You observe the actress slithering on the grass in a flimsy white saree, soaking wet under the cold showers yet steaming hot, to be licked like a warm chocolate sauce.
The flames wrap you, and a sudden gush of warmth turns your ears red. Your face glows, and your eyes shine bright. Your lips quiver, ready for the kiss as the guy on the screen comes close…
You wonder, “Is it love?”
With that tingling feeling, you crave a touch that electrifies you. You shudder and shake away such insolent thoughts, “I must study.”
You identify your sensual self, looking at your nude reflection and admire a pair of sweet and sour oranges with blueberry tops, the contours taking a ride into a fine mesh of dark chocolate strands. You feel your dusky silky-smooth skin and imagine, “How pleasurable would it be to feel hands caressing all over?” Warm wetness sends shivers down the spine.
Loud Knocks! Your elder sister hurls abuse for taking so long to get ready. You hate her for taking after your fair Coorgi mother.
You accuse God, “Why me? I love Appa’s broad dark hairy chest, pouty purple lips and curly mane, but that doesn’t mean you endow me with all his genes.”
You clamour for attention while your sister sways like a touch-me-not and plays the pricey maiden game. Boys come to you for notes. You thank God for Appa’s brilliant brain.
You cordially help, dress elegantly, share jokes and amuse to entice. They embarrassingly laugh and say, “You’re witty.”
You wait for them to get naughty, but there’s nothing to titillate. They’re aware of eyes watching you. You’re the daughter of a formidable politician. Unreciprocated infatuations pique the fire simmering inside your head.
Your sister’s married. You picture her husband making love. A blazing fire lustily sizzles you and shames your thoughts. You reprimand yourself, “Don’t corrupt your mind!”
You reach university. You begin with Cosmopolitan, then download erotic books. You’ve learned all the positions in Kamasutra and waiting for your Knight.
You’re engaged but your fiancé discovers a satanic flicker in your eyes. Your carefree salacious vibes, or perhaps the family stature intimidate boy after boy.
You’re twenty-seven, have a PhD in chemistry, and teach at Central University. You’ve another secret PhD in pleasure. You read erotica and imagine sexcapades.
You sigh, “If only they seek guidance in my covert expertise.”
Your sister’s blessed with kids. And you? Yet unkissed!
You’re thirty-eight. You desperately wait. Burning every night, you even fantasise rape.
The clock’s ticking. Erotica doesn’t excite you anymore. You feel the cinders smouldering your skin, smoking your dreams.
Your father’s wealth couldn’t find an alliance to match your stature and skills. Keeping your desires under wraps, you follow your honourable family tag while others enjoy marital bliss.
The waning flames make you recline and ponder. Age dousing the last ambers ignites the need for the love of a different kind. You kindle love and wait for another lifetime.
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