The Film Festival

Emily Pritchard wandered dully amongst the many attendees of a local artsy film festival at the university. She should be at the height of her prosperity, she thought, dismally downing another drink. But instead, her priggish husband Ian had been revealed as a cheater that evening, as she'd caught him at work being sucked off by his buxom Black secretary, Betty.

The worst of all was he wasn't even that impacted by his wife discovering him being orally serviced. The fucker didn't even stop. And he made it clear afterwards he didn't intend to stop. So here she was, drifting aimlessly around the party, her husband somewhere here too, but she was in no mind to see him.

She bumped into an older Indian man. He was still vital and strong, taller than Ian, thought quite hairy. He had a nice salt and pepper affect to this hair that appealed to Emily. He had a well-kept beard.

"Whoa there, you okay?" he asked, looking concerned at the housewife with dirty blonde hair and red rimmed eyes.

"Yesh," Emily slurred. "Just enjoying the party. I'm not like drunk or anything."

"Mmmhm," the Indian man said. "Here, why don't we sit down for a second."

"Shure," Emily said. "I'm Emily." They went and sat down.

"Kumar," he said with a gallant smile. Emily learned he was a Bollywood actor that taught locally during a portion of the year, had tried valiantly to cross over into Hollywood each year, and still starred in enough films to keep his star from dimming. Emily listened mostly, still wanting to drown her despair. But part of her thought perhaps two could play at this game.