I'm a divorced white guy in my forties, but I had always had a thing about Indian and Pakistani women, or for that matter almost any woman with long dark hair and dark brown eyes. Living in a large city with a large immigrant population meant plenty of opportunity to look at them, some of them fairly westernized and integrated, working in regular jobs, but many traditionally dressed, totally unattainable and all the more attractive for that – looking was about all that was possible. Many was the day, or night, when I fantasised about getting closer to one of these goddesses.
In my place of work, there were two female Asian employees; Fatima was enormously overweight and scarred with acne, appeared to shave her chin, and with a personality that was worse than her appearance – I guess there has to be an exception to prove the rule. The other, Sally, was not unattractive, I guess, but was so westernized that she seemed to have gone to great lengths to eradicate everything Asian about herself. She wore modern clothes, cut her hair short, and even wore blue contact lenses most days. Somehow, it all made her less desirable in my eyes. I tried chatting her up nonetheless, but never got any encouragement.
Fortunately for me, a few years ago a top-shelf magazine appeared which featured only Asian models, in varying states of undress. I hadn't bought magazines like this since my teens, but couldn't resist the occasional purchase of this publication, to sit for hours drooling and masturbating over some of the beauties in it. It was a release of sorts, but only served to increase my sense of frustration at not being able to get the real thing. They stocked the magazine in my local newsagents, but as I was a regular there and knew the proprietors quite well, I didn't feel able to buy my copy there, feeling that they (or any of my neighbours who saw me with a copy in my hand) would consider me some kind of pervert. As a result, I only bought it when I was away from my own neighbourhood.
One Sunday I had been over to the far side of the city to a furniture warehouse, and was driving home when I saw a newsagents and general store open. "Here's a chance", I thought. I parked the car and went inside. Great, the shop was empty. My luck was in, the magazine was there – I reached up for a copy and walked purposefully to the till to pay and get out of there fast. I almost stopped in my tracks when I looked up and saw a young Asian woman standing behind the counter. I pulled myself together and put the magazine on the counter, and reached into my pocket for my money, keeping my eyes on the counter the whole time, trying not to meet her gaze.
"You like Indian woman?"
I almost fled the shop there and then. I looked up, though, fully expecting to be embarrassed by a challenging glare. What I saw instead was a pair of beautiful soft brown eyes, after which I noticed the sweetest half-smiling mouth. The next thing I noticed was that the owner of these features was clearly even more nervous than I was, and was trembling slightly.
"Um – yes," I said, unable somehow to deny it. She looked down shyly.
"Have you –," she hesitated, her voice trembling. Even her imperfect English was endearing. "Have you ever, um, with Indian woman?" It was clearly costing her a huge effort to ask these questions. She was nervously rubbing her slender hands together. I looked further – she was petite and slim, probably in her early twenties. She had long black hair tied in a high ponytail, and was traditionally dressed in a bright salwaar kameez over which she wore a very homely cardigan, with gold bangles on her wrist and gold around her neck, as well as rings on her wedding finger. Her skin was smooth and fair, her face perfect without a trace of makeup. On her upper lip and in front of her delicate ears was beautiful soft downy hair.
