It was about eleven thirty in the night when Rajaram Shah, feeling quite unlike himself realised that only a paltry sum of fifty euros stood in front of his four inch inch penis and the six foot two inch ivory white prostitute standing in front of him.
Impossible, thought Rajaram. He had purchased dry fruits and spices that were more expensive in the past.
He stared at the perfect figure in front of him, ready to be rented out. His mouth watered. The feeling that he could afford her physical shell so easily added to it. This was a primal feeling of power. He felt his wallet bulge fatter than his penis ever had and a euphoric feeling of childlike elation stirred in him. He had never seen a woman look so desirable anywhere in his hometown. Women such as this were seen only in the inner folders of his pornography collection. His own wife back at home refused to undress in front of him, unless he agreed to look away and the lights were switched off. But then, he had been married for only half a year.
Rajaram had been sent to Antwerp to sell two solitaires that were proving themselves to be particularly hard to sell in his hometown of Surat. His family business of crafting personalised diamond sets had taken a rather unhappy u-turn after the economy had majestically crashed over the past three months. Even the most affluent of Surat’s elite who had no problem being fleeced by the Shah’s in broad daylight on a casual Wednesday afternoon were watching their expenses all of a sudden.
Rajaram’s father knew an old Jewish trader near the red light district who he knew would love to be ‘surprised’ by a visit from his Indian allies. Rajaram was packed off with a warning from his father not to eat any meat, drink any alcohol or engage in any activity that would dishonour the clan through the duration of his first foreign trip. He had sworn on different sets of Gods that he wouldn’t. His father knew he would.
The whiteness of her skin fascinated him. His own skin looked so murky in comparison. It reminded him of dirt. He wanted to know what she felt like. He wondered if blonde white girls were blonde even down there.
His deal had gone rather well. He hadn’t sold at the price his father wanted to, but none the less, he had sold at a handsome profit. Taking in account the small cuts he would need to give to bribe out customs officers back at home and the two middlemen that had helped balance out the translations, he would still come back home with enough cash to lavishly splurge through the next five months.
There were at least a hundred women to choose from, in the red light street. Each was standing in a glass cubicle, in very much the same way clothes are displayed on mannequins in stores, like meat hangs on hooks ready to be picked. The cubicles were numbered in a rural bazaar sort of a way. They were all scantily dressed, each with the same tacky neon green palely glowing lingerie.
Rajaram had walked slowly in the rectangular block, mentally rating and forming an image of how each one would feel in bed. He walked past the first two – chestnut brown latinas with obviously coloured blonde hair. One of them raised her finger and waggled it invitingly at him. His penis was half hard already. But he must be patient. He must see all the goods before making a transaction. He must not make a hasty first timer decision, he thought.
Rajaram had turned right at the intersection. An old wrinkled man had been furiously arguing with an equally old looking transexual. He appeared to have touched her in a place she had warned him not to, and was demanding more money. A small glimmer of fear had stirred in him about what he was about to do.
Rajaram walked silently past women of every shape and size, women with large breasts and small ones, women talking on the phone about topics as insignificant as the increasing price of nail paint remover and women deformed and ugly, struggling at the prospect of getting a customer. They were from Hungary, Estonia, Germany and a hundred other places which had no importance in their lives
A dim red glow illuminated the street. Passers by were lightly painted by the colour at intervals as they walked. As each man paused and stared, Rajaram noticed the same hungry look of abject sexual desperation on each masculine face, dark and dangerous. Some made lewd signs at the women in the stalls. Some hooted and catcalled. A drunk man opened his zipper and pulled his cock out waving it in front of a Turkish woman’s face. He was promptly attacked by brothel security. The world will never be a place for women, Rajaram thought.
Rajaram stopped in front of the Red and Blue nightclub bang in the middle of the stretch. Three fifteen year old schoolgirls with their faces caked with makeup were pleading to the bouncers that they were eighteen, but had forgotten all their id’s at home owing to a very unfortunate coincidence. One of them casually pulled her dress lower, giving the bouncer a very ample view of her breasts.
Raja stared at a cubicle just behind a sex shop promising very attractive discounts on its newest range of vibrators. He went closer, drawn to the stunning vision of sexual perfection in it. She was mouth watering. She was tall, with legs large and muscular. Her bellybutton was pierced, her dark nipples standing erect behind the light fabric on her breasts. Her breasts in question were huge and firm. Rajaram felt an unquestionable urge to throw her on the floor and mount her immediately. The woman sensed his desire and spread her legs just enough for him to get a glipse of a bit of her vagina. Like a dog following meat, Rajaram came close to her cubicle.
The woman opened the door and with a causal air, asked the man in front of her, “What would you like?” Her east European accent was pronounced. Rajaram asked innocently, “What all can I do?”
“For fifty euros you can touch me. You can fuck me in any position you like for twenty minutes and I also blow you. ”
The proposition sounded highly lucrative. Fifty euros to even see her in her nakedness was a bargain. Rajaram would have gladly paid a thousand for her to fondle him, let alone have sex. But the Indianness in him kicked him. He refused to just agree, even though the amount was chicken feed for him.
