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Sex 2

The sex builds up inside daily. Like urine and bile, anger and joy, it – lust, too must be released. If it’s not, it promises to progressively cloud all judgment until one cannot focus on anything but a darkened pubic patch and a soft pair of breasts.

The disjunction between a person’s public face (literally) and private face appalls me. Sometimes when I see a woman on the street I can’t help but picture her face as I envision it while her lover orally pleasures her. Does she tense all her facial muscles as she’s about to climax? I picture her arms and legs. Does she grasp the bed-sheets and pull them with tightly clenched fists (like they sometimes show in movies)? Does she slide her legs up and down the satin fabric with frustration? What other signs does she display to betray the fact that the amount of pleasure she’s receiving is perhaps not enough? She experiences pleasure, but there’s an element of consciousness, of presence, that she desperately wishes to forsake. It will – she believes – elevate her to a higher state of ecstasy, sensitivity, and joy. She won’t think about Prada bags and what the kids will have for dinner when in that divine state.

Upon the first note of her voice when conversing with a new female acquaintance, I hear thunderous echoes of moans and screams, sometimes near sometimes afar. A beautiful voice is many times more beautiful during sex (as is an ugly voice ten times uglier). The ultimate pleasure is an interactive process. You’re aroused because your partner’s aroused. Due to your heightened arousal your partner becomes further aroused, and so on. Moans, screams, and all other audible sounds during sex are key elements in arousing your partner. Even the almost silent sound of the harmonic motion through a warm, lubricated vagina brings a man closer to climax.

Picture it closely. Scrutinize if you’ve got the presence of mind in the compromised position you find yourself in. Wipe that sweat from your brow and flick it off your fingers as it slides down toward your wrist. Immediately you feel the next drops of perspiration moistening your face. It’s hotter than hell outside. Calcutta summers aren’t for the faint-hearted. A healthy respiratory system is essential for making illicit love in that tight space you’re in.

You’re on the balcony of a 3rd floor apartment, overlooking a narrow road busier than New York’s Madison Ave. Traffic is stopped and, in true Indian style, all you hear are humans shouting and horns blaring. The pot-bellied businessman in his Honda gets out of his car to assault the electric rickshaw driver who just etched a 2-inch long mark on his rear fender. Balconies across the street are getting populated as folks come out to see what the commotion’s about. The bee is buzzing inside your head that if anyone on these balconies (adjacent and across the street) were to somehow see you, in this city of 20 million you’d be recognized like the face on yesterday’s front page.

“Why the hell do they have so many plants?” you think as you push aside the fern leaf which tickles your stomach and momentarily steals the thunder from the center of your universe. The gigantic banana leaf (God only knows how it grows in this dirty air) is partially covering her face so you can’t see her eyes and half her nose; the fern is doubly obstructive as it obscures her entire right breast, along with a small portion of the left one. Since you’re already making unnecessary movements you decide it wouldn’t hurt to pull her down and away from the plants so you can see more of the girl you’re so ashamedly fucking. You’ve both gone to great lengths – coordinating logistics, ensuring necessary provisions are in supply – to make this moment happen, at which the smog and the heat and the sound and the sunlight and the sweat and the plants derisively chip away.

You’ve gone to great lengths, so put these thoughts out of your mind. Look at her brown porous skin; it’s the color of Bengal on the world map. Imagine her hair which you can’t see. She washed it this morning for you; it hangs vertically from her scalp to an inch above the dusty concrete, and smells of coconut oil. Think, think…what else is good about this moment…her family can’t catch you since they’re not in town. Yes, you’re free, feel it in your fucking dick and fuck her harder and faster. Feel the puddle in her vagina through that condom you’ve been enviously eyeing for weeks. It’s been two months, and who knows how long it’ll be next. “I’m gonna give it to you, you fucking condom. You’ve been laughing at me, mocking me to use you before you go to waste. Every time I’ve held you between my fingers like a cigarette, with my hand pressed against the hallway wall, you’ve tortured me with images of fornications past. Fuck you.”

I see you, my friend. You’re moving faster now; I can tell from a distance. All that talk has gone through your nerves to your muscles. I’m not omniscient but I don’t think you’re even watching her anymore – you’ve gotten so lost in yourself. Come back my friend. She’s the one pleasing you, not your thoughts.

Her back’s stuck to the chair; perspiration that’s glue. She’s noticed you’re fucking her harder but you’re less involved. Women know. They sense these things. In response she’s stopped moving. No longer in rhythm with you, you feel alone and you stop. You’re brought back instantly to her sweaty tits; you want to reach out to her. Your hands gather sweat as you try to squeeze – it’s as if they could sense the paralysis of the moment and chose the path of least resistance. No response; her mouth doesn’t speak in moans, her breath by changing pace, her thighs by pushing in on yours, and her pussy by contracting around your warm dick. You’re still in her but you’re not moving. In the 40 degrees of heat you’re two bodies, frozen. It’s a fragile moment – you’re in the open, nude, inside someone your mind’s miles away from. What do you do?

