a short story written by Sabina England

Rekha in Utsav (1984)
I want to have sex everyday all the time. I don’t ever want to stop for an hour. I want to keep going and going. Everytime I see an attractive man passing by me on the street, I think about what his sexual performance must be like in bed, and then I fantasize how he looks when he’s naked. I then debate silently in my mind if he’s blessed with a naturally big dick or if he’s got a tiny dick that grows large when he’s excited.
I wish I’m not an animal, but I am. If I could be asexual for just a few days, I’d cut off my right arm just to experience that period of serenity and calm. I’m tired of having to feel so turned on by every good-looking man I see outside.
When I arrived in India for the first time this week, it’s been hell and torment. The heat is so unbelievably hot, it makes my sexual drive even worse. In fact, I have discovered why Indians wrote the Kama Sutra. It’s so damn hot here everyday, that they just wanted to have sex with each other and write about it. I want to rip my clothes off and lie on Juhu Beach, naked and letting the sunlight blast on my brown skin, turning it even darker.
I can’t stop feeling horny. Here I am, sitting in the back of a taxi cab and I can’t stop staring at the cab driver. He’s just too beautiful, too exotic that I can’t help myself but stare at him with so much intensity on my face. He caught the way I gazed at him and we both quickly looked away.
“Kusuma, give me that bottle of water.”
My aunt, sweaty in her glittery sari, wiped her forehead with a face towel as I reached over to the floor of the moving vehicle to pick up a bottled water and I tossed it over to Auntie Lakshmi. She took a long gulp of water and then sighed contently. I gazed at her briefly, studying her sweaty face and graying black hair wrapped in a tight bun. She’s a nice auntie and I like her so far. I’ve only just met her for the first time barely two days ago, when she and her husband, Uncle Amit picked me up from the airport. She’s been kind enough to let me stay with her and him at their flat near Worli.
I can’t get enough of Mumbai. It’s been my dream to come here for a long time and finally, here I am. Actually, it’s my first time visiting India. At long last, I get to experience my motherland, while canoodling with good-looking dark Indian gentlemen in the filmi capital all the same while I take photos of historical monuments and fantasize about having sex with a random stranger on Juhu Beach late at night.
India is so beautiful and the men even more so.
“You’re going to love Elephant Island, I know you will,” my aunt said joyfully, wagging her finger as we both looked out the window, absorbing in the sights of tall, glistening towers and skyscrapers of Mumbai, “it’s full of old marvelous statues, you see? We get to ride a ship out in the sea for half hour, then we see the statues.”
Great. I smiled and nodded at Auntie Lakshmi. I was very much excited to see Elephant Island, but at this moment, all I could think about was fucking the cab driver, a Muslim, who’s currently under employment of Auntie Lakshmi and Uncle Amit. When I asked my aunt how long he’s worked for them, she replied, “two years. He’s a good Muslim and a good driver. You know good Muslims never drink. He’s very loyal. We might keep him forever.”
When I first set my eyes on the cab driver as my aunt and uncle escorted me out of Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport and they brought me into the car, I immediately assumed that the good-looking man was my cousin or a family friend. I could feel my vagina flaring up. I knew I wanted to have sex with this man. For a moment, I felt excited… maybe I’d have someone to flirt with during my stay in Mumbai. After asking Uncle Amit who that man was, I was crestfallen when my uncle told me that this man was merely a cab driver. Middle class Indians and rich Indians, my uncle told me, do not mix with the working class or the poor. So that meant I wouldn’t be allowed to speak to him.
But I wanted to know more about this beautiful man, so after we reached Auntie Lakshmi and Uncle Amit’s residence near Worli Beach, I demanded for more information. Was he their regular driver? What was his background? Why do they have a driver when they could drive themselves around?
“In India, everything goes around on wheels,” Uncle Amit explained, “that driver works for me and I work for someone else. That person works for someone else, too. Everyone works for each other. It all goes round.”
