Although I'm a young professional civil engineer, I always have a thing for working-class men—they're pure tops, unapologetic and straightforward.
My city, Hyderabad, is a furnace by day, streets jammed with the endless churn of life in Sindh's beating heart—rickshaws honking through knots of pedestrians, vendors shouting over the din of bazaars. But come nightfall, breezes sweep in from the Indus, cool and insistent, turning the chaos into something almost poetic, whispering promises through the open windows of crumbling havelis.
One night, I headed to Station Road, a well-known cruising spot and the throbbing artery of the city—one of the most crowded stretches in all of Hyderabad, choked with the grand Hyderabad Railway Station belching out dusty travelers from all over the country and intercity bus stands disgorging waves of passengers in a haze of exhaust and sweat.
It is a riot of outdoor stalls and carts hawking everything from bolts of shimmering embroidered cloth to sizzling platters of seekh kebabs and piles of cheap electronics, the air thick with cumin smoke, haggling voices, and the distant wail of train whistles. Cruising happens right in the thick of it—men lingering by the stalls under the pretense of eyeing the merchandise, shoulders brushing as hands darted low in the press of bodies. You'd feel a surreptitious graze, fingers testing the outline of a cock or the curve of an ass over the loose drape of shalwar kameez; anything below the waist stayed hidden, a secret cupped in the forgiving folds of fabric, safe from prying eyes in the swarm.
When the hunt paid off, we'd slip away together, through narrow lanes and go down the steep embankment to the cavernous voids beneath Naya Pul, the "New Bridge" in Urdu, that hulking concrete span arcing over the sprawling web of railway lines snaking out from Hyderabad Junction. Under its massive pillars, the world above vanished into utter blackness—no streetlights pierced the gloom, invisible to passers by, creating an ideal place for intimate encounters. The roar of tires on asphalt echoed like thunder trapped in a barrel, vibrating the ground and our bones, a relentless bassline that swallowed our gasps.
But tonight I couldn't find anyone who caught my eye—no spark in the shadows. Tall and slim in my thirties, I kept myself handsome and fit with the perks of my well-paying civil engineering job—plenty of cash for gym sessions and sharp tailoring that turned heads.
Frustrated, I gave up for the night, and wandered over to the stand near Naya Pul and struck up a chat with one of the drivers to take me home. He was a pure Pathan—young, maybe early twenties, with that rugged handsomeness that hits you like a gut punch, his pale skin bronzed from days under the relentless sun. We haggled over the price (settling on Rs. 20). Rickshaws have meters, but nobody ever pays the metered rate; negotiation is just part of the game. Rickshahs in Hyderabad are squat, three-wheeled beasts, gutted motorcycles reborn with sputtering two-stroke engines that cough blue smoke and rattled like loose marbles in a tin can. The driver's perch up front is a battered cockpit of exposed handlebars and a naked speedometer, while the rear blooms into a wide, bench-like seat for one or two passengers, all of it wrapped in a skeletal canopy of colorful stickers—faded film stars and wild floral decals peeling at the edges—leaving the sides wide open to the rush of air, every pothole jolting through your bones as those breezy nights whip dust and freedom through the gaps.
As we rattled toward my place, the evening air cooling my skin, I leaned forward from the back and started some casual talk. Turns out he was unmarried.
I pounced on that, of course, asking how he handled his sexual needs. He got shy fast, mumbling something under his breath.
I pressed gently: Had he ever been with a guy?
That set him off—he shot back, "I'm not a gandu!" (Gandu being the Urdu slur for the bottom in anal sex.)
I soothed him right away: "Of course you're not. But I am."
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, eyes wide with disbelief.
I laughed and doubled down: "I'm such a big gandu, I'll pay 100 rupees to anyone who fucks my gaand."
I let that hang in the humid air for a beat, watching him process it through the mirror as the city lights blurred past.
Finally, he muttered, "Really? Does that include the fare, or extra?"
"Extra, of course," I said. "Fare's fare."
At the time, I lived in a quiet cul-de-sac in Sindhi Muslim Housing Society—one of Hyderabad's ritziest neighborhoods, a pocket of manicured calm amid the urban sprawl. There were only three houses on the court: mine, one neighbor's, and an empty plot under construction. The boundary wall was up, but the foundations were all that stood.
When we pulled up, I handed him the fare and flashed the extra 100-rupee note.
He stared at it, hungry. "I'd love to earn that," he admitted.
"Then come inside," I said.
He hesitated, glancing at his rickshaw. "I can't leave it unattended—it's not even mine. It doesn’t lock. Too risky."
These rickshaws had no doors or locks, just those yawning open sides and a flimsy frame of rusted pipes and sagging canvas that made them sitting ducks for thieves—easy to strip for parts or vanish into the night with a hotwire.
He spun the rickshaw around and idled just a few feet away. I walked over, hoping he'd caved.
"I want to," he said, voice low and urgent, "but it doesn't lock. I can't just walk off."
By now, I was horny as hell, pulse racing against the night's gentle breeze. "Then drive it into that empty plot," I told him. "Fuck me right there, outdoors. You'll keep the rickshaw in sight the whole time."
His face lit up—he gunned it eagerly through the gap in the wall.
We didn't waste a second. Inside the shadowed yard, lit only by the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the branches overhead, we stood close in the cool hush, hearts hammering. I leaned forward against the rough boundary wall, bracing my palms on the warm stone still holding the day's heat, while he stepped up behind me. We both hiked our kameez up with our chins, tucking the fabric out of the way like a shared secret, then untied our shalwars just enough to bare what mattered—loose enough for access, but quick to knot back if needed.
His cock was nice and thick, heavy in my hand as I guided him; we spit-lubed rough and ready, the slick warmth mixing with the night's chill on our skin. He pressed in steady, filling me with that unhurried thrust of a first-timer testing his luck, and we found a rhythm—drawing it out for a good, breathless stretch, my breaths panting as his hands gripped my hips.
When he finally came, shuddering against me with a low groan swallowed by the breeze, I cleaned him off with my own shalwar before pulling it up and tying it.
He also knotted his drawstring and started to pull away.
I grabbed his arm: "Hey—did you forget your money?"
He shook his head, almost sheepish. "You gave me such good pleasure... I don't want it."
But I insisted, pressing the note into his hand. He took it with a grin and vanished into the dusk, rickshaw sputtering off toward the city's endless night.
I scanned the rickshaw stand for him every time I passed through after that, but he was gone—like a ghost in the traffic. Hyderabad's full of stories like that, though. Ones that burn bright and fade fast, carried away on those breezy winds.
The End
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