The Never-Ending Saga of the Shameless and Horny Old Men Around Me

"Hey, you! Yeah, you. You're probably wondering why I'm here, aren't you? Well, let me tell you a little story, or should I say, my story.
The name's Pooja. I'm a 45-year-old, recently divorced, and let's just say I've got more curves than a mountain road in the Himalayas. And let me tell you, my journey through life has been anything but a straight line. But that's not what I want to talk about today. No, no, I want to talk about something that's been bugging me since I was a teenager. Something that still makes me laugh, cringe, and sometimes, just plain facepalm.

The thing is, old men. You know the type, the ones with the white hair and the lecherous eyes? Yeah, them. They're like walking, talking, horny little insects that just can't keep their hands to themselves, and somehow, I've become their favorite target.

Now, I know what you're thinking, 'Pooja, you're exaggerating!' But trust me, I'm not. It's like they've got this radar for sniffing out a good time, and somehow, that radar is pointed straight at my... well, let's just say my assets. I mean, it's not every day you see a woman like me, right? With tits so big, they could give the Kardashians a run for their money. And it's not just me; it's every curvy woman out there. We're like walking billboards for their dirty little thoughts. It's like they've got this manual on 'How to be a Creepy Old Uncle' that they just can't put down.

Take Bal Krishan Tau ji, for instance. I'm in my room, half in my panties, half in my blouse, and I've got my back to the door. You see, I was trying to be a little fancy and put on this blouse that had a hook in the front. Stupid idea, I know. But what's a girl to do when she wants to look like she didn't just roll out of bed? Anyway, there I am, fumbling around, when suddenly, the door swings open and in walks Tau ji'. I swear, I almost dropped my panties right then and there. But no, I had to be a good girl, so I grabbed the nearest thing to cover up with: a pillow. Yes, a pillow. Talk about a tragic cover-up."

Tau ji's eyes are the size of saucers, and I'm pretty sure he's seeing more than he's bargained for. He tries to act like he's not seeing what he's clearly seeing, mumbling something about the newspaper he forgot outside. But I'm not that easily fooled. And neither is he, apparently. He can't help but stare, and I can see his hands shaking as he tries to play it cool. It's like he's trying to hold back a tsunami of inappropriate thoughts with a toothpick. And me, I'm just standing there, half-dressed, holding a pillow like it's going to save my dignity. So, what do I do? I ask him for help. Yes, you heard that right. I ask the man who's ogling me to help me hook my blouse. And because he's a good sport, or maybe because he's just too excited by the view, he steps closer, his breath hitching in his throat."

He's so close I can feel his breath on my bare skin. And as his trembling hands reach for the hook, I can't help but notice that his eyes are glued to my breasts, which are basically spilling out of my bra. It's like he's trying to thread a needle in the middle of a tornado. But he manages, bless his soul. And as he does, I decide to lean in, giving him the full experience. I mean, if he's going to be a perv, he might as well get the full show, right? And when he's finally done, and I turn around, he's got this look on his face like he's just seen the face of God. Or maybe just a pair of big, beautiful boobs. Either way, it's priceless.

But wait, it gets better. You see, in my hurry to cover up, I accidentally drop the pillow. And there I am, in all my glory, with nothing but a blouse that's basically a glorified napkin. And what does Tau ji do? He tries to hand me the pillow, his cheeks redder than a ripe tomato.

Ramesh Mausa ji was another gem. Picture it: I'm in there, my hair a soapy mess, water dripping down my body like I've just stepped out of a Bollywood rain dance scene. And in he walks, like he's expecting to find a fully-stocked fridge. I scream, he gasps, and suddenly, we're both standing there, frozen like we're in a game of 'Who Can Be the Most Uncomfortable?' But wait, it doesn't end there. No, no, it gets better. You see, I'm not just naked; I'm naked and wet. And when I go to grab the towel, it slips out of my hand and lands right at his feet. So what do I do? I do the only thing any self-respecting woman would do. I bend over to pick it up, giving him the full view of my... ahem, assets. And let me tell you, his eyes nearly fell out of his sockets. And when I finally stand up, all I can do is laugh. It's like I've just played the ultimate prank on the world's least funny uncle.
The way he avoids me at the next family gathering. Like I'm some kind of siren, luring him into my web of... wetness. It's like he's afraid if he looks at me, he'll spontaneously combust. And every time he does sneak a peek, I just smile and wink. Because why not? If you're going to be the talk of the town, might as well make it worth everyone's while.

