My First Visit to A Whorehouse

I was in Class 12 then. Wasnt even 18.

I used to study in a reputed co-educational school in Calcutta. Everyday the sight of so many girls would send my hormones raging and yet there was nothing I could do to satiate those liquid devils. Simply because any innocent proposal and I was afraid that the girl will complain to the classteacher( “Aunty aunty, that boy…”)

There could be nothing worse than that happening. The girls of the 80s and early 90s appeared all to be such prissy crybabies. Not that they were not horny (I have subsequently come to realize this) but in those days when MTV was just taking root and there was no chat, no sex websites and no SMS-ing non-veg jokes, one never got to know which of the girls were No Entry and which were not.

Consequently, everyone appeared stern and stand-offish, by default.

As a result, I had to literally take matters into my own hands every evening and again at night. Yes I know. Pathetic.

I had a friend. Let’s call him S. The reason I do not mention his full name is because he is a moderately famous person now with political ambitions and with more-than-a-little delusion of grandeur. Anyhow, back then he was a horny guy just like me. Except that since his parents were divorced, he grew up like a wild oat with mama-papa bribing him for his love, ploughing him with whatever he wanted.

As a result, he had lots of cash with little parental supervision.

Which when you are 17 means only one thing.

Whorehouse-regular.

Now me: I was not so lucky. My parents fought a lot and abused each other like sailors. But they just would not divorce and despite living in a battlezone, I never got the perks that S demanded as a fact of life. That meant I would envy his escapades and listen with barely concealed awe as he told me his experiences with whores and of playing satta in Chetla. In retrospect, there may have been more than a grain of exaggeration in those tales of debauchery but they were not simple castles in the sky.

Every dog has his day. Even the horndogs.

One of my aunts who stayed in Zambia came to India and flush with money sucked off the natives, she displayed her munificence by giving me a sizeable cash “gift”. Sizeable for the standards of those days and for someone as perrenially deprived of cash and pussy as I was.

Now, armed as I was with “resources”, it was time to put my plan into action. A hot summer Saturday. Really hot. I had to go to my maths tutor and somehow, as if seized by an invisible force fulcrumed near my crotch area, I lost my way and landed near Beadon Street and Chittaranjan Street.

A place the world knows as Sonagachi. Calcutta’s infamous red-light district.

I have to tell you—I was nervous. There were several times during the bus journey that I thought of getting off. The bus that is. After all decent boys never did these things. Only businessmen who sold iron bars and Nirma salesmen frequented brothels. Right? Then why was I on my way to public pussy?

You have to believe me. I tried. I wrung my hands. I cursed myself for not shagging and getting rid of the spermatile pressure that was building in my ball bearings. If only I had, I would have been thinking with my brain.

Which I was not.

I did not tell S that I was coming here. I could not. Since I was a “good boy” and to be honest, I never really trusted that bugger. As a result, I had really no idea what to do.

It was a hot afternoon. Very few people out. Most of them deep in siesta. Where do I go? Is this even the right place? Sure I can see some unsavoury low-lives playing carrom or chatting among themselves. But I see the same look and the same sando-ganjis in our locality too. There were one or two girls about but again they looked so ordinary—no ladies in blouse and petticoat winking as far as my eye could see.

In other words, none of the tell-tale signs I had thought would tell me that I had arrived at pussy palace and needed only to make a down-payment and start riding.

“Yes mister. Looking for someone?”

I turned around. A man in his 50s. Pot-bellied, sweaty, beaded eyes with a uneven moustache in a faded shirt and pyjamas. Despite the fact that he had a resemblance to our maanchwala (the fish vendor), he had none of his geniality. Definitely an air of intimidation.

I stamerred: “Nnoo, just lookinggg around“.

Yes I know. Very lame.

The guy looked at me and with more than a tinge of threat said: ” Look here son. Nobody comes here to look and that too on a hot summer afternoon. What do you want here?”

I looked at the ground. I did not know what to say.

He asked me ” Come to do it?”

Again I looked on silently. Because I sincerely believed that if I said “yes” this man might punch me in the face with the eternal favorite “This is a decent locality”

Satisfied that his masculinity had been affirmed by the cowering teenager in front of him, Mr. Sweaty went on: ” See a lot of kids like you around here. Rich dad’s sons looking to do bad things. Do your parents know?Which school do you go to?”

I was genuinely scared. Was he a cop? Was he a moral vigilante—those idiotic uncle-types who consider themselves to be pot-bellied superheros out to save the world?

