There I am in the plane, wondering how to channel my inner Literotica readings into a story. As a former call centre supervisor who died mysteriously in a car crash and is now a ghost trying to get pregnant, my only hope is sex at 35,000 ft as we fly over the city of Bhopal while the outside temperature is -69º fahrenhot.

But wait. Is that the gardener I see outside the window, his muscle-bound, lithe body shining with drops of sweat that make him irresistible? How on earth — ok, not earth — is he looking so hot when he should be freezing?

But oh, who is this man who’s slipping into the seat next to mine, peering into his mobile phone the way hunks in their 50s do when they do not use reading glasses? The way he’s firing up apps on that phone is making me melt, but then so is the boy out there and oh my goodness, is that a man there with whom I once shared a bottle of wine in five minutes?

Oh, how EVER am I going to control my impulses with all these males clustering around me with one obvious intention: striking it rich in Bollywood?

Give me a minute though while I quickly open up a couple of erotica websites and copy paste some of the bits. The romantic bits, of course, not the hardcore ones, what WERE you thinking of?

Right, now we’re all set. Even if they tell us to turn off our devices, ooh baby, guess which device will be up and running throughout this journey? My brain, of course. Isn’t that what men are turned on the most by?

It’s not? OK then, I have Plan B. The gardener is about to put some suntan lotion on me, while this man in the next seat is whispering stock prices in my ear — how EVER did he know that for me, there’s no ‘sen’ in the BSE Sensex? Oh but that guy from the call centre is throwing me these hard looks that are turning me into jelly. What WILL I do now?

Let me see. The flight is about two hours long. Giggle. Not THAT kind of long, you horny men. So, I can get about 20 minutes with each of them and still have time to fasten and unfasten my seat-belts. Of course, I have to change seats three times, and it has to be conveniently dark, but all those things can be managed easily, since I’m writing the story.

And so my face breaks into a gorgeous smile. My gentle fingers navigate unknown places. I ask them to remove their clothes and they oblige. I cannot help but let out loud moans of pleasure. I know that my appeal as an Indian woman is not just in bare skin, it’s in my spiritual aura, my loyalty to my family, and my warmth.

I have to stop them from wanting to shower and check their email immediately afterwards.

And now I am feeling oh so very romantic, dripping with tender feelings for all these men whom of course I can never meet again. Because they don’t give ghosts frequent flyer miles and I have no real money to buy plane tickets, you see.

Still, my love for them knows no limits. I remember their sinewy limbs, their manly manhoods, their muffled cries of passion, their masterful demonstration of lovemaking, their courtly behaviour afterwards, and their lingering looks as they strode back to their seats and refastened their seatbelts. I shall cherish the memories (as they will cherish my… but let’s not go there) forever.

But wait! What is this! Why do I feel this irresistible urge for… lime pickle? And this desire to… throw up? It must be true! I’m pregnant.

(Moral of this story: there is none. But even with a ghost, practise safe sex.)

(This monthly column helps you talk about a book without having to read it)

Arunava Sinha translates classic contemporary Bengali fiction and non-fiction into English; @arunava

Related Topics
comment COMMENT NOW