somewhere near the capital

She is butt whore. Although I’m fucking misogynist but I like giving cunts my stubborn saint peter. I met her in my regular skirt patrol in pub called Hallucination; she was wearing a tight white jeans and onion purple t-shirt without bra. I asked her name but she just refused saying that she doesn’t tell her name to strangers. My belly was full of laughing soup and I was pretty hard. I just grabbed her ass and spanked her cool.’
They were talking while walking towards Infoventure solutions, their office. One of them was wearing a pair of low waist jeans with his brief’s strap showing and a yellow t-shirt. His old tennis snickers were full of crap and all. He was holding a brand new Ipod in his left hand and was smoking. Other one was having long, dirty and stinky hairs and he was wearing a blue and brown gingham half sleeves shirt with a faded pair of jeans. He was holding plastic glass of some shit multinational café chain full of black coffee. He was sharing cigarette with the other one. Although it was not loud but I know somehow that there was Jimi Hendrix’s Little Wing playing in arteries of his brain. He was sissy, scared of Aids and addict to pussies. Somehow I know they were both commerce graduates and were working at the call centre named Infoventure solutions.
‘Then she gave me a tough time dude; made a scene there. Damn slut. Her boyfriend with his quisby buddies made me almost kiss the dust.’
The man in yellow t-shirt then ruffled his short hair a bit and showed him the marks of stitches he has.
‘Mother fuckers.’
The other one said. I don’t know why.
‘I can bet Yogesh that pussy hasn’t tasted cream yet. She was fucking cherry. Those guys were just fags. Her butts were as hot as hell.’
Yogesh just tried to imagine her butts. Big, chubby, round and paradise to spank at.
‘Are you still dating that whore?’
‘Oh no she is menstruating fifteen days a month. Bitch.
‘Hehe’
‘Haha’
‘This job is screwing my brain like a drill machine.’ He said to Yogesh.
‘I need this job dude.’
‘Our life is like a common sewer.’
‘It worst than that; at least sewer flows sometimes. We are damn stuck in this shit.’
The guy with yellow t-shirt showed his identity card to the watchman. He was Jagdhish Sharma, a call centre executive, aged twenty-four. I managed to read it. His address was 107, Dilpasand apartments, MG road.
They both entered the place. It was air-conditioned building. Cool, cruel and impersonal. I hate offices, especially corporate offices but I felt fantastic there as if I’m on my daily Ecstasy pill. Then I got a kick of morphine. I saw Manushi Shrivastav. She was wearing a mini skirt. Her legs were screaming that they got waxed yesterday. My Manushi! She knew that I’ll come today and she got her legs waxed for me. She grinned. She was staring Yogesh. Jagdish laughed and went to the loo
There, then somehow I felt sure that Jagdish is going to fix her plumbing. And this is not some flamdoodle of some unemployed zombie like me. This is his, her and my destiny. Each and every girl here is a jazz baby. Yogesh was staring at her jelly-on-spring breast like a hungry gorilla. It was ten thirty pm. They all sat on their cabins with a computer, phone and a table watch on their desk. They started speaking to whitey jerks selling their things and listening to their garbage mouth. Shit I dream of such a job.
After fifteen or twenty {during dark the sense of time get blurred} minutes, I got bored. I thought of having my happy dust and a good hand job in the ladies’ walk. It was vacant except a young girl in a new pair of jeans and a little and brown leather handbag in her hand. She was seeing herself in the mirror and making faces. She was as ugly as my ass. I saw her before somewhere. Oh she is Naina the one who was eating worms in the blood at that Italian restaurant where even a pizza without cheese costs a bank. She was a cockteaser. She used to work in bank where she got raped by her two coworkers but never filed any report against them with the cops. Everyone now knows that is how she got deflowered. What she was doing here? Perhaps she has started her cockteasing here but that can be fatal to her and guys during these nocturnal hours. Happy dust made me fainted or slept or whatever.
