(DISCLAIMER: The content in this story, may not be suitable for all ages. You may proceed only if you identify yourself as an adult by law.)

I couldn’t sleep. I knew she would call me up that night. It was about ten minutes past two and I had just hit the balcony lights to catch a light smoke after my wife had dozed off; my wife isn’t menstruating anymore, and these days nothing turns me on. Nothing, except my tablet, lights up so late in the night.

She texted me. “Hey, you up?”

I typed a reply, but I discarded the draft, headed to the washroom, dropped my pants, and switched to incognito (on my browser) for some junk porn browsing.

But I left the water running in the washroom. I didn’t masturbate.

I came back to my bed, shut my eyes, trying to dream of her skin and sweat, but all I could smell was the pheromones dripping from my underarms. I slept that night with a modest excitement and kissed my wife early with a mighty morning wood under my loosely hanging pajamas.

That was how exciting my marriage was! The only excitement was the hope of being in an extramarital affair.

We broke up on a mid-winter afternoon. I came back in the afternoon from work and I saw a man with my wife.

He was tall but old and feeble. It seemed that the age didn’t matter to my wife, as the man was in complete admiration for my wife’s impeccable skills on the veena she was singing with. Love, like most other things, cannot die again, but it certainly dies hard.

After that, we never spoke at the dinner table ever. I asked her not to divorce me, she asked me to stock the fridge with ready-to-mix breakfasts, she would be there for a month more, to hand over the ‘duties of the kitchen.’ “And what about the bed?” I asked. She didn’t look back.

From diabetes to the thyroid, my body today has enough excuses not to have sex. I don’t regret all the missed opportunities in my long lost youthful bigoted life.

I could have become a sensation, a Casanova with multiple affairs and a fatal STD, but all I could manage in my life was a divorce!

These days my wall stares back at me, blank dead; through me. My little pug whimpers in the pain of living lonely with me.

My phone buzzes again, this time it’s a 20-year-old chap sending me his nude selfies, and expecting some back from me, aka ‘Meow’.

Meow is my creation. She is a fake profile.

I download pictures of anonymous body parts, limbs, etc., and tease young men with them. These men never ask who Meow is. They never ask for the face.

They are happy with the tease. I am lying with this lie, and I will wake up to lie more, this is a game where you don’t lose. I’m in love with my deeds and loathe everything that doesn’t let me play. I live with a disgusting hope: that one day I could lie to a lesbian, and fake my love.
Is Meow my alter ego?

I wish I could be a much better master to my little puppy, I wish I could get a cute little bitch for him.

I did nothing.

At least I have found my muse, my OTP to unlock my secret fantasies of ‘turning on’ others for my messed up life. Life is now a hollow sham that beeps in day and night with my notification lights on my 7” tablet.

I have never found a better friend than my tablet who keeps all my secrets so close to her heart. So I and my little tablet are nothing short of One True Pairing!

-©Souvik Chakraborty

(1st published on Bonobology. Photo: Malvestida Magazine)

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