I did not know it then but this is a standard “gaming” technique for pimps once they spot a sucker.

Cause I sure was one. Hesitating, vascillating, scared. Once you spot one such, the game is to make him ever more scared. So that he parts with his cash easily.

Just then, as if on cue another man arrived: drawn by the little scene on the footpath. He asked the other man “What’s the problem Bishu-da?”

The aggressive Mr. Sweaty turned to him and said: “Look at this piece of shit. Son of rich parents…blah blah”.

This second arrival was a younger guy—mid 20s. Thin, emaciated with a ugly scar down his right cheek, our Scarface tried to calm Mr. Sweaty down.

My discerning reader(s) are saying to themselves “The Good Cop, Bad Cop Routine”. The good cop would save me from the bad cop. I would be beholden to the good cop and give up my money without resistance.

Which is exactly what happened.

Mr. Scarface pulled me aside and in a pleasing customer-service voice said: “How much money do you have ?”I was too scared to think. I just brought out my wallet.

He did not take it. Smiled again

“Do I look like a thief?” (Amake dekhte chor laagche?)

I still held it up.

“Rs. 500.” (This was early 90s).

“Ever done it before?” (Aage korecho?)

I said no. Was not in the mood for any bravado.

He said “Here’s how it works. You give me Rs 200. I take you to a good girl. You pay her Rs. 250 and tip the sweeper Rs 50 to clean up after you. That’s the things work here. Are we okay?”

I nodded in agreement: awash with something akin to relief. So here in flesh and blood was a real pimp. Funny, he looked just like a maternal uncle of mine.

I was still very nervous. I followed him down the street. Tall 4 storied buildings on each side—some new, some pretty old.

He looked at me.

” Since this is your first time, I am going to set you up with Laxmi. Laxmi is married. You understand? Married means experience. Experience means you learn. You enjoy. You won’t be able to handle the younger Nepali girls. Plus you need more cash for them.”

“Good thing you came on such a hot afternoon. Laxmi will be free now. Otherwise in an hour or two, she will be servicing her regulars and your Rs 250 won’t even buy you a…(he moved his hand over his cock and rubbed it obscenely). Now her rate is less….noon show you see”

And he smiled heartily at his own joke.

We entered one of those four-storied buildings. This building looked like normal Calcuttan middle-classed housing: except that there were kids, of different ages, running up and down shouting and playing with each other. All the flats had their doors open.

“All the girls are resting now.”–continued the pimp ” Night shift you see makes them tired” and again smiled at his own joke. As he went up, one of the kids ran into him and staggering back a step, my pimp let loose a volley of abuses and swung a slap which the running tyke skillfully dodged as a matter of practice.

“Bastards. Each one of them” he yelled as the children ran down past him.

He opened a door and yelled “Lakshmi, a client is here.”

A voice from inside called out: ” How much?”

He said: “Enough to feed your shark-like pussy. Now shut up and take our customer in”.

More than a little chilled at the image of a “shark-like pussy”, I looked up with fear at my pimp.

Why oh why did I have to come here? Too late. I knew that.

The guy was standing looking at me expectantly. I realized what I was supposed to do. I gave him his commission. Pleased as punch at having fleeced me, he patted me on the back avancularly.

“Lakshmi is the best. She’s been around for some time. Knows all the tricks. You will want to come back again and again. Next time, just ask for Keshto and I will take care of you.”

I asked him–“What about the other guy? He seemed to be…”

Keshto winked. “Don’t worry about him. He’s butter inside. All butter.”

After being extensively buttered, he forgot to add.

By that time Lakshmi had come in. Sleepy and bored, she looked at me with disinterested eyes. A glimpse of Lakshmi confirmed my worst fears: I had been mega-ripped off. Goddess of Wealth was a well-worn lady in her mid 30s with waves of fat encircling her waist, massive flabby mammaries and a distinct limp. To her credit, she had a sweet face— no doubt she had been a very sexy lady when India won the World Cup.

But that was 10 years ago.

Letting out a most unsexy tonsil-showing yawn, she said “Let’s go inside.”

I sheepishly followed her in. How was I ever going to fuck this lady—-this would be like raising the Titanic. I was 17 then. She was mid 30s. Double my age.

She looked me up and down.

“Keep the money on the table.”

I hesitated. What if she pockets the money right now and refuses to do it? It was evident that it was me who was getting multiply screwed today.

“What’s the matter? Don’t understand Bangla? Keep the money on the table. I don’t want any trouble. Men have problems with their memory once they shoot their load.”

