Last week, as I was lazily browsing through an oddly arranged pile of Maeve Binchy books at the nearby library, a hesitant voice streamed through the corner speakers, “If you are Daniel Fucking Cross whose sucking action may put a Bangkok lady boy to shame and would not mind engaging in a tepid ménage a trois with Georgia Lawrence, please meet Mr. Reese Hutton in aisle three on the second floor”. The faint trail of those words resonated in my ears like morning bells and I curiously found myself sneaking to the third aisle. There was that man in question- Daniel Cross, clad in a shiny black leather jacket that squeaked with every movement and eyes embellished in darkest of kohl. There was an another bloke somewhat wispy, trembling in Daniel’s sheer hotness, murmuring the words ‘Angel of Death’. Yeah sure! 'Angel of Death-by Orgasm', I snickered at the thought. Suddenly I could see a sinister smirk propelling in my direction and eyes that could make me take day long cold showers. As I stood there parched and frozen with beads of sweat dribbling down my neck. I saw a hand approach me. I took a step back and then he uttered the trickiest words, “Read this book, but swear you will not touch yourself while reading it”. I grabbed the book and ran, wondering how I could read an erotica without manipulating southward maneuvers. I apprehensively flipped the pages, words blurring with each page, feeling the sinister smile ever increasing on my neck. No! I can’t take this shit anymore; I just can’t bear this agony. As I open my eyes, I see an aggravated pair of eyes overwhelmed with crimson makeup peering through bifocal spectacles, “You are week late on 'Circle of Friends'. Do you want to pay your fine now?” It was all a dream, darlings! And so did the act of my southward exploitation, a reverie that never came true with this book.