And let's not forget Mathura Dutt mausa ji, who had this thing for my cleavage. Every family gathering, there he'd be, staring like a teenage boy who's just discovered the internet. So, there I am, dressed to the nines for my cousin's wedding, looking like a million bucks if I do say so myself. And who do I spot across the room, but mausa ji, lurking like a lion in a herd of unsuspecting gazelles. His eyes are glued to my chest, and I swear, I could see the wheels turning in his head. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about those sweet, sweet curves of mine. And I decided, why not give him a taste of his own medicine?
I sauntered over, making sure to give my boobs a little extra jiggle. His eyes followed me like they were on a yo-yo. And when I got closer, I leaned in, giving him a full view of my deep, inviting cleavage. 'Mausa ji, what do you think of the necklace?' I whispered, all sweetness and light. His eyes nearly fell out of his head, and his mouth hung open like a fish gasping for air. I could see the sweat beads forming on his forehead. The room felt like it was spinning around us, and all I could do was smile and enjoy the show. But that's not where it ends. Oh, no. This is the part where I turned it up a notch.
I leaned in closer, my breasts dangerously close to popping out of my blouse. 'Isn't it a little... tight?' I giggled, making a show of tugging at the neckline. And just as his eyes were about to cross with excitement, I leaned back, my hand 'accidentally' brushing against his cheek, and whispered, 'Maybe I should get something more... comfortable.' His face went from pure lust to pure horror in 0.2 seconds flat. It sure as hell made him think twice about where he was looking next time. And that, my dear readers, is how you handle a pervy old uncle. With a little bit of sass and a whole lot of boob shaming. Welcome to the Pooja show, where the embarrassment never ends, and the laughs never stop."

Now, let's talk about the time Sanjeev Uncle took his love for hugging to the next level. It was at my cousin's wedding, and I had just stepped out of the bathroom, feeling fresher than a daisy after a spring shower. I was wearing this gorgeous red sari that clung to my curves like a second skin. And who should I bump into? You guessed it, Sanjeev Uncle. He looked me up and down with a smile so wide, I thought his teeth would fall out. Before I could even say 'hello', he lunged at me like a bear that hadn't eaten in weeks. But this time, I was ready for him. This time, I had a plan.
I threw my arms around him, making sure to press my ample chest into his. He squeezed back, probably feeling like he'd hit the jackpot. And as he leaned in for the usual cheek peck, I whispered, "Uncle, you're hugging me too tight." But instead of loosening up, he just held on tighter. So, I decided to give him a little wiggle, just enough to make him aware of what he was holding. His eyes went wide, and his breath hitched. And that's when I knew I had him. So, I wiggled a little more, and he started to sweat. I mean, it was like someone had turned on a faucet. His hands started to shake, and his grip tightened. The music was playing, the lights were flashing, and there we were, in the middle of the dance floor, doing the most inappropriate tango.

And Ratan Chacha ji with his never-ending jokes about my 'healthy' figure.So, there I was, wearing this tight little number that I'd picked up from the market. You know the one, it hugged all the right places and made me feel like I could take on the world. Or at least, the aunties at the family get-together. I'm chatting with my cousin, Ritu, when suddenly, Ratan Chacha comes waddling over. He's always had a bit of a thing for me, ever since I was a kid. But this time, it was like he couldn't keep his hands to himself. He's laughing at my jokes a little too hard, leaning in a little too close, and before I know it, he's got his hand on my waist. And not just a polite, 'hello, how are you' kind of hand. Oh no, this is a 'I've got my hand on the remote and I'm about to change the channel without asking' kind of hand. I try to shrug him off, but he's stickier than a fly on a mango. And just when I think it can't get any worse, he leans in and whispers, 'Pooja, you're looking so... beautiful today.' I swear, I could feel the spit on my neck."
I'm standing there, trying not to gag, when he decides to go in for a hug. But this isn't just any hug. This is a bear hug that's got more squeeze than a mango vendor on a hot day. And as he's squeezing the life out of me, I feel his hand slip. Slip down, down, down. And before I know it, he's not just touching my ass, he's practically trying to shake hands with it. And the look on his face? It's like he's just found the secret to eternal youth in my backside. I'm squirming, trying to get away, but he's got a grip like a python. And the whole time, Ritu is standing there with her mouth open, looking like she's just seen a ghost. Or a very inappropriate hug."
Finally, I manage to break free, and I'm about to lay into him when the unthinkable happens. My blouse pops open, and my big ol' boobs come out to say hello to everyone. The room goes quieter than a library during finals week. You could hear a pin drop if it weren't for the sound of many jaws hitting the floor. I'm standing there, half naked, with Ratan Chacha's hand stuck in my blouse like it's a cookie jar. And what does he do? He tries to play it cool. 'Oh, Pooja beti, let me help you with that.' Help me with that? Help me get rid of you, maybe!"
But do I get mad? Do I storm off in a huff? Nope. I just laugh. I laugh like it's the funniest thing I've ever seen. And you know what? It kind of is. Because life's too short to be embarrassed all the time. So I tucked myself back in, gave Chacha a little wink, and strutted off, leaving him looking like he's just realized he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. And that, my friends, is the art of turning a disaster into a legendary story.

