I, Sharmi, Diamond. Ep-14

1. 14- Myself

The sight of the naked man who had accompanied Anjana was jarring. Such an encounter was new, especially with a third party present. It was disconcerting. He, however, didn't even glance at me; his gaze was fixed on Anjana with undisguised desire. He walked over and embraced her, placing a hand possessively on her groin. "Too hot," he grinned crudely. Anjana seemed to respond to his touch, pulling his face down for a deep kiss. Then, to my surprise, he beckoned me to join them. When I hesitated, she broke the kiss and said, "Come on, let’s have a threesome. Darling Gujjoo hasn’t been in the mood for ages.” I realised he was a voyeur, getting his kicks from watching. What followed needs no further description.

Threesomes, as I had learned, often involved the women seeking additional stimulation. It allowed for prolonged intimacy and, for them, a more intense climax. While it might have been a euphoric experience for them, I would begin to feel pain in my groin after the first couple of encounters. They weren’t interested in a quick transaction. Their focus was on achieving repeated, earth-shattering orgasms, for which my body was expected to perform like a tireless machine. Those unfamiliar with this specific type of demanding physical exertion wouldn’t understand the agonizing ache of maintaining an erection for extended periods.

With each additional person—from two to three to four—the air in the room grew thick with the scent of semen. At a certain point, the act of sex devolved into mere mechanics, eliciting more irritation than pleasure. This was largely due to the women themselves. Their attitudes. Their relentless pursuit of instant gratification is driven by a pent-up desire to unleash their inhibitions. They seized the newfound freedom almost desperately, determined to experience everything in a single night. There was the woman who would smother my face, sucking on my lower lip until I gasped for breath, then immediately demanding more. The woman who would moan “Give me more,” preventing me from even getting up to breathe. Most men are oblivious to the extreme nature of some women's sexual desires. To even label it as “extreme” might be considered chauvinistic. They are human, after all. What I witnessed was the explosive release of emotions long suppressed. To an uninitiated man, it might indeed seem perverse. Sexual desires and their unconventional manifestations are not exclusive to men. Each woman was unique.

One woman, whose name would surprise you, came from an extremely wealthy family. Exquisitely beautiful, she meticulously maintained every inch of her body. She would book a room in a five-star hotel under my name, ordering food and drinks an hour before her arrival and instructing me to be ready. Upon entering, she wouldn’t say a word. Oblivious to my presence, she would sit before the mirror, absorbed in her own reflection for what felt like an eternity. Knowing her well, I would quietly prepare her drink and wait. Eventually, she would break her reverie, glancing at me through the mirror and offering a smile. I would return the smile as if waiting for just that moment. She would then remove her jewelry piece by piece before rising, arms outstretched. It wasn’t an invitation for an embrace.

I would stand before her, gently cupping her face and brushing my lips against hers. Then, I would slowly undress her, piece by piece, before stepping back without further action. She would continue to gaze at her naked reflection. How long this ritual lasted was entirely up to her. Her stillness, the smooth curves of her body, the casual elegance of her updo, the delicate chain around her long neck, the way her back sloped down to her widening hips, the perfectly sculpted curve of her buttocks, the firm thighs, the long legs—watching her was like contemplating a work of art. Yet, it wasn’t simply an aesthetic experience. When she turned, there would be a hint of tears and a flicker of anger in her eyes. She would down her prepared drink in one gulp and approach me. Knowing what was to follow, I would wait. After I had undressed, I was not to touch her. Doing so would mean the end of that night's payment. She would instruct me on what to do. Each time, it was different, and I had to begin when she said and stop when she commanded. Sometimes, caught in the throes of passion, she would make loud noises, as if broadcasting them to someone on a phone call, moaning intensely as if ensuring they could hear. I suspected she was seeking revenge on someone. But I couldn't question her. She was the one paying.

Our encounters with her were slow and deliberate, a quiet ripple in the calm of a river, devoid of any urgency. She would engage me intimately several times, with no sign of tiring. Many times, while caught up in her rhythm, I would find myself wondering if I could ever truly connect with her. This illusion was shattered one day by a knock at the door. She told me to open it. I did so, half-naked. A man stood there, his eyes red and swollen with tears. He pushed past me and entered, staring at her, who simply laughed where she lay. “Don’t laugh, you whore,” he spat. She retorted, “You're the one who made me this way.” She then told me to close the door. She pulled me close, burying me against her breasts. “Start your show for this impotent bluffer,” she instructed, urging me to perform in front of him. I found it difficult, but I sensed he was somehow responsible for her actions. He left, sobbing uncontrollably.

Each woman was unique. Some would come as if it were their first time, full of nervous shyness. Others would demand I reenact scenes from pornographic films. Over those two years, I encountered a wide spectrum of desires. Some young women even offered to rent an apartment for me, requesting that I be available whenever they called. Initially, I considered it. But Senthil advised against it, warning me of potential problems if I became too involved. I trusted his judgment.

We began meeting other men in the places we frequented. One of the most important was Suresh. We started obtaining new contacts through them, bypassing Yadav entirely. These new connections led to a higher social circle, primarily a group who operated in a more organized fashion. Until then, our work had been sporadic. But after meeting Suresh, our situation improved significantly. It came at a cost, however. They required us to undergo medical checkups, especially HIV tests, and insisted we visit a doctor they arranged. We later found out that the group consisted of women studying in medical college.

While working with such groups was exciting initially, it became increasingly demanding. Satisfying them required a lot of stamina. They would sometimes provide steroids or other performance-enhancing drugs for us to last through hours of continuous intimacy. Many who became reliant on these substances later suffered serious consequences. Senthil and I used them once, and we were in a daze for two days, barely aware of our surroundings. Senthil suggested we find an alternative for sexual longevity. Within a couple of days, he had found a solution: yoga.

We were introduced to a master named Daya and started practicing yoga. As we practiced, we noticed significant changes in both our bodies and minds. The master, a young man, casually mentioned some simple but effective asanas for improving sexual stamina that could only be done by well-practiced yogis: Mula Bandha, Kandarasana, Supta Baddha Konasana, Balasana, Padmasana, Urdhva Mukha Svanasana, Marjaryasana and many others. I cannot describe them here. Please inquire with a known yoga master for more details. Sometimes, it is the details of bad things that other people know that will help us.

Lately, I have been managing the household expenses. My sister was thrilled. I gave her a chain that an older client had given me. She jumped with joy, and her happiness was contagious. She would occasionally ask me, "What work do you do, da?" Because I was mostly out at night, I would tell her "B.P.O." She wasn't particularly interested in my answer. Meanwhile, the new "uncle" no longer visited our house. When I asked my sister about him, she simply dismissed him as a "worthless man." It seemed my financial contribution was making her happy.

As our “reputation” spread, the demand for Senthil and me increased. They are surprised to see us stand like pillars even after they have done so many things. But we did not reveal our secret to them. At such times, our rates also increased. For one night, for each one, ten or fifteen thousand was normal. The wife of a major jeweler in Chennai even offered to rent a three-bedroom flat for us. This time, I couldn’t contain myself. But Senthil stopped me again. He repeated his warning about the dangers of getting too involved: “Even if she has a lot of money, she's someone’s wife. If we get caught, her husband will finish us.”

There were times when the husbands found out, causing trouble. I witnessed instances of women being dragged out of hotels, husbands going to the rooms, falling at their feet, crying and showing.