Orient yourself friend. Take a moment of infinity and gather your bearings. In the meantime I’ll digress a little…

I don’t want a woman next to me when I go to sleep. I want a woman under me when I’m making love to her. I don’t want a woman nagging the hell out me about some asinine detail she’s accusing me of having overlooked (all the while as my mind orbits scenarios of yelling matches, slamming doors, shattering glass, and last but not least, my palm making violent contact with her cheek). I want a woman to tell me clearly and concisely what she wants and what she expects – without the charge that I should already know what she wants and expects. I don’t want a woman to drag me to unnervingly stupid movies or shows or exhibits. I want a woman who’ll discuss with me her thoughts on Dostoyevsky’s “The Karamazov Brothers”; she’ll tell me her favorite parts and tell me what she thought of “The Grand Inquisitor.” I don’t want a woman who innocently, with a smile as wide as a continent, claims that her favorite activity is shopping. I don’t want a woman who gets wet when someone buys her a useless item and euphemistically labels it a gift. I want a woman who buys what she wants and lets me do the same without any guilt.

[I change voices here, from the 2nd person 'you' to the 3rd person 'he', in reference to my friend.]
They’re separated now. She went inside while he’s standing on the balcony in his underwear with a cigarette sprinkling ashes on the street below. Her sense of shame is noteworthy. Fully aware that no one could see her breasts, she still wraps her arms around them as she walks indoors. She goes to the bathroom and wipes her pussy dry of the little wetness that remained. Afterwards I see her lying on the divan in the living room, still naked. A few minutes later my friend goes inside. He stands behind the couch for a few seconds, going over in his mind what to do next. She hasn’t looked at him. Her breasts are tenderly squeezed together as she lies on her side, chest heaving slightly harder than softly. He’s nervous, his hands are slightly shaking. He’s afraid he might have screwed up, and he’s frantically searching for a way to salvage the situation. Underlying the panic is the very practical realization that this kind of opportunity (to fuck all day unabashedly) doesn’t arise every day.

A few seconds later you walk out from behind the couch to the head of the divan. You stand there motionless, again for a few seconds which appear to you to pass like hours. Then you get down on your knees. It’s uncomfortable, the cold concrete floor against your knees, which are cold from beads of sweat, but you can bear the pain my friend because you’ve got a greater goal in mind. I see you raising your hand and placing it softly on her head. You don’t move, she doesn’t move. An hour later (in your mind) you begin stroking her hair. She’s not responding. She’s just lying there, not dead, but barely alive.

My friend you’ve seen a lot of movies, for what I see you do next reeks of feigned aggressiveness. Being aware not to hurt her, you clasp at her hair and pull her head back, compelling her to look at you. She averts her eyes. You place your other hand around her cheek and force her to face you. She’s not resisting violently, which you’ve learned from your movie-watching career is a desirable non-response. You bring your face down and stroke her cheek with yours. Letting loose your jaw you wet the region between cheek and chin with the inside of your lower lip. She’s still not responding, but more importantly, she’s still not resisting. Now that her cheek’s supported by yours, you remove your hand and move it lower toward her breasts (I see that your other hand is still playing with her hair). Placing your hand between her breasts you squeeze the upper one. Your other hand slides down from her scalp to her neck and gently pushes her head toward you. Her eyes closed, she lets out a moan. Rejoice my friend!

Pretty soon you’re standing over her with your dick in her mouth. You’ve managed to get hard again, and she’s slowly regaining her appetite. Not a word’s been spoken either outside or inside, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I already know what’s going to be happening next: You’ll pull out of her mouth and lie down next to her, moving her body over yours to make room. You’ll penetrate her vagina first with one finger, then with another, and finally with your hard dick. You’ll start fucking slowly, not sure yet of how much she wants it after the failed attempt outside, but not encountering a struggle of any kind you’ll fuck with increasing desire and conviction. A rhythm will establish itself and you’ll oscillate back and forth for some time. Without speaking you’ll change positions several times. You’ll fuck sometimes harder sometimes softer, judging what she wants from the cries and screams she emits. She wants you to keep fucking her hard but you can’t, out of fear that you’ll come too early. There is no originality in your lovemaking friend, but again, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s an onerous undertaking to be inventive in the favorite and most notorious leisure activity of our species. Rest assured if you think of something you think is original, it’s most likely been done before.

Let me watch her as you fuck. Her legs are on your shoulders, her face is turned to the side, eyes closed, and her large breasts rise and fall heavily with each repetition. You can even see your palm prints on her breasts from when you squeezed them earlier. Her arms are outstretched, hands clasping at the bed sheets. It’s hardly a novel image, but it hardly fails to satisfy when you’re in it.

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