KAMATHIPURA

Siddharth shouldn’t have worn sticky polyester pants
on a stuffy summer night. Sweat trickled down his
dangling privates where it settled between uncomfortable
folds of skin and body hair. Humidity hung thicker than the
musty blankets used as makeshift partitions, in the many
whorehouses that dotted lane number 13 in Kamathipura.
The smell of dog piss mixed with sweat and cheap, bottled
deodorants overwhelmed his wits. Betel-leaf chewing
chakkas hurled girls as young as thirteen at him with faces
full of garish make-up, baby cheeks and sickly arms. The
dhinchak thump of Bollywood music, punctuated by the
staccato croak of police vans, buzzed through his eardrums
in disorienting soundwaves. He was out of place, being
where he was. It helped that he was drunk. He’ d downed
one more peg of Old Monk over the one that was decidedly
his last in a bid to up his nerves. This was his big night – the
night he’ d decided to lose his virginity. He wasn’t expecting
a porn film to play out, although he’ d imagined his face on
every single porntastic.com video he watched during his
weekly ejaculation ritual. He reminded himself that even if
he lasted five minutes, it was honourable enough time. That
if, for some reason, he didn’t rise to the occasion, he could
clear his tab and no one would know.

He wasn’t as heroic as he’d have liked to be, nor was
his penis- it was as aesthetic as a gnarly tree-stump that
survived a forest fire. His balls were a different story –
always clean, trimmed, toilet-paper dried; he hoped that
would be enough to uphold his honour when the time to
do the do would come. He walked towards the yellow door
with eyes down, whores in colourful neon sarees grazed
their braless boobies past his chest, expertly faulting those
eventful corridors bursting with human traffic and sexual
frustration at its seams. Their gazelle eyes belied the hunger
of an apex predator. An ominous current charged the air.
The streetlights outside flickered, electricity lines hissed
from around the crumbling balcony on which Siddharth
stood. A loud thud, a deep gasp, and a gregarious fall
followed (presumably from the ecstatic bliss that was a
signature of cumming into Medusa).

Siddharth’s restlessness piqued. He’d heard many great
things about the creature who lay on the other side of that door
– the whore who went by the Instagram handle: @Medusa.

‘They call her the monster show – the ultimate entertainer
in sex fantasy. She appears in harems across the world every
fortnight, without prior notice, and only for a short time. If
the reviews online are anything to go by, then she’s an expert
at giving men sensations they’ve never had.’
His boss shoved the phone in his face, showing him the
picture of a strikingly attractive girl Siddharth wouldn’t
ordinarily have dared to speak with. She had neither garish
lipstick nor ghostly white power dabbed over her face. She
was virginal, way out of his league.

‘Are you sure she’s not some kind of supermodel?’
Siddharth stared at the luminescent photo in his palm
uncertainly. ‘Hardly looks like a beast of any kind.’

‘Oh! I hear she’s a lethal, little beast… Now, listen, you
want your first time to be intense, unforgettable.’ The boss
was the kind of man Siddharth secretly hoped to become.
Round biceps and white-washed teeth between which
morsels of food were never to be found. ‘You’ll want it to feel
dirty. It’s part of the thrill.’

‘I’m not sure. I mean, hookers are great, I suppose. But
Kamathipura?’ Siddharth smiled awkwardly, imagining her
face when he came inside her; the thought of a red-light district
dampened much of the hardening sensation in his pants.

The boss man whispered uncomfortably close,
the stench of the onion and chutney in his drunken breath
reached Siddharth before his words.

‘Consider it my treat.’ The boss man smiled benevolently.
A macho smack on the back, another rum and cola and
tall-tales of tight cunts got Siddharth’s twenty-year-old
hormones in a tizzy. He was burning to do the do, ready to
walk through the illicit gates of erotica.