I did as was told.

There were condoms on the table. She said “Do you know how to wear those?”

I nodded. Once I had bought a pack of condoms just to feel how it is like to wear them. Net practice—so as they say.

I pulled my trousers down. Lakshmi wasnt even looking at me. Her attention was diverted to the small TV at her side where some Zee soap was on. She was captivated by it.

Needless to say, I was not hard. There were some dirty pictures on the wall of Samantha Fox and other assorted favourites looking down at me like the frescos in Sistine Chapel. Looking at them I tried my best to put it on and managed to do so.

“I don’t have all day. My clients will be coming in a few hours and I need to do my makeup.”

I was feeling a bit irritated at the patronizing. Here I was blowing 500 rupees for this piece of antique furniture and on top of it, this lady was showing me attitude.

“Well I am a customer too” I piped.

For the first time, Lakshmi showed some expression. Smiling in a cold humourless way, she said “My my. Little boy here is quite the man.”

I was even more pissed off now. First ripped off. The taunted.

She lay down on the bed, hiked up her sari, spread her legs and said “Come here. Put it in”.

Now this was getting a bit too much.

I said: “First I want to see you naked.”

Having said that I thought: Do I really want to?

Lakshmi sneered. “Man you really want bang for every paisa. Are you a Marwari?”

I let it pass. Somehow the fact that those pimps were not here had made me bold. Plus I was on the righteous path. Merely asking for what I had paid for.

With infinite reluctance, Lakshmi stood up and divested herself of clothing. In the most unseductive way possible.

I watched. My first fully naked female body. So what if the situation was about as romantic as watching someone pick his nose. It still was special.

There were cigarette burns on her body. And marks of pain. Maybe I should have felt bad. But I did not.

She sneered at me: “Happy? Now come here and do what you have to.”

I was not going to make things easier for her.

I said “I lost my erection. I need help”.

She pointed to the walls ” Help yourself”.

Again I was the customer. I said “No I think you should help me. I paid for it.”

She looked at me with a mixture of incredulity and hatred.

“I don’t know which king you think you are. People come here to pamper me, boy. I don’t pamper them.”

Not likely I thought. But stayed silent.

“You want to do it. Come and put it in. Else fuck off. And take your money with you.”

Since discretion is the better part of valour, I did as I was told. Got on the bed and mounted her like a mountain goat.

She reached out, took my thing in her hand and just guided it in. Not that she wanted to give me pleasure but because she wanted me to cum quickly. However unlike other teenage boys, there was one thing I had. Still have as a matter of fact.

Staying power.

As much as she tried with her “experienced tricks” to bring me off, she just could not. Though the sex act started with her watching the TV, soon she was looking at me. Silent. A bit later I could see some expression on her face as I kept thrusting back and forth with the power of youth.

Somehow the act of sex was getting me angry. Maybe it was because of her disinterested passiveness. I kept doing it as hard as possible and the pain in her eyes, her gasps and the creaking of the cheap bed, spurred me on. Even I was not enjoying it, but somehow I wanted to make this lady suffer. Suffer for the humiliation in the street. Suffer for being ripped off by the pimp. Suffer for being a frustrated schoolkid who never got any. Suffer for me not being like lucky bastard “S” who had everything. Suffer for the pain of growing up.

“Please you are hurting me.” said Lakshmi.

I asked:” Do you want me to stop?”

She said: “No keep doing it as you are. You have paid for it.”

But I could not. Not any longer.Why? I don’t know exactly. Perhaps because for the first time in the day, I felt I was in control. I was not the one suffering. As far as I was concerned, that to me was the orgasm for the day. Whether the sperm came out or not was simply a technical detail.

I went to the adjoining rest room. Disposed of my condom. Washed myself. I still saw Lakshmi was on the bed. Nude. Perhaps thinking I was going to return.

I was not.

I put the tip to the room cleaner along with her money. Wore my trousers. Lakhsmi looked at me. Sans the cockiness and boredom, she asked me if I wanted to complete it.

I told her, with more than a trace of sarcasm: “No thank you. I have got my money’s worth.”

There was hurt in her eyes. Or maybe I imagined it.

I stepped out from her room. The kids were still playing. The sun beat down mercilessly on the melting asphalt.

As I walked out, I saw Mr. Potbellied, smiling obsequiously, escorting an elderly client to another building. Our eyes caught each other. I made defiant eye-contact and it was he who looked the other way.

Feeling totally badass and adult, I walked away.

I had indeed gotten my money’s worth.