But the pièce de résistance? Girish Mausa ji and his obsession with my navel. He'd find any excuse to look at it, and when he did, his eyes would glaze over like he's in some kind of trance. I'd be talking to him, and he'd just be nodding, staring, nodding. It's like he thought there was some hidden treasure in there or something. The time Girish Mausa ji took his navel obsession to a whole new level. It was at my cousin's wedding, and I had decided to go full Bollywood on everyone. I wore this emerald green sari that made my skin glow and my eyes pop. But let's talk about the real star of the show: my navel. It was on display, sparkling like a disco ball, and let me tell you, it was not shy. I had practiced my moves in front of the mirror, making sure that every twirl and twist highlighted my midriff. And boy, did it work.
Mausa ji couldn't take his eyes off of it. He followed me around like a lost puppy, his gaze glued to my belly button. It was like watching a moth circling a flame, except the moth was a sweaty, old man and the flame was my stomach. The night was hot, and the dance floor was packed. I could feel the tension building up in him like a pressure cooker about to blow. And when the DJ played 'Choli Ke Peeche Kya Hai', I knew it was my moment to shine.
I stepped onto the dance floor with a smirk, knowing full well what was coming. Mausa ji was there, his eyes practically popping out of his head. He was leaning against the wall, fanning himself with a napkin, trying to look cool. But the moment the beat dropped, I went in for the kill. I started moving my hips like a snake charmer, my sari swirling around me like a tornado. And then, the inevitable happened. I bent over, my navel pointing at him like a beacon of lustful hope, and the man just couldn't help himself. He stumbled over, his hand reaching out like he was going to touch it. And just as he made contact with my bare skin, I whipped around, slapped his hand away, and laughed. The crowd gasped. The music stopped. And there was Mausa ji, red-faced and panting, surrounded by a circle of horrified relatives.
The silence was deafening, but it didn't last long. Soon, the whispers started. 'Did you see what she did?' 'What a shameless girl!' But you know what? I didn't care. I had made my point. I strutted off the dance floor, my chin held high, my navel still gleaming with sweat and victory. That was the last time Girish Mausa ji ever tried to cozy up to me at a wedding. And let me tell you, it was the most embarrassing moment of his life. But for me? It was just another day in the life of Pooja, the woman with the uncontrollable allure that turns old men into bumbling idiots. And honestly, it was kind of hilarious."

Now, onto the Mukesh Uncle incident. This one takes the cake. It was the wedding of my cousin, and I was feeling fabulous. I had this dress on, tight enough to make a nun blush and low enough to show a hint of the valley between my mountains. And there I was, in my bedroom, practicing my dance moves when the door swings open, and in walks Mukesh Uncle, the king of the awkward stare. He tries to play it cool, but his eyes are locked on my chest like it's the last piece of barfi in the world. I stop dancing, and he stammers out some excuse about looking for his glasses. Glasses? In my bedroom? Sure, Uncle, sure."
But instead of playing shy, I decide to give him a little show. I start to dance again, slower this time, making sure to hit all the right spots. The music's loud, the lights are dim, and my curves are in full swing. His eyes are glued to me like a kid to a candy store window. And just when he thinks it can't get any better, my dress slips a little lower, giving him an eyeful of my ample assets. He gasps, his eyes bug out, and he stumbles over his own feet trying to leave. But not before I catch him with his hand down his pants. Oh, the look on his face! It was a mix of shock, horror, and something else. Something that told me he wasn't just watching for the art of it all. No, he was enjoying the view. And you know what? I winked at him before I shooed him out. Why not? It's not every day you can make an old man's day like that.
The rest of the night, I see him from across the room, trying to avoid eye contact. His wife keeps shooting me these suspicious looks, but little does she know, her husband's been eyeing me up like I'm the main course at the buffet. I laugh to myself, sipping on my drink, feeling more powerful than I have in years. And as the night goes on, and the music gets louder, I decide to give him another little show. This time, it's on the dance floor. I dance closer to him, my hips swaying, my breasts jiggling. His face turns redder than a chilly in a tandoor. And when I lean in close, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, I see the fear in his eyes. It's like he knows I've got his number, and he's not sure if he should run or stay for the encore.
But let's not forget the grand finale. As I'm leaving the party, feeling like a million bucks, I decide to give Mukesh Uncle one last little souvenir. I lean in, my breasts pressing against his chest, and whisper, "Thank you for the inspiration, Uncle. You've made this wedding one I'll never forget." And with that, I strut out of there, leaving him in a puddle of his own sweat and embarrassment. And you know what? I don't even feel guilty. It's about time these old perverts learned that a woman's body isn't their personal playground. Plus, it's always fun to watch them squirm. So, next time you see an old man eyeing you up and down, just remember, you're the one with the power. And if you want to, you can make their heads spin faster than a Ferris wheel at a mela. Just make sure you enjoy the show.

