. The cigarettes burning into the arms. Black spots. Scars and many abuses later, one day I ejected Fuckwanti. Fuck it I said and draped into the Sari.
I spent the last twenty-two years of my life being Sari. I did the whole drill, married an upper middle class well educated virgin boy, produced two brats, I hated them as babies, but somehow the hormone got the better of me. Cried in movies, partied on weekends, drank juice, let the Gym touch me, wore sexy spectacles and deep cut blouses to match the ambience at work , giggled like a school girl, bitched like a prom queen, cooked, maided , heck don’t know if that’s a word, but it was a lot of work keeping that house clean. I juggled , managed, ravaged , savaged, bled, bred and lied in bed. Getting shoved, brushed, pushed, underpaid, ignored, judged , second fiddled , back stabbed, be the fall girl, all rolled into one body in one life. It would shake the fuck up. The routine had me. It robbed the mojo of its magic. Did I complain? Hell no, a woman’s got to do, what she has got to do, isn’t it? But life is a bitch. Wait. Life is a dog. It keeps barking back with its tail wagging.
I didn’t think I would ever fall in love again. I know that everyone says that after a heartbreak, but the difference is that I’m not heartbroken. I’m not cynical, or pessimistic, or sad. I’m just someone who once felt something bigger than anything else I’d ever felt and when I lost it, I honestly believed I would never have that again. But... I was 22 then and life is long. And I’m feeling things right now that I haven’t in a long, long time.
Some wise pussy had one said, once a bad pussy cat, always a bad pussy cat. The wetness between my legs is streaking again. The perspiration was on the bosom again, the lips were moist again. The tingle in the jungle was buzzing again. Yes, it was good feeling wet again. The twenty-year Sari phase had just vanished. I filed the nails of my index and middle fingers again. The inner fuck had reappeared somehow, magically tingling into my veins. The sudden gust of gush in room full of hypocritical jerks was hard to control I knew one toss of the hair would invite two requests for a cuppa leading to zuppa. Somehow, I managed to keep my breath in check, not heaving too much.
Its slowly, but surely coming back to me. The smell of infidelity and the touch of alcohol is overpowering. It sucks you in. And just when I was getting used to the cleavage staring eyeballs at my workplace, a handwritten note was all it took to get me back to a pair of Wranglers, white shirt, hair open and bunch of black bangles on one hand.
It was from Fitz. He is older now and also the most powerful man in the county. Yes. I am on my way to the rooftop bar, and there is a dark corner under the open sky. Alcohol and infidelity are a great combination, they give you those four powerful words, I got carried away. Don’t judge me. Go look into your dark loins.
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