“Thirty Euros!”, he said, trying to sound like someone who does this everyday.
“Fifty is base price, mister”, she replied. Her eyes sparkling blue. They were lenses, Rajaram realised.
“Thirty is all I have” said Rajaram attempting a sad and desperate face that fooled no one.
“Look mister. Forty is as low as I go. You take or you leave” said the woman with a tone of finality that told Rajaram bargaining was pointless beyond this stage.
“Fine. I’ll give you forty” She ushered him in.
“Money first” she demanded as he entered the brothel. Rajaram counted two notes of twenty and held them in front of her. She quickly stashed them away and guided him to her room, a corridor away. “My name is Christine“, she added giving him a formal peck on the cheek.
The room appeared to be where she stayed. There was an obnoxious red satin bed cover on the bed, which was the only bit of furniture besides a chest of drawers. Three photos were stuck on them. Two appeared to be of her parents and what seemed to be a childhood photo of hers. She was sitting on a swing in the photo, the innocence of childhood stamped vibrantly on her face. Rajaram wondered if she’d have ever thought this day would come back then.
“What are you waiting for? Take your clothes off!”, she demanded. She squeezed a generous helping of lube on her palms and rubbed it all inside her vagina with no hint of hesitation. “Don’t be shy now“, she added, a little more kindly, almost sensing his awkwardness.
Rajaram removed his shirt and jeans and threw them on the floor. He proceeded with his underwear. He faced her stark naked.
“You have a big dick”, she said. He knew she was lying, but he felt the ego boost, none the less. Christina made him lie down and removed a condom packet. She ripped it open and slid it on his throbbing penis with a certain professionalism he knew he wouldn’t be able to pull off on himself anytime in the near future. She began to blow him slowly. Rajaram was turned on. He placed his palms greedily on her breasts and pressed.
“NO. Slowly. The silicon. It will break”
Christina slapped his hands away. Somewhere in a corner of Rajaram’s mind it registered. No wonder their breasts looked so firm and large. It was impossible that they were natural. Each and every one of them were loaded with silicon.
Rajaram got up and inserted himself from
the top. Her vagina felt odd, loose yet firm.
“Come baby! Come in my pussy”, she droned, sounding very much like a well rehearsed script. She had repeated the same lines with the same tone to countless others. As he began thrusting harder, an animal like urge took over him. He felt nothing for the human being he was having sex with. He didn’t care if he was hurting her or not.
“Go on top?” Rajaram panted, not knowing requests didn’t belong in the corners of the room that had only seen demands.
“No”, came her cold reply. “That is all you get for forty. Are you done yet? Have you come?”
It dawned on Rajaram that his usual battle of trying to last longer than the woman who was with him didn’t apply here. He was in the heat of the moment though and had no plans of dismounting anytime soon.
“Fine. I’ll give you fifty!”, he mouthed
“Doesn’t work now”
“What do you mean, doesn’t work now?”
“Everyone says they pay later. After coming, they don’t”
” I’ve given you what you asked for till now. I’m telling you. I’ll give you fifty”
“Fine mister. But you don’t pay. I won’t let you leave.”
The promise of ten extra Euros saw a noticeable difference in her participation. She clawed at his back and butt with crude effort, and after twelve minutes worth of mechanised fucking, Rajaram Shah came, restoring his conscious thoughts as every drop of himself collected inside blocked by latex.
Christina was washing the lube off her vagina from a bidet in full sight by the time Rajaram finished wearing his trousers. He peeled a ten Euro note across and handed it to her. He noticed a copy of Dan Brown’s ‘Digital Fortress’ in the room, but decided against asking her for her opinion on whether the end was predictable.
‘Close the door on your way out mister’ she said, kissing him on the cheek, closing the contract formally, before standing outside, exactly like she had for him, just for another stranger this time.
Rajaram was thinking of a lot of things when he came out. He was thinking of whether there were cameras in the room. He was thinking of the book more than necessary. It made her seem human, almost. He walked into a dingy reeking bar in the same lane and was greeted by twelve African American women, each engrossed in convincing one or more of the men in the bar to take them to bed after buying them drinks and settling on a price for the night.
The world is a dark place, thought Rajaram as two men proceeded to put their tongues in each others mouths at a table nearby. They had a rainbow badge on their tshirts. He had no idea what it meant. He simply sat in his chair comprehending the morality of the past hour in his life and realised that there was no glory in his actions. There would be millions like him over the world, sitting the same way, arguing with themselves about the terrible shade of grey the world has painted mankind with. He swore he would never repeat it.
On his way home, he stopped at cubicle number three. He saw a girl, barely over sixteen shyly showing off her supple body. She was beautiful beyond words. She looked at each potential man crossing her with a gaze of partial fear and hope. Did she know how beautiful she looked, Rajaram wondered. What wouldn’t he do to take her to a place of comfort, of security. As remorse slowly filled him, Rajaram Shah walked home with her picture haunting his imagination with regret and a sadness that would last him for a very long time.
He would fuck her all three times he visited Antwerp the following year.