Adultery My Struggles with Trupti by urbanslut

[Ramesh_Rocky]

Sunday night. The Baltimore deal is almost through. I only need to send them a confirmatory fax. Such dinosaurs, still hung up on fax. I am waiting downtown for the bus back to New York. It's an hour before departure time so I decide to do some window shopping. I walk into a designer clothing store, feeling decidedly frumpy in my loose business casuals. I admire the low cut evening wear and cocktail dresses. Look longingly at the skirts and tops.

The sales girl is hovering around to see if I need any help. I need help, but not the kind she can give me. I am severely conscious about my body. I am not fat or anything. I just don't feel sexy. I never have. I could get into one of these dresses. I am just not sure I could carry it off. I look around for a while and then leave the store.

Next, I browse around in a book store, a cute chocolate shop and an antique store. The next store I see brings me to a standstill. It's an adult bookstore with neon silhouettes of naked women. I have heard about these places. Seen them all over Manhattan, especially in the touristy areas. Never had the courage to go into one. But this time, curiosity gets the better of me. I open the door and walk in.

There's a middle aged lady behind the counter and a young black man stocking the shelves. Neither of them casts me a second glance. It is a big breakthrough for me to cast off years of conservative upbringing and walk into this Gomorrah, but for them, I am just another customer.

Doing my best to not be too scandalized, I look at the wares they have on offer. Nudie magazines and videos, with buxom naked women on the covers. God, how can these women be so comfortable naked and on display? Even when I was sleeping with a guy, I preferred to have the lights off. I browse some more. Dildos and vibrators. Lingerie, some of it edible. Whips, handcuffs, creams of various kind. All kinds of toys I have only read about but never seen up close. And then more dildos.

I start wondering about how dildos are made. Do they cast molds from actual penises? Do guys get hard and stick their penises into plaster of paris? Or does someone sculpt them independently? Is there a production line for them? What material works best? Is there such a thing as an artisan handmade dildo? I wonder how the pay is. That'll be an interesting line of work. Designing and selling dildos. Sounds more fun than selling financial services.

Some of the stuff intrigues me. I consider buying a dildo and a vibrator. I even take one of each off the shelf. But then the thought of actually plonking them down in front of another person, signaling I need those aids...it sounds too much for my middle class Indian sensibilities to bear. I put them back. Maybe I can order them online later. I still feel a little conflicted though. Why am I so ashamed of buying this stuff right here? Maybe I should. I reach for the toys again, when there's a sound of the door opening. Reflexively, I pull my hand back.

It's a woman about my age, carrying a couple of pink bags. She looks brown, maybe Hispanic. She confidently strides up to the aisle I am standing in and picks up an assortment of goods, including dildos, vibrators, handcuffs, and a lot of other stuff I can't even look at without blushing. She sees me staring at her, nods, and walks to the register. I slowly head towards the door myself. As the clerk is ringing her up, I walk out the door.

I see the bus is now here. I head for it, heart pounding. I think about delaying boarding till the last minute but then decide to just get it over with. Soon I am inside on an aisle seat. Half the bus is empty. The window seat next to me is empty.

This is the first time I have been in a bus since my parents died in one. On the way here, I had taken the Amtrak at my own expense. But I can't afford to keep doing that even with my salary, if Jan isn't going to reimburse it anymore. I need to get used to being in buses.

My heart is about ready to jump through my chest. I keep having visions of how my parents' remains looked after the accident. How mangled and twisted the bus chassis was in the pictures. That smell of human flesh being cooked with butter in the crematorium seems to waft back from my memory bank. That acute awareness of how utterly alone I am in this world now. I am praying for my parents' souls.

I am also praying for the seat next to me to be empty. So I can sit comfortably, maybe stretch out and sleep when the bus gets going. Not exactly sleep. Close my eyes and rest them.

Sleep has been hard to come by ever since mom and dad died. I keep popping Advil PM pills at night, but even that doesn't help sometimes. In fact today, I have been without sleep for almost 48 hours straight. So I am hoping the motion of the bus will put me to sleep for the 4 hours it takes to get to New York.

I keep staring at the trickle of people walking down the aisle, hoping none of them will sit next to me.

An older gentleman stops next to me, shoves his bag into the overhead bin, and then sits in the row behind me. Phew, dodged a bullet. A few more people walk by. The trickle of people ends. Yes, I smile, two seats to myself.

Just as I am celebrating my spatial conquest, I see her again. The woman from the adult bookstore. She strides in through the door. Glides down the aisle. Heads turn. And why wouldn't they? She looks gorgeous. Her thick silky black hair flowing down her shoulders. Definitely a Latina, I decide from her confident body language and easy way of dressing sexy. Her cleavage suggestively peeping through her tank top. And her smooth mocha legs visible under her short skirt. She moves with the grace of a tigress hunting for her prey.

She smiles at a few people as she walks down the aisle. And then she stops, right next to my row. Puts one dainty pink bag in the overhead compartment. And slides past me to sit down on the window seat next to me. Flashes me a smile, and then examines the window carefully, and checks out the red handle on it..