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Summer Lovin’

April 19, 2013
Once a year, every year till I was seventeen (or till my last year of school) our family would take a trip from where my father’s job required us to live in Karnataka to our home town in Uttar Pradesh. This little town was where my parents first met, fell in love and eventually got married, but now there was almost nothing left there of either of their families, everyone from their generation – siblings, cousins –  having moved to bigger cities and richer pasture.
But once a year, all of them would come back here, to this little town in the middle of (most people would agree) nowhere to be with family, to be home. What I looked forward to most, however, was meeting my grandmother. She was the perfect grandma, with a little crazy thrown in for good measure. She could settle arguments between siblings and cousins, cook impossibly delicious meals up to what seemed like fifty five times a day, she was funny, wise and mean (but never in a bad way), partook of a little Old Monk every night before bed and knew all the rudest stories… she was my favorite person in the whole world.
The house she so sweetly ruled over for so many decades was a large one, with a battalion of workers to cater to every need (and whim) of her children and wild, rowdy grandchildren. Some of these workers had fixed working hours – they came and went, but most of them lived on grounds and (so I’m told) had been with us for generations.
Jaffar was our gardener’s son. He was my age, perhaps a little older. Since I was the eldest among my cousins, and by a pretty large margin, I’d spent my summers playing with Jaffar and his friends. Spring to monsoon, every year, we’d spend all our time together – climbing trees, temporarily adopting puppies, eating stolen mangoes and generally being an overall nuisance. As I grew older and the prejudices of my ‘convent-education’ began to grow on me, I started to think of them as clumsy and uncultivated, holding their lack of fancy education against them, judging them as uncouth and somehow vulgar. All of this was exacerbated by puberty and the awkwardness of early adolescence. I was suddenly painfully aware that most of my friends here were boys. The mango trees in our orchard still gave delicious, juicy fruit, but I spent lesser and lesser time outside, choosing to stay in my room with my books, and having fruit for dessert after dinner at the table, as good girls are wont to do.
The rest of the children (eventually, hopefully) forgave me. I don’t think Jaffar ever did. As children we’d been almost inseparable  He used to make me laugh, we’d tell each other our secrets: he was my best friend. And while I was growing up shy – too thin, too geeky, Jaffar was just the opposite. He was tall and lean, bronzed from his hours in the sun, tightly muscled; and he had – with his bright dark eyes and large mouth, a face almost shockingly handsome.
 The last week of every summer we used to have a party, a large, friendly affair with lots of people and a whole lot of food. Every year as we got older, a bunch of us kids were – through some mysterious adult process – ratified as being “okay” enough to drink with the grown-ups and so tonight, under the hawk-eyed surveillance of my mother, I was allowed to get gently sloshed.
When I made my way back to my room it was late and the night had quietened down. I washed my face and opened the window to let some air in.
As the little room swelled with smells of jasmine and summer, I saw, standing with his back to a tree, Jaffar with, good god… a woman? Outside of schoolroom discussions and some amateurish exploration of my own body, I didn’t know too much about sex. I was aware of what went where, so perhaps I did know about “sex”; but I knew nothing of passion, of making love, of gasps and squeezes and muffled moans late at night under scented mango trees.
The woman had her hair tied in a loose bun and as I watched, Jaffar reached out behind her to tug at it, run his fingers through her hair till it opened and flowed, like a river of black silk, to halfway down her bottom. All this while she’d been grasping at him through his loose dhoti, and now that he was quite done with her hair, he unfastened her blouse as fast as his fingers would allow and then she shifted so I could see from my side the heavy hang of her breast – full and ripe and oh so delectable and maybe he felt the same way because a heartbeat later his head was bent down, quite possibly so his tongue and his teeth could say hello and howdoyoudo, but also perhaps so he could simply take a closer look. And then maybe he took her nipple into his mouth because suddenly she gasped and tightened her grip on his hair while her other breast, the one I could see, wobbled and shook in the most delightful consternation.
