The only men I see around me are brown Hindus with limp genitalia that reek of cumin. My brother Sanjay is a dwarf but has quite an endowment for such a small person. I would ride him until Krishna smacks my face with her open benevolent palm but I fear that my parents would disapprove. None of the men at the call center where I toil in Bangalore are attractive. My supervisor Vikramjeet has a face like a cow with dysentery. His testicles are saltier than the chupatis I consume for lunch everyday. I know this because cows are sacred in my Hindu culture and since Vikramjeet looks like one, regardless of dysentery, I have no choice but to suckle his man scrotum. Unfortunately, Vikramjeet has rampant dysentery, so our encounters in his office become quite messy. The point is that my hairy virgin Hindu vagina aches for a large black penis, like that of King Kong or a large negro man like Michael Clarke Duncan. To me they look the same. But what do I know? I am just a small Hindi girl from Bangalore.

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