But let's get to the main course, shall we? The one and only, Sushil Tau ji. Now, this man had a thing for thighs. He could spot them a mile away, and boy, did he know how to make it awkward. So, there I was, in the kitchen, slaving away over a hot stove, making the best butter chicken this side of Delhi. I'm wearing this skirt that's just a smidge too short, and of course, I've got to bend over to get something from the bottom shelf. And who's there, leaning against the counter, sipping his chai like he's got all the time in the world? Sushil Tau ji, with his beedy little eyes staring at me like I'm a buffet. So, I play it cool, I stand up, and just as I do, the skirt rides up. And what do I see in the reflection of the fridge door? His face, turning redder than the chilies I'm chopping. Priceless. But the real kicker? He tries to play it off by saying, 'Oh, I was just admiring your... cooking skills.' Sure, tau ji, sure.
But that's not even the worst of it. One year, during the summer holidays, when I was about 22, and still trying to figure out why the hell my body decided to give me more to love than I knew what to do with, I went to visit my relatives. And of course, Sushil Tau ji was there, lurking in the shadows like the horny vampire he was. So, I'm in my room, trying to cool off because apparently, the concept of central air conditioning hasn't reached their ancient mansion yet. I'm wearing this tiny little nightie because, well, it's hotter than a chilly padi in a pressure cooker in there. And who decides to barge in without knocking? You guessed it, Sushil Tau ji. He tries to play it off like he's looking for a lost spectacle, but we both know he's just there for the show. And there I am, half-dressed, half-embarrassed, and fully pissed off. But instead of getting mad, I just look at him and say, 'Could you pass me the talcum powder? It's in the drawer next to the bed.' And do you know what he does? He actually goes for it. And as he's leaning over, I spread my legs just enough for him to get the full view. The look on his face was like someone just told him his favorite cricket team lost the final match. Shock, horror, and a hint of disappointment because he knows he's been caught. But let me tell you, that was the last time he ever tried to peek at me. I think the sight of my thighs in full glory was enough to scar him for life.
But, like I said, I've learned to use my... assets to my advantage. So, when he handed me the talc, I made sure to give him a little wiggle. And when he stumbled out of the room, I couldn't help but laugh. I mean, who does he think he's fooling? He's old enough to be my father, for crying out loud! But that's the thing about these old perverts; they think they're so slick. They think they can just glide through life, ogling at young women without any consequences. But not with me, oh no. I make sure they know I see them. And I make sure they feel just as awkward as I do. Because if we're going to play this game, we're playing by my rules. And my rules include embarrassing the hell out of them every chance I get. So, next time you see me at a family function, just remember, I'm not just serving up the food; I'm serving looks that could make a saint sweat. And if you're one of those creepy old uncles, just remember, I've got my eye on you. And if you get too close, I might just give you a little more than you bargained for."

And that, my friends, is the life of Pooja, the curvy queen of the family. The woman who can't go a single event without some creepy uncle trying to get a peek. But you know what? I've learned to own it. I've learned to laugh at it. And sometimes, just sometimes, I've learned to give them a little something to remember. Because let's face it, if you can't laugh at yourself, you're not living your life right. And if that means giving the old fogies a heart attack, then so be it. Just make sure you're not around when they drop to the floor clutching their chests. That's when the real party starts!"