And then she was pulling away from him, pushing him away from her, pulling at his dhoti, pushing it down, down, down till it unraveled and pooled at their feet.
I could feel the color rise to my face and the blood rush down to where I had a finger drawing circles around my clitoris – felt it engorge, sweet cherry nubbin. In that first shocked moment when I saw what he looked like… what a man looked like, I couldn’t help but gasp (how would it ever fit!) and before I knew what was happening I saw him look up to where my window was thrown open and where I stood with my own prim little self thrown quite open too. The buttons on my shirt were undone, my bra off-kilter so a nipple was exposed. I’d rucked up my skirt and tucked it around the waistband, pushed my panties hastily to one side and so that is how Jaffar saw me, his bright eyes boring into mine as a semi-nude goddess bobbed up and down on her knees in front of him.
I averted my eyes from his before he could have time to react, and before even I knew what I was doing (maybe even out of some misplaced sense of camaraderie) I raised one heeled foot on to the window ledge, felt my labia lewdly, wetly spread wide open – spread it even wider with the fingers of one hand, in fact – all the while looking at the hypnotic sway of her hair and the sudden, shiny flashes of wet cock and I slowly pushed two fingers into my own waiting wetness. When I did finally dare to look at Jaffar’s face, I saw eyelids grown heavy with lust, saw him grip her hair tight with his fingers and shove himself deep into her mouth, saw him look all the while at the sticky see-saw of my own fingers.
She was starting to squirm and mewl now, her pelvis thrusting up to meet her own fingers and however pleasant this was for all parties involved, he decided that it was time to move on to something even more pleasant and I watched as he disengaged himself, as she shuffled around on her knees at a sign from him and got down on all fours, watched him cup her bottom, squeezing hard, and then saw him start to pull her sari up, gathering large folds of the garment in his hand, slowly and insistently. As he smoothed the sari up over her hips, a little thrill ran through me – she wasn’t wearing any underwear. The sight of her skin, smooth and brown, glowing in the moonlight aroused in him perhaps a lust even stronger than it did in my own precocious self because he was spreading her buttocks wide open with his hands and an aching heartbeat later was sinking himself deep inside her. I heard them groan in unison as I tugged at a nipple while dipping three fingers into my own wetness to spread over my clitoris and started to fuck myself in earnest.
The woman (his woman, I thought jealously) shifted slightly and watching her large breasts jump around obscenely from the force of his loving caused me to shift slightly and open myself even further to his gaze and Jaffar helplessly looked on, even while his hands were gripped around her generous waist and the sounds of their sloppy schlickschlickschlicking filled the night. And then I heard Jaffar groan and he was pulling on her hair as his rhythm faltered as he thrust hard once, twice and seeing his face contorted in that most blissful of agonies made me think oh god he’s coming and that one thought tipped me over so I was slipping, slipping, spiraling down and as I came I could see the woman had her eyes squeezed shut too and was biting her lip to keep from screaming out loud.
When I could listen to sounds beyond the rushing of blood in my ears, I felt the air had grown quiet, so quiet I thought it would eat us all up. I looked at Jaffar and his girl, where they were preparing to leave to wherever (their respective homes, I suppose) – hurriedly dressing and giggling. As he turned to kiss her behind the ear, I caught his eye and managed to not look away for long enough to give a small little wave before I felt the colour rise in my face and I wanted to duck out of sight. He smiled back at me (my god, the sweetest smile) and turned away then, his hand smoothing the sari over his partner’s back.
Back in my room, I threw myself on my bed, feeling not the least bit ashamed. Naughty perhaps, and wonderfully sated. It had been after all the best orgasm of my life… and maybe I was friends with Jaffar again? I grinned to myself. Probably not.
Anyway, we left for home the next day, and my grandmother died that winter. I haven’t had the heart to visit her house since, but maybe someday soon I will. Heaven knows I want to.
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