The Unlikely Virgin

It's time for some night mulling. After three months of wallowing in the ordinary day-lit world, it is again the bad old night shifts. But this time there is a difference. I return to the city, which supposedly never sleeps.
A city that's bursting on its seams with unbridled money, people and now high rises.
Speeding past the empty but "not desolate" city roads in the wee hours of night, I notice a sensuous side of Mumbai. A disgusting thought for most.
Gazing out the windows of an SUV that conveys me into the arms of sweet repose daily, I feel a sense of calm. There are no vehicles emitting constant dissonance into the putrid air, no pallid urchins scampering in intrepid haste, no pedestrians scurrying cheek by jowl on the narrow pavements, no hawkers spilling their wares on to the half-baked, ill-dug roads.
The city discards its termagant image and takes on the garb of a nubile sixteen-old-year old lost on a balmy invigorating night.
At this point my imagination runs wild and I experience the sexual excitement of an unworldly adolescent gurgling with anticipation.
The street light glowing in wonted indolence sheds its reluctant radiance on the tranquil streets accentuating her every curve, every contour. In her arms, rest the innocents unsullied by the vagaries of a brutal detached world.
The balmy winds rushing in through the windows ripple my hairs, tingle my senses. I am aroused.
She is lovely in her ripe nakedness.
Deep in thoughts, I realise how much the city is ill-treated. She is constantly abused, misused, violated, yet at night with an alluring pleasant smile, she welcomes me into her arms.
And into her fecund moistness, I dissolve.