Suddenly I woke up seeing Jagdhish and Manushi in their birthday suits belly to belly. Then I saw them in doggy position. I felt disgusted, erect and melancholic at the same shit of time. I jerked off and left that room. Everywhere you find people full of credit cards, condoms and crap and all. I decided to go home and view any cartoon channel. I like Courage the cowardly dog, Cow and Chicken, Sheep in the city. I hate every other thing. I saw Yogesh speaking in an artificial accent,
‘Ma’am ma’am.’ And all that shit they speak.
I’m not any fag or something but I felt bad for Yogesh. All and everyone are knocking front and back doors of his girl and he the pissbilly even doesn’t know about this fucking business. He has sent her hundred of sms saying, ‘love love you lots and lots like jelly tots. Hehe.’ He was a spring chicken. A love spoon. He always deserved a square skirt and got this street sister but why I’m fucking mosquitoes talking about him. This is not that dim bulb’s joke.
It was sunup. They were coming outside. Cold, stiff, cranberry eyed and full of dark circles. I saw Yogesh and that bed bunny {sometimes she even doesn’t need a bed also.} Manushi talking in some blanked chain café.
He asked, ‘ are you coming for the party today.’
It was all slobber for her.
‘No. I’m not coming.’
‘We’ll have booby funk and fun.’ He was a lovebucket.
‘I’m pregnant and planning to get rid of embryo.’
‘But we can marry.’ He spoke like a goofer.
She pissed off. ‘I don’t want to marry. Its not your thing Yogesh.’
‘Huh. I always knew. I always knew that you’re a fucking whore.’
‘Mind your language.’ She shouted. Every pair of eyes there turned to them.
He took his Ipod and left.
I returned to my place and slept till noon. I ate noodles and bathed with some smelled-good bathing salt; I’ve shoplifted from a department store. I felt a deep screwing melancholy. I’m having no job, bra-buster cunt not even a big-bam-thank-you ma’am sort of thing, no money. Everything is buncombe for me. I lit a coffin nail and smoked for long. I saw all the pornographic DVDs and read every bumfodder fiction; I was having. At nine thirty I got up; dressed and left for the pub Hallucination.
They were drunk as skunk and they danced till one thirty am. There were rumors that there is absinthe in the party.
‘Cool beans!’ Yogesh said.
They all drank. It was a fake one. Yogesh was dancing wild with a skag who had biggest sit-upons in the pub. He was planning to thread her needle. I was standing like a fop-doodle. He asked for rum from the waiter who was dandily dressed, pink pants type and a kook.
He offered Yogesh some energy drink to blend it with rum.
Yogesh mixed his glass of jungle juice with that drink. He felt his heart beats fast and hard and started breaking the floor. Velvet underground’s ‘I can’t stand it’ was been playing. DJ had remixed it with an African shit and it was giving those nongs a hard time to dance on. I was playing pocket pool at the corner seeing so many pieces of ass there. The biggest sit-upons was bouncing slow but her posteriors were creating a musical and sexual tantrums. Everyone went bonkers.
Yogesh; sweaty, tired but ecstatic , running out bloody life juices suddenly collapsed on the floor. Disco-lightings were flashing on him sadistically and guitar in the song was giving him an eargasm.
‘ Death is like a big shoot off dude.’ The longest big O. the ultimate ejaculation.
No one stopped. Jagdhish and Arav took Yogesh to the hospital but they were silly shuttle-heads. They should take him to the bone-yard. I decided not to follow him; after all I’m not a fart-catcher like God. I continued enjoying moving buttocks and bosoms of slick chicks and dumb caterpillars. Lightings were now violent and music was attacking ears like nazis.
I drank soda-lime, swallowed pills but hangover was killing me. There was only a good thing about that morning. A dream. Now may be I can get a job at Yogesh’s place. He died of over exhaustion, shattered illusions and pink elephants but I was determined to live.
They rejected me because of my damn Indian accent. I’m still out-of-work. But so what I don’t give even half a fuck.