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Christmas Eve, 4:30 am
Within a minute of starting my drive to the airport, I realize something is wrong.
And I don’t mean with my family, whom I am about to visit for Christmas.
Not that there isn't plenty wrong there. But the more immediate problem is that my car has a flat tire.
I pull off somewhere safe to change the tire. In the dark.
I keep a headlamp in the car, but as my luck would have it, the batteries are dead. Thankfully, one of the presents that I have packed in my suitcase for my nephews is battery-powered. I spend several precious minutes digging them out - the batteries, not the nephews - then repacking and getting some light on my unfortunate task.
Expletives start flying fast and furious as I try to get the fucking jack set up. Somehow the fucking handle has gotten fucking bent from storage in the fucking trunk, forcing me to remove and reinsert said fucking handle with every fucking crank. I'm getting cranky and bent out of shape myself.
Fifty filthy minutes later, tire installed and expletives released, I’m back on my way. I reach the departure gate with about two minutes to spare.
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Christmas Eve, 10:00 am
I arrive at my layover airport to find my connecting flight canceled. Conditions are clear here in Denver, but the minor winter storm forecasted to hit my parents' hometown has turned into a major one.
To be honest, I'm not completely bummed about missing Christmas Eve. My girlfriend-hating mother, my conspiracy-obsessed brother and my recently divorced sister are all certain to dish up healthy servings of drama for Christmas Eve dinner. I love them all dearly, but missing the first evening of all this won’t be a huge loss.
The far greater disappointment is that pretty much every room in Denver is booked up. Desperately wanting to avoid spending the night MIA on the DIA concourse floor, I wrack my brain trying to think of any people I know in Colorado.
Aha! I remember that Divya and Ravi moved here a couple of years ago. Divya was a colleague at a company where I worked a few years ago, and met her amiable husband Ravi a few times at team events.
“Why of course you can stay with us tonight, Joe!” Divya exudes over the phone in her rich accent. “We don’t have any social plans until tomorrow evening anyway! We'd be delighted to share our Christmas Eve with you!”
Finally, a stroke of good luck! I know I can expect an entertaining evening as my hosts regale me with tales of their numerous adventures. Divya and Ravi keep their living expenses low and have no children, spending surplus income on things like skiing and fishing gear, rafting trips down the Colorado River and vacations to Europe or South America. This should be fun.
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Christmas Eve, 1:00 pm
Divya and Ravi pick me up in a wheezing old Corolla whose condition suggests it has been around the block a few times. The odometer suggests it has been around the planet a few times.
As we drive, Divya explains that she and Ravi have been busy decorating and baking cookies to get ready for Christmas. "Ravi and I both went to Catholic schools, on opposite sides of the country - he in Pondicherry and I in Goa - so Christmas rituals are very important to us. We always dress up a tree, put a star on our front door, bake treats, wrap presents ... all in! We also like to stay up until midnight and find a special new way to ring in each Christmas.”
"Fortunately for you, we were just finishing the preparations when you called," continues Ravi with a broad smile, "leaving us free to show our surprise guest a good time. Would you like to tour some of the sights of the Mile-High City?”
"Or ..." ventures Divya, "well, I do have one other idea, but only if you’re up for it."
"Divya, that might be a lot ..." cautions Ravi.
She ignores him. "I seem to recall that you like to ski, don't you, Joe?”
I nod, pleased that she remembers this.
“Perhaps it would be too much, given what you have gone through today, but you can decide after I tell you one piece of information. And that is that Keystone got nineteen inches overnight. We finished our decorating early, just before you called, precisely because we had been thinking about hitting the freshie. Might we interest you in a little night skiing?”
Fresh snow? In real mountains? Sure beats the overcrowded, fire-hazard candlelit church service I'll be missing back home. “Actually, that sounds perfect to take my mind off this morning. Why not?"
"I'm so excited!" exclaims Divya, reaching back from the driver's seat to grab my hand. “Oh, we are going to have such a wonderful Christmas Eve together!”
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Christmas Eve, 1:30 pm
As we enter their condo, a modest unit in a Seventies-era complex somewhere in a first-ring Denver suburb, there is a faint burnt smell. “Oh, fucking hell!" exclaims Divya. “I left the last tray of cookies in the oven!” She rushes to turn it off, then faces us, her shapely butt pressed against the oven door as if to block any more smoke from escaping. “Joe, I hope your luck is not rubbing off on us,” she taunts with a faint grin.
“Oh my God, I sure wouldn’t wish that on you,” I reply, feeling a bit mortified at the possibility.
“Oh, don’t worry, Joe,” reassures Ravi. “She’s just teasing. We don't believe in that kind of shit.”
Their dining table is laden with sweet treats, their rich aromas just managing to rise above the smoke. In addition to Burfi squares with which I'm already familiar, Ravi points out the Pineapple Sheera cakes he has made, a specialty of his hometown, and Divya shows off her ten-layer Bebinka, the caramelly "Queen of Cakes" representing her state.
There are also American-style Christmas cookies. There are sandwich jam cookies, gingerbread men and shortbread cutouts. The latter are frosted and sprinkled not only with the usual images of trees, snowmen and Santas, but also Ganesha, the Sri Yantra, and lotus. The look of them suggests they have been enhanced with Indian spices. I'm practically drooling.
