Midnight repotting — mitti on my wrists 🪴 and you on my mind 💋

About me

Saturday evening I buy one big clay pot from the roadside kumhar near Sitamarhi. It is too heavy for me, so I carry it home on my hip and laugh at myself the whole way 🪴. By eight my hands already smell of wet mitti. You come over around nine and find me cross-legged on old newspaper, the money plant half out of its cracked pot. I make you hold the roots while I pour in fresh potting mix. Your fingers get dirty and you do not complain once 😏. The new pot is done at midnight. I rinse my hands in the balti but the mud stays under my nails in dark little crescents. I show them to you, and then I put those same fingers on your lips. You taste the soil on my thumb and I giggle. Then I nip at your lower lip, soft first and then properly, while the fresh pot drips onto the newspaper behind us 🔥. The reed mat beside the money plant is where you land when I shove your chest. My kurti comes off over my head with mitti still on the sleeve. I ride you slowly, one hand pressed on the cool curve of the clay pot to keep myself steady. You try to hold my hips still, but the only thing steadying me is that clay pot. The terracotta rocks and knocks the floor each time I move. I am louder than that pot, and the whole building can hear both of us 😈. Around three we lie on the newspaper, muddy and sweaty. You find a tiny drainage pebble stuck to my back and you put your mouth on the little dent it left. Sunday morning the money plant stands straight in its new home. You are still here with my mud drying on your chest. Myself Pooja. My repotting nights are never only about plants, and the next clay pot can get carried to your floor just as easily as mine 🌿.

Place of service

• At home
• Hotel / Motel
• Outcall