Free Blue Boy by Rakesh Satyal Page A

pubic hair and the solid cylinder of his penis. I see this for just a moment before the page flips again, and there is the man again, standing behind one of the women, gripping her waist from behind, the other woman licking his ear as if salivating sex into it.
    “I’m there, I’m there.”
    A collage of bodies wafts into my mind. I cannot dismiss the strength of the man’s body, the way his head is thrown back, mouth slack-jawed as he pushes himself against the woman in front of him. He seems to be pushing himself against her with every last bit of his strength, and as I look at the two men staring at the magazine, there is a longing in their eyes to do the same thing. Their breathing has become tough, and the grunts come now without their bidding. The more the rumble of their arousal couples with the sexy sheen of the magazine, the harder I become down below and in my mind. The sex—the sheer, mad, throbbing sex of this mundane mall bookstore—fills my head and becomes something huge. My head throbs, and I begin to see spots. Oh, no. I have to put out one hand to steady myself.
    I drop my magazine.
    I kneel down quickly and pick it back up. I look at the men as I rise. They have smirks on their faces, their posture uncomfortable due to their boners and the sight of a clumsy Indian child next to them. They chuckle and stuff the Penthouse back into the top of the rack, then swagger out of the store laughing. Their backs now turned to me, I look at them unabashedly, trying to capture every detail of their ragged appearance. My face is throbbing, and I turn back to the rack and look at the issue, which is still crinkling from the hasty way in which Goatee returned it to its smutty place on high. Without thinking twice, I swing up, almost rock climbing, grab the issue, and head for the cash register.
    In the back of the store, the cashier is arguing with the lady who had the Danielle Steel book.
    “M’am, I’m sorry, but you can’t just come in here and read a book like it’s your own. Look what you’ve done to it! You’re going to have to buy it.”
    “I forgot my wallet at home,” the lady says unconvincingly, trying to bypass the cashier and make her exit. But he persists, blocking her way and presenting to her the newly enjoyed, green-and-gold paperback.
    The more they argue, the more frantic I become. I am standing at the cash register with a dirty magazine that looks like someone just had sex with it instead of a person. I look around me to make sure no one is looking, and the usual white noise of the weeknight mall greets me. I look back again at the quarreling couple and decide that I have no choice. I reach across the desk, grab one of the store’s brown paper bags, and rush out, stuffing my bounty into it and never looking back.
    Then the fates come into play.
    In front of the pillar where I was lingering before, I run into Mrs. Nevins.
    “Well, hi, Key-ran,” she is in the middle of saying, when she notices the enormous block lettering on the magazine I am shoving into the bag. She blushes, her brows furrowing, and she stutters out something that is half pity, half censure: “Oh, no, Key-ran…”
    “I—it’s not what you think, Mrs.—” I start, and then the unthinkable, yet inevitable, occurs. Behind me, I hear the ardent waddle-step of my mother’s Keds against the marble floor and the crunching of her many shopping bags as they slap against her leg.
    “Kiran, beta ,” she says as I manage to slip the magazine fully in the bag and clutch it to my stomach. “Who is this?” she asks, concerned, afraid that Mrs. Nevins might be some wacko who’s come up to kidnap me.
    “I’m Sheila Nevins,” she says, extending her hand and continuing to frown. “Mrs. Sharma, I’m sorry to be rude, but I hope you know what your son is holding.”
    “Rude? Vhy vould that be a rude thing to say? Kiran is a smart child. I am proud of him. He buys magazines like that all the time.”
    “Excuse me?”