Why is Everyone Basically Horny?

Aditi pulled out of the driveway. When she did, she swore she had driven over another bull-frog, and bit her tongue.

Bull-frogs are becoming a nuisance this time of year. So much so, she has stopped allowing her children play outside. Leaping bull-frogs everywhere.

She taught her three-yr. old son, Ayan, to say 'Bull-frog', just yesterday.

'Boo- fog' he repeated.

The boy was learning to speak much later than his sister. It worried her a little, but not too much. It worried his school teacher more. Everything worried his school teachers more than it worried her. That's why she never talked to them. Too much awkward conversation -- pretense to appear more interested in the lives of the students than they were.

'Why don't you just breast-feed the kid?' she found herself saying in her mind to Miss Lora Bransworth, whose nagging about Ayan's late speech developments bugged the hell out of her. Why the hell did she care so much anyway?

Miss Lora Bransworth was 40. If she loved kids so much, why didn't she have any? No husband, neither. But, a blond career woman with real breasts and great legs, Lora was still on the market.

Aditi imagined that her husband had a thing for Miss Lora. He always got her into a corner and hogged her time during PTA meetings.

At night, Aditi had been refusing sex more and more often to him. Not because she was in any post-natal depression. But because her husband's porn-watching habits, which have escalated since her second pregnancy, made her want to put on a pair of boxing-gloves and punch his lights out.

Who watches black men on white women every single night anyway? Is that the closest he could color-coordinate with his dark penis?

'The man's a fool!' she muttered to herself, moving her things to another room. She really didn't like to share her bed with him anymore. Beds were sacred. This man was not! Yet, once a month, when her hormones ran her system, and she could fuck bull-frogs to get by, she'd fight hard not to put on her moves on the man. She wrote erotica instead to quiet her senses. And it worked.

"All men are sickos," Jamie, her friend from three houses down, consoled her after she had confided about the man's strange habits. "My husband, for one, loves Indian women. Anything Asian actually. He would love to fuck the lights out of you if he could," Jamie casually adds.

Aditi's eyes are huge as golf-balls, but she dared not follow-up on that note, muffling her laughter with her Sari.

At night, when her husband is back from work, she served him dinner and then pretended to get busy with the kids. He took note of the empty chairs but then saw the shrimp curry and smiled. Nothing made him happier and hornier than shrimp curry and rice. He had a new edition of Black Men on White Chicks version 999 incase that didn't work.

Dinner was done in no time, too. Soon, dishes were being put into the washer, and then the washer was rumbling. And then the ritual door closing and then the bed creaking.

A room down from his, Aditi wondered if 'dinner' even got time to settle before her husband started wanking off to his blond chicks and black dicks from Mars. His new thing was watching BLOW JOBS. Huge black dicks and fat blondes sucking them away to high glory.

Did he imagine it was his? What a bore! Who gave blow jobs anyway? And why? Indian women never considered it kosher. It was just not part of 'the being an Indian wife' service. 'Indian wives were voluptuous women with long black hair. You're supposed to get off on that!' she meant to tell her husband, pointing to some imaginary line in their marriage contract, but there were none.

'Stupid blond women...' she mutters instead and stomps off to her kids rooms.

The kids are asleep, or pretending to be. Lately, they have heard their parents fighting a lot, and translate it into patterns of behavior. Aruna, her six year old, acts older than she is. More quiet. More studious. Aditi finds her reading books instead of playing dolls, or tying to teach Ayan to speak. She's more and more the big sister. Or the mother...perhaps?

Why is her daughter working so hard? Has she been slacking off at motherhood?

In her study, she rolls out her sleeping bags and lies down. There's no sound coming from her husband's room, so she figures he's asleep, too. Yet, instead of sleeping, she closes her eyes and starts to think about what she wants from life. About why she is unable to keep up with her duties.

Everything makes her angry these days. Are they meant to?

The fake blondes and their fake breasts on her husband's porn collection. Over zealous teachers who love her son. Her daughter noticing that she's not quite there anymore. And mostly, herself.

She finds no answer, but doesn't care either. She's tired.