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Authors: Ranbir Singh Sidhu
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motion on several fronts.”
“I am walking inside a miasma. I am walking round and round in a vast circle. I’m going to walk and discover my own footprints one day. That’s how I feel.”
“It’s going around.”
“You’re a funny man. You should do stand-up.”
“We’re making an assault, Jack. Planning stages, there areground forces, there are recon teams. We have radar up and active, we have infiltration. We are on the verge of initiating first contact. Penetration is imminent.”
“Henderson?”
“Hawthorne.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“I rolled a joint. I hope that’s not against policy?”
Hari lights the joint and takes a puff.
“Tell me, Harry. You don’t have kids?”
“You don’t know?”
“I know. I want to hear it from you.”
“No, Jack, no kids.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jack?”
“What does it mean not to have kids?”
“It’s quiet. That’s what it means. It’s quiet and I get to fuck my wife on my birthday.”
“That’s why I was calling. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I almost forgot. It’s amazing. I think I am losing my way.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you have a copy of Cosmo? If not, then Marie Claire . One of those.”
“The magazines?”
“Wives subscribe. It’s a basic principle.”
Anu does, he knows, and as he turns to search the shelf below the side table, he is stopped by what he sees resting before the framed photograph of Anu’s mother. It is a penis. Nothing more and nothing less. It is dark, flaccid, sitting atop a pair of balls. He reaches out a finger and pokes it. It feels soft, just like his.
He pulls the stack of magazines out from the lower shelf and sorts through them on his lap.
“Harry? Do you have the magazine?”
“Hold on, I’ve got a situation.”
“What kind of situation are we talking?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. I have Cosmo here.”
“Good. Page 158. I need you to turn to page 158.”
As he turns the pages, he lays the rubber penis on his knee and stares at it, the dark, ribbed flesh, the curl of the shaft, the uncircumcised foreskin. It’s not hard like a dildo. It’s soft and it looks like the real thing, except the base is cleanly sliced and MADE IN INDIA stamped into it. It shivers when he moves his knee, it rocks back and forth when he raises and lowers it. It is almost alive and he has to fight an impulse to reach out and stroke it.
“There’s an ad,” Hari says, “and an article about that actress from Idaho.”
“Put your face in the ad.”
“The perfume ad.”
“Yes. Put your face in it. Close your eyes. Then open the flap and breathe in. Inhale. I want you to inhale deeply before you open your eyes.”
The perfume is called Homicide.
“I smell it.”
“Good. Now open your eyes.”
Hari sees a naked woman, maybe sixteen, full, long blonde hair, eyes shut, a look of ecstasy on her face. He takes another toke.
“She’s fuckable,” Hari says. “Uber fuckable.”
“She is Willomena von Stettin-Coburg, original euro-trash royalty.”
“Nice. What are we talking about, Jack?”
“Your birthday present. We have a company discount. One grand. For one grand she will give you a blow job. She doesn’t fuck. No one. I’ve looked into it.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s one hell of a blowjob. Top-notch production values, five-piece band, singer, professional lighting. The full-on razzmatazz. You’ll never look back. She’ll change your life, you’ll be a spoiled man.”
“She is good?”
“Better. Have Peggy set you up. I’ll call you later.”
She lies snaking across the perfumed fold, on her side, head thrown back, breasts vivid, even a shadow of pubic hair visible. Hari thinks about her mouth, her mouth around his dick.
He hears Anu let out a cry.
“Honey?”
There is a long silence and he returns his attention to the woman in the magazine.
“Honey?” he calls again.
“Nothing,” she says from somewhere in the house. “I hate
“I am walking inside a miasma. I am walking round and round in a vast circle. I’m going to walk and discover my own footprints one day. That’s how I feel.”
“It’s going around.”
“You’re a funny man. You should do stand-up.”
“We’re making an assault, Jack. Planning stages, there areground forces, there are recon teams. We have radar up and active, we have infiltration. We are on the verge of initiating first contact. Penetration is imminent.”
“Henderson?”
“Hawthorne.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“I rolled a joint. I hope that’s not against policy?”
Hari lights the joint and takes a puff.
“Tell me, Harry. You don’t have kids?”
“You don’t know?”
“I know. I want to hear it from you.”
“No, Jack, no kids.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jack?”
“What does it mean not to have kids?”
“It’s quiet. That’s what it means. It’s quiet and I get to fuck my wife on my birthday.”
“That’s why I was calling. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I almost forgot. It’s amazing. I think I am losing my way.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you have a copy of Cosmo? If not, then Marie Claire . One of those.”
“The magazines?”
“Wives subscribe. It’s a basic principle.”
Anu does, he knows, and as he turns to search the shelf below the side table, he is stopped by what he sees resting before the framed photograph of Anu’s mother. It is a penis. Nothing more and nothing less. It is dark, flaccid, sitting atop a pair of balls. He reaches out a finger and pokes it. It feels soft, just like his.
He pulls the stack of magazines out from the lower shelf and sorts through them on his lap.
“Harry? Do you have the magazine?”
“Hold on, I’ve got a situation.”
“What kind of situation are we talking?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. I have Cosmo here.”
“Good. Page 158. I need you to turn to page 158.”
As he turns the pages, he lays the rubber penis on his knee and stares at it, the dark, ribbed flesh, the curl of the shaft, the uncircumcised foreskin. It’s not hard like a dildo. It’s soft and it looks like the real thing, except the base is cleanly sliced and MADE IN INDIA stamped into it. It shivers when he moves his knee, it rocks back and forth when he raises and lowers it. It is almost alive and he has to fight an impulse to reach out and stroke it.
“There’s an ad,” Hari says, “and an article about that actress from Idaho.”
“Put your face in the ad.”
“The perfume ad.”
“Yes. Put your face in it. Close your eyes. Then open the flap and breathe in. Inhale. I want you to inhale deeply before you open your eyes.”
The perfume is called Homicide.
“I smell it.”
“Good. Now open your eyes.”
Hari sees a naked woman, maybe sixteen, full, long blonde hair, eyes shut, a look of ecstasy on her face. He takes another toke.
“She’s fuckable,” Hari says. “Uber fuckable.”
“She is Willomena von Stettin-Coburg, original euro-trash royalty.”
“Nice. What are we talking about, Jack?”
“Your birthday present. We have a company discount. One grand. For one grand she will give you a blow job. She doesn’t fuck. No one. I’ve looked into it.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s one hell of a blowjob. Top-notch production values, five-piece band, singer, professional lighting. The full-on razzmatazz. You’ll never look back. She’ll change your life, you’ll be a spoiled man.”
“She is good?”
“Better. Have Peggy set you up. I’ll call you later.”
She lies snaking across the perfumed fold, on her side, head thrown back, breasts vivid, even a shadow of pubic hair visible. Hari thinks about her mouth, her mouth around his dick.
He hears Anu let out a cry.
“Honey?”
There is a long silence and he returns his attention to the woman in the magazine.
“Honey?” he calls again.
“Nothing,” she says from somewhere in the house. “I hate
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