Milk

She wore a cotton kurti that was green over her bosom and orange over her belly and waist. She also wore shades that belonged to a totally different era – she must have picked them up from her mom’s collection. She took off the shades almost as soon as she closed the door. Her face was unattractive but the same won’t be true for her eyes for the two black dots floating inside a white sea were no less beautiful and cute than a pair of gold-fish trapped in a water filled flask. She smelled of milk. The smell had been rather strong – making him wonder if she had just taken a milk-bath. She probably believed that rinsing her bare skin with something as white as milk would make her fairer.

Lost in her smell and her eyes, he noticed her lips only when they had come real close to his own. Before he could do a mental analysis of the exact shade of the lipstick that she had applied, their lips were locked. For the first few seconds, it felt just like eating Milkybar although it had been long since  the last time he actually tasted one.  He was used to chocolate. Nothing at the moment however, suggested that he was going to get anything else but a dip in pure white milk. Once the kurti and whatever else she was wearing below it, were gone, it was all white inside, adding in turn to the milkiness of the moment. The undergarments were not just white, but were certainly new as well. He already knew he wanted to call her gaay as his left hand started working over the breasts and as the shining white milk-smelling bra hung by the tip of the forefinger of his right hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore a white undie – probably never. As he let the piece of cloth drop off his finger, he knew he would ask for a white one the next time he would go to buy one.

Probably if she hadn’t insisted, he would have spent the entire night, smelling her breasts and playing with them. He wasn’t sure when that last piece of clothing had disappeared from her brown body. He wasn’t even sure about the separation of his own body with his dress. He was too lost. Probably it was one of those nights when his mind floated beyond sex. More than the desire to penetrate her, he wished he could paint her white from top to bottom. He really wished that. But it was mean of him to leave her unsatisfied. He cared for her. He probably loved her. And so they had sex – he still lost in the milky odour that radiated from her chest, his eyes closed – trying to see her as a white marble statue in the darkness of the shut eye-lids. The orgasm felt like a powerful bomb blast – throwing shattered particles of the white marble in all directions. Gradually, he fell asleep amidst the bits and pieces of the white stone, some around him and some over.

When he got up in the morning, he knew one thing for sure – drinking two liters of milk everyday was certainly not a solution to stop night-falls.