by Nikhil Kshirsagar
Ever played any of those games where shedding clothing is built into
the rules, and the loser ends up with nothing on? I did once, and I was
glad I did. I even cheated in the end, and pulled away the final
vestiges of the flimsy material preventing my unobstructed view of my
prize. I'm not ashamed.
She'd walked into the party alone. I saw what she was wearing. It
was couture, chic, probably designer, one of those names that the Milan
or Paris stores promote, come summer or fall. The color of the season.
Very flimsy though, and quite revealing. Hid just enough.
I went over. I introduced myself. These occasions are always rife
with those pleasant possibilities. Would madam like to dance? Once I
have her in my arms, and breathing heavy, sweating a bit and feeling
flushed, is it that large a leap of the imagination to then think about
We danced, the requisite pheromones were exchanged. I proposed a
game. We'd have to leave though, to play, I tell her. Your place or
mine? Let's play right here, she says. You wouldn't say that if you
knew the game, I said. Try her? Okay.
So the game's like this. (I said). I tell you things about yourself.
If I'm right, you lower that thing you're wearing an inch each time.
Deal? And if you're wrong, she asked? We'll cross that bridge when we
come to it, I said.
You know how to know things about people? You look. It's easy to
know someone, as long as they let you look at them. All you need to
negotiate is permission to look.
So I looked, I looked, reader! (pleasure mixed with pleasure,
stirred, shaken) and she had the most beautiful set of eyes, they told
me things about her, it was so easy. I was merely a medium, gentlemen!
And things I told her. She laughed, those eyes of hers dancing and
sparkling, and that thing she wore, went down, down, the straps
lowered, support suspended, and a few triumphant disclosures later, I
had the frontage almost at satisfactory levels. One more, and I'm going
to see everything.
Then I whispered, as a last and final flourish, ".. ...... . .....
.... ... " (Of course I can't tell you), and she saw through that,
immediately rejected it as a tautology, said that didn't count.
The spell I'd cast broke like one of those ballooned soapy droplets
that shimmers more, more, and more and then explodes soundlessly. She
made to pull up, covered her exposed skin, and said she was late for an
appointment, or something.
I took my life in my hands, risked it all, nudged aside her covid-19
induced face-mask, and took a taboo look at a perfect nose, a cupid bow
lip, a luscious mouth and a dimpled and delicate chin. What a face!
© 2020 Nikhil Kshirsagar
Nikhil Kshirsagar is a software engineer with a major IT firm.
While he works mostly at night, he calls it his day job. In his spare
time he writes short stories and strums a few chords. He also rapidly
tires of writing about himself in the third person.
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