My first night in Mumbai, I furiously masturbated and thought of the cab driver fucking me. The next day, my aunt and uncle decided that I was still tired from the jet lag, so they suggested I stayed in for the whole day. From my guest bedroom window, around in the late afternoon or so, I caught a brief glimpse of the cab driver who was strolling through the courtyard. I wanted to yell, “hey!” and show him my breasts.
Upon my 2nd day in Mumbai, Auntie Lakshmi immediately made plans for us to visit Elephant Island, so that meant getting into the car with the beautiful cab driver at the wheel. I made sure to put on some make-up and I wore a tight-hugging shalwar kameez, so that my chest would look enticing under my green cotton dupatta. He would be turned on, or at least I hoped so.
While Auntie Lakshmi slurped ice cold water from the bottle and then looked out the window, I brought my eyes back on the Muslim cab driver. I didn’t know his name, but since he’s a Muslim, I’ll nickname him Saleem or “peace.” He looks like he’s at peace, while keeping his eyes steady on the road and bringing us to the Mumbai harbor.
I stared at the gleaming silver Allah pendant hanging off his black chain, worn around his dark neck. He’s dressed like a typically lower caste Indian man—cotton collared shirt with cotton pants. His face was oval, his nose long and aquiline, his eyes dark and seductive, his long, flowing black hair hanging around his head. He was very beautiful. Why was he working as a cab driver? He should be a model, walking the runways of Mumbai and Hong Kong, dressed in fashionable Asian-designed clothes. With his good looks, he must get hit on a lot by ladies. I bet he must be so good at fucking a woman, kissing her breasts and sucking her tits.
I don’t ever want to get out of the car. I wanted Auntie Lakshmi to get out so I could be alone in this car with Saleem and fuck his brains out. I felt sort of sad when we arrived at the Mumbai harbor, for it meant getting out of the car and being away from this beautiful Muslim man. We saw a lot of people milling around the Gateway of India monument and there were many tiny, colorful, brightly painted boats dotting the blue Arabian sea. It was so hot outside. The sun burned my skin and I felt something turning around in my panties… sexual desire. I so badly wanted to rip my clothes off and jump at Saleem and shove my tongue down his throat.
And I think he knows it. As he stopped the car and opened the door for Auntie Lakshmi, I saw the way he looked at me. That hunger in his eyes. I want you too, he silently told me with his eyes, let’s meet somewhere alone so we can have sex. As Auntie Lakshmi pushed her heavy body out of the car, the handsome cab driver quickly looked away as I gazed at him lustfully.
“Let’s go, Kusuma, let’s go!” Auntie Lakshmi cried, pushing me toward the harbor, “let’s get a boat before we wait too long!” All the boats were manned and operated by Muslims. Each boat had a home-made flag with the Islamic crescent painted on them. We got on a bright blue boat which was christened Raheel Ismail in red paint in English, along with its name painted in both Marathi and Urdu. As I looked behind me, my eyes scanning the car park a few feet away from the Gateway of India, I spotted the cab driver, who was leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. He was deliberately watching us. I felt turned on, thinking about how he must have been eyeballing me up and down. Did he like my ass? I hope so.
I was on top of him, fucking him with all the might and energy I had. He grabbed my round breasts as I moaned and writhed, his erect dick penetrating me. It felt so good. He then bent his face forward and began sucking on my nipples as I ran my fingers through his wild, ruly black hair. “Ohh,” I moaned, “I think I’m about to come…”
And then I woke up. It was just a wet dream, a fantasy. My panties were soaked and my body drenched in sweat. Mumbai just keeps getting hotter as each day passes by. I threw my head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling fan, which whirled around frantically, pushing little ounce of chilly air toward my face.
Elephant Island was wonderful and I took plenty of photos of the Gateway of India, but I kept thinking of the handsome Muslim cab driver. I’m going to have to figure out a way to corner him and speak with him. I want to fuck him before I leave India for America.
Part Two (the Conclusion) coming soon.
