The yellow door flung open, and Medusa’s customer walked
through a beaded curtain. He was a short, round, balding
man who combed his hair with a cheap brown plastic comb
on his way out of the corridor. His eyes were downcast, his
knees wobbled, and his wrinkly-old face flushed a shade of
orange. Although the man made no eye contact, the body
language suggested something intense, unforgettable had
transpired. Siddharth took a deep breath, straightened his
shirt, pushed the beaded curtains, ready for what was to
come. The smell of agarbatti was welcoming, though the
room was uncomfortable—a matchbox-sized, lilac box with
no windows. A small four-poster bed took up most of the
free space, and an ill-fitted plastic side-table was adorned
with a bouquet of plastic flowers, a quarter of rum and a
pack of Gold Flake cigarettes. Dampness permeated the
walls. A cheap china lamp flickered by the corner.
‘Would you like me to change the sheets?’ She appeared
quietly by his shoulder, a sight far prettier than the pictures
that brought him to her door. Her skin was olive with wavy,
brown hair that fell to her hips. Her eyes were green as
summertime grapes.

‘I….umm..I…it’s okay’, he fumbled stupidly, wondering
how a creature so fine had won the reputation of a beast.
All his doubts disappeared. Everything blurred save for
Medusa. She wore a simple peach petticoat and blouse, her
taut nipples teased under.

‘Do you like fantasy?’ she played with her brown hair,
innocently staring. ‘Some men like to rub jam and butter
first, others dress me as their bride, some want to dress like
the bride and have me watch. Where do you want to start?’
She asked the question with startling innocence. His
earlobes grew hot with thoughts of unspeakable desires he
had spent so much time day-dreaming about. He stared
at her feet instead of answering. Her nails were perfectly
manicured; her toes were symmetrical on both sides.
Everything about her seemed chiselled by the Gods. She was
just as one of the comments on her Instagram page said:
a myth come to life. She bent towards the table by the bedside
and poured the Old Monk, sensing his insecurity.

‘A drink always helps.’

No sooner did it reach his hands, than he downed the
glass. She locked her eyes on him and came closer. She
needed no intoxicants to get down to business.
‘Your first time?’ she whispered by his neck. His hair
stood at the warmth in her breath. She smelt of spices and
the salty sea. She pushed him down to the creaky, old bed,
unhooking her first blouse button from which her rounded
breasts teased. He imagined what they tasted like – the
promise of nectar sweeter than peaches.

‘Want to know what my first time was like?’ she asked
playfully.

‘Tell me’, the rising testosterone built his confidence, the
Old Monk churned his insides like drunken butterflies.

‘Telling isn’t knowing, mister’, she pinned him to the hard
bed, her hands guiding his own up her cotton skirt.

‘My name is Siddharth.’ His throat was dry; his tongue was
thirsting. He pressed his fingers against her silken, soft skin.

‘Why bother with niceties when you’ve come for
something else?’ she paused for a second, holding his hands
back from exploring the depths of her warm thighs. ‘You
didn’t answer my question, do you want to know what my
first time was like?’

Her honey-soaked voice turned hoarse. Her sensual green
eyes flashed with a hint of something sinister, something
muddy. The walls caged in with impending doom. There
wasn’t any time to dwell on such instinct; primal urges were
at play.

She unbuckled his pants. He ripped through her petticoat.
His hands caressed her breasts, slow at first, then with an
urgent hunger. She pulled his face away from her ample
bosom, her mouth closed into his lips, and she moved her
tongue deep into his. He nibbled across her mouth and neck.
She purred with growing intensity; he could hear his heart
racing. Her hands grabbed his erect penis; he suckled on her
nipples, feeling their tenderness between his teeth.

‘Do you want to know?’ Her tongue traced his earlobe,
sending shivers down his spine. ‘Do you want to know?’
‘Everything’, he tore apart the plastic packaging of his
condom with urgency. ‘I want to know everything.’

Her brown tresses fell over the curvature of her perfect
body. She pinned him down as she got on top. He closed his
eyes before the penetration, awaiting the pleasure that had
no name.