“A little experiment, Joe. I thought I’d bring some Indian zest to the American cookie tradition.”
Zest indeed. One of the jam cookies is decorated with a pink yoni symbol, the clitoral image of femininity.
“Beautiful! May I sample one?”
“You may not, Joe,” Divya reprimands, grabbing my hand and locking eyes with me. “Those are for later. Especially that one.” She indicates the feminine cookie with a wink. “Yoni is only for boys who make the Good List."
“Worth staying on her good side,” adds Ravi with a smirk. For a split second, I picture my head between Divya’s legs, sampling her actual yoni, but I push the thought away.
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Christmas Eve, 3:00 pm
The drive up to the mountains is filled with more lively conversation. We find the lift lines nonexistent and the snow fantastic, carving turn after turn through fresh, nearly knee-deep powder. The warm banter continues on our lift rides between runs, Divya’s soft hips pressed against mine on while Ravi anchors the opposite side of the quad chair on each trip up.
My friends share some juicy gossip about two coworkers getting caught having an affair in the office. “Joe, they were found in the breakroom," shares Divya conspiratorially. "It was eight o’clock at night and everyone else had gone home ..."
"But a security guard, who just happens to be my cousin Arun," adds Ravi, "caught them while making his rounds, and he told me all the details.”
“When they got caught," shares Divya, "Nadia had her legs wide open on the counter while Jim ate her pussy.” I’m a bit shocked to hear this word from her, but also a bit enthralled to hear it with her accent. Maybe I shouldn’t be shocked, having already seen a pussy cookie in their kitchen.
Divya has widened her own legs a bit in demonstration, pressing one of hers against mine and causing our skis to scratch against each other, which sends a current through my legs. "And when they got caught, she was squealing ... " She pauses for effect and then exclaims in a sexed-up porn voice, "Ohh...ohhh! Eat my strawberry cupcake, Jimmy!'”
We all laugh uproariously over that, though I must admit that hearing this from Divya’s mouth has elevated my enthrallment to exhilaration and sent a twinge to my tool. I remind myself to be respectful of my hosts and not get caught daydreaming about getting between Divya's legs.
“Poor things, dragged out of the office," jokes Ravi, taking a moment to regain his composure as we disembark the lift before adding, "with 'strawberry frosting' all over his face!" More giggles.
"I’m sure you would never leave a ‘cupcake’ half-eaten, Joe," she adds with a wink and a smack on my butt with her ski pole. Ravi sees this but merely smiles.
Deciding we have gotten our money’s worth from our night-shift lift tickets, we take one final glorious powder run and head back to their place to heat up some tamales they’ve picked up on the way to the airport.
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Christmas Eve, 9:00 pm
Over candlelight at dinner, Divya finally explains why the cookies were for later. "They are an experiment not just of applying Indian spices to American treats, but of making edibles. This is Colorado, after all. You are welcome to try them when we are done with dinner, but I didn’t want to get you high before skiing. As you well know, Ravi and I may not live in America forever, and we are trying to enjoy the full experience here: residing in the city, going to plays regularly, visiting the mountains, partaking of legal weed, all these things."
"There are so many things in this culture that our Indian friends, bless them, would never try!" continues Ravi. "Certainly not pot cookies or skiing on Christmas Eve. Why, these days, we even hear stories of many young Americans practicing polyamory or opening up their marriages. Much too wild for them to even dream of!”
“Oh my goodness, I can’t even imagine the scandal such a thing would create in our community!" exclaims Divya, eyeing me directly. "Oh, how they would talk!"
Ravi continues. "Of course, If we ever decided to experience such a thing - hypothetically speaking, of course - it would have to be with someone outside of our community."
I happen to be someone outside their community. Has this evening turned into a “date” of sorts with these two? I hardly dare hope, but if so, I’d gladly share their bed.
Before the conversation can go further down this path - food for thought as impossibly delicious as the moist and delectable tamales - it veers to tales of their recent trip to Argentina.
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Christmas Eve, 10:30 pm
Divya suggests that we "test" the cookies and subsequently ring in Christmas by soothing our sore muscles in the building's spa and sauna.
We each sample a cookie. Adding the spices was a stroke of genius. Rich with nutmeg, cardamom and a hint of saffron, the Ganesha cookie that I choose doesn't even taste weedy.
When I finish it, Divya offers the pink, feminine cookie, a look on her face that is half smirking and half seductive. "If you would like, Joe, you may taste my yoni."
I take the bait. “Does that mean that I have made the Good List?”
Grinning, Ravi declares, "Yes, Joe, and I assure you there is no better reward than what Divya is offering.”
"But Ravi,” I parry back, “are you sure you're okay with me eating your wife ..."
I pause for a beat.
"... 's yoni?"
Divya giggles, perhaps affected by the weed already. "Boys, boys, you can both eat my yoni!” She steps closer and holds the pink confection out between us. "Please share it.”
Ravi's eyes bore into mine as he leans forward, each of us taking a tiny nibble of the cookie. This one is indeed special, bearing the delicate taste of rosewater.
Divya herself is less delicate. "Don't be so shy!” she demands theatrically. “It should be eaten boldly!"
Ravi and I lean in again for bigger bites. The cookie breaks and we each get about half, our lips brushing each other's as we chomp, sending a jolt of electricity into my mouth. I am spinning, and not just from the weed.