Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

I loved Zoya so much that I was determined to be bigger for her. In Bangkok I could have bought a tiger's penis, and had it pounded into pills that promised me potency and stamina. But I was long past such superstitions. I already knew how to take care of potency and stamina: I ate food with little oil in it, I exercised every day, I had a new stair-climber installed next to the engine room, so I could get a rigorous aerobic workout. No, all I needed was size. And in this age of research and development, I could expand scientifically. By now I was more fluent in my handling of the computer, and could navigate my way to a search engine. I told the boys I didn't want to be disturbed, closed the door, and I searched. I had trouble with the language, at first. Typing in 'lauda' found a site for an airline named exactly that, and a site about some racing-car driver, and another one about drug called 'laudanum'. You stupid bastard, I said to the half-face I could see in the screen, of course use English. I knew the English, I knew it from the X films that the boys brought on board, from the tangled acrobatics of those images, from the close-ups. I typed in 'big cock'. Now I got listings of dozens of sites offering pictures of enormous laudas in every colour. I didn't want that. I had to struggle for a few minutes, until I remembered 'penis', from an article in the Times of India about elephants and their mating habits. I tried 'penis size,' which gave me surveys of average size of penises, but also, lower down on the page, http://www.100percentpenisenlargement.com and http://www.big-penis-enlargement-size.com and http://www.betterpenis.info. Much better.

So, I read and learnt and thought, I took many days to make my decision. This was no trivial decision. I was trying to grow and structure my future and myself. I was trying to anchor my love, to make my beloved happy, happier. I studied, and I thought. I learnt the physiology of the penis. Cross-section drawings showed me the mechanisms under the surface, the branching pipes of blood that made it rise and made it strong. Very early, I ruled out the use of penis pumps as obviously harmful to the capillaries, causing tiny tears in the tissue as the penis expanded in a vacuum. Weights, I thought, would work. Hang enough weights on a tissue and it will lengthen, that was obvious enough. I had seen, back home, tribal women whose ear lobes were stretched from the earrings they wore. But the elongated ears had always seemed hideous to me. A stretched penis may be longer, but it would be thinner, like a piece of rubber pulled out of shape. No, not acceptable. I wanted length, but I also had to have girth. It had to be steel-hard, a sleek, tireless engine that Zoya would love.

And then I found Dr Reinnes. A week after I began weeding out the thickets of penis sites, I came upon http://www.scientificpenis.com. The name itself was an attraction, and I clicked on it right away. When I saw the page, I was impressed by its simplicity. There were none of the lurid colours of the other sites here, no huge flashing fonts in green and red that made tall claims. No, just clean, even black lettering on a white background. The whole site was reasonable and neat, it was clean. There was a sobriety about the page, and in Dr Reinnes's whole approach, that came from him being a medical doctor. As he explained on the site, he ran a regular medical practice in California. His techniques for enlargement had been developed over years of research and experience, and they were based on a deep scientific understanding of the functioning of the human body. And all this was offered discreetly over the internet for the low price of 49.99 US dollars. A simple credit-card transaction would enable the user to access the locked pages which contained the Reinnes Method, and to begin the seeker's journey of self-improvement.

I had six credit cards, all in different names. And what was 49.99 in good US dollars, for such knowledge? I used my Platinum Visa, in the name of 'Jerry Gallant', which was an alias based in a Belgian PO box address. And two minutes of typing later, I had access. I skimmed past the multicoloured diagrams, and the advice on hormonal dysfunction and nutrition. I wasn't sick, and my intake of protein was already balanced. I only wanted size. Here was the secret: pump more blood into the penile arteries. And this was achieved through a daily programme of exercises, first an application of a hot compress, a towel soaked in hot water and then moulded around the penis. And then the main exercise, which was a milking motion with thumb and forefinger ringed, from the base of the lightly lubricated penis to the head. I tried it right then, in front of the computer, the milking I mean, not the hot towel. Yes, it was true, if you drew the finger-ring down the length of a semi-erect penis, you could see the blood being forced to the head. There were other exercises also, a pulling one for length benefits, and an internal pelvic one for stamina. I could see the sense of the routine, its basis in what lay underneath, the logic of its sequences. Of course you could exercise the penis as you exercised every other muscle in your body, and make it strong and big. The genius of Dr Reinnes was that he gave you a system. I printed out the charts that allowed you to track your daily progress, all the way until you moved to the 'Advanced' section six months and many added inches later. I began that very evening.

* * *

After forty-seven days of regular and sustained penis exercise, I registered a growth of half an inch. Zoya came to visit me in Singapore four days before the release of International Dhamaka . This was necessarily a lightning visit, she flew in on a Thursday morning and flew out that same evening. Keeping her visit to the city secret was now impossible, since the stewardesses knew who she was now, and little girls came up to the first-class cabin to ask for autographs. So the official story was that she was coming in to do some shopping before the premiere, to pick up some jewellery and dresses. We put her in the Ritz-Carlton and had her go down a private elevator to a waiting limousine. She called me from the car, 'I'm on my way, saab.'

She was as respectful as always, as careful of my time and feelings. Me, I was nervous. I had on a new black Armani suit, and a tailored gold shirt. My shoes were polished, and my fingernails were shiningly manicured. I sat in an easy chair facing the door, not at all easy. I drank from a glass of Evian, and I was ridiculous, and I knew it. I heard her coming up the stairs. I stood up. The door flung open, she came in, flinging off her hooded coat, shaking back a tidal ripple of hair. I had a bare glimpse of fawn-coloured pants and a little top, and then she ran to me. In the squeeze of her embrace, in the balm of her breasts, all my doubt vanished. 'I missed you,' she said. 'I missed you so much.'

And this was the girl Jojo called the Egotistical Giraffe. She was kissing my neck, coming back up to my lips and then going down to my chest again. With a drawn-out sigh she went to her knees, and nuzzled at my zipper, her arms still reaching up to my shoulders. I put a hand on her forehead and tipped her face up to me. 'No, wait.' She was worried, she looked up at me like a reprimanded child. This was our usual ritual when we first met, this frantic first sucking. I loved to see her mouth opening to me. But today I held her chin delicately. 'We will, we will,' I said. 'In two minutes. But first I want to hear about what's been happening.'

Up she jumped, laughing and happy. We sat on the easy chair, her back and legs sprawled over the arms and on my lap, and she put her arms around me and told me everything. Instead of two minutes it took two hours. She told me about the problems of shooting, the artificial lake that was supposed to be Switzerland, that began to stink because the bastard light-boys kept pissing into it. Then there was the beautiful white horse that gave eight shots in complete calm, it was a long-time filmi horse. Then, in the lighting break before the ninth shot, an electrician was dragging a power cable through the grass, and this white horse panicked, and bucked, and backed itself off a cliff and dropped thirty feet. They had to shoot it. With a real revolver.