She locked on to his hands with unnatural strength until
he couldn’t move out of her grip. Her pelvis thrust into him
with unnatural force. His genitalia reversed, piercing his
penis inward into his organs until it inverted into the walls
of the vagina. The tissue of the soft, sensitive mouth between
his legs was torn to bloody tatters with the vicious force of
a hammer.

In a paranormal turn of events, a man drilled himself
into Siddharth, throttling him by the neck. He pressed into
his body with ungodly force.

At first, he froze with terror. Panic and pain quickly took
over. Siddharth wrestled, buried under the brute force of the
beast whose chest weighed more than all of Siddharth. He
bit into the man’s muscular shoulders; the teeth didn’t leave a
mark on the brute’s waxy skin. The man slapped Siddharth’s
face with a vengeance, throttled his mouth before he could
let out a scream. Siddharth’s skin crawled at the touch of
that grubby beard. The man slobbered across his chest,
neck and ears. Siddharth smelled the sea in the filth of the
man’s sweat, sinking into the pores of his flesh. He felt dirty,
violated, urinated upon.

With growing desperation, he opened and closed his
eyes several times during the ordeal. The nightmare was
relentless, real, and rabid. He was sure he would die before
this was over. What kind of a monster would torture another
human like so? It’s in your head. This isn’t happening. He was
supposed to be at a brothel; inside a lavender room, with a
prostitute he could override. But his body was telling him
another story. His back was pushed onto exposed stone steps
of a temple in a foreign place, his skin scathed with rashes
while he was thrust up and down. He screamed for help.
Celestial sculptures all around him bore silent witness to the
desiccation of his soul. A demi-god tore his hymen apart.
‘Stop, please stop’. The man bit into his lips until they
were sore and smudged with blood. His veins pulsated in
pain from all over; he shook in intermittent sweats. The man
pulled at his hair, then flipped him to his back, and pressed
his jaw to the floor. His head exploded with pain, guilt,
shame, fear, loathing, disgust, hate, confusion; it would take
lifetimes to dissect the emotions that came with the force
of the man’s ejaculations. Siddharth wished and hoped and
prayed for his lungs to collapse, his heart to stop palpitating,
and his chest to explode. He wanted to leave that ravaged
body and never return.

And his prayer was answered.

Hot tears streamed down his eyes. The familiar sound of
the ceiling fan called him back into the windowless room
with lavender walls. His penis was safe inside a condom. His
cum dripped inside it.

‘Funny how some people call this fun’, whispered a voice
by his ear.

When he turned to look at her, his bones turned to ash
with dread. Beside him, lay a creature more terrifying than
the ordeal he’d just survived. Giant snakes hissed poisonous
fangs through her tresses, her pear-shaped hips were dark
brown, with skin that crackled with electric rage. He’d never
forget those eyes. They were giant, hazel and volcanic with
dark magic. His gut turned over with just a stare. He leaned
over to the edge of the bed, vomiting out blackened stones,
maggots, green slime, then some more stones, maggots and
green slime.

A hand offered him a glass of Old Monk.
‘A drink always helps.’

He turned around to find Medusa3 curled behind him,
perfectly nude, with hair cascading down her breasts. He
backed off as her hands reached for his, his knees hit the
four-poster bed that creaked with a loud grunt.
‘That’ll be a thousand rupees’, said her honey-soaked
voice.

With trembling hands, he put on his polyester pants,
buttoned his shirt half-way, pulled all the money out of his
wallet, and didn’t wait for the change. He opened the yellow
door, a grizzly businessman with a giant paunch looked at
him inquisitively. Avoiding eye contact, Siddharth hurriedly
limped out to the streets with a burning sensation in his
private parts. Above him, the messy cords of electricity
cables hissed away like venomous serpentines as the cry of
another man rang behind Medusa’s yellow door.
He weakly pulled out his arm and hailed a cab jittering at
the touch of a pimp who tried to drag his hand into another
one of Kamathipura’s many doors.

 

1 eunuchs
2 something flashy, bling

***** In Greek Mythology, Medusa was a beautiful maiden who
turned into a hideous monster after she was raped by the
Sea-God Poseidon.

 

 

 

 

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