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Sex story of anjali mehta of tarak mehta ka ulta chasma When I was thirty years old, a few months after my son's birth, my husband left. Not the fierce and passionate kind of leaving, but a casual one where there was no discussion or disagreement. He went to work and never came back home. My heart laid in my stomach as I took in the big picture: there was one person who loved me unconditionally as a mother now grown up with responsibilities outside of her career as a pharmacist. I was left to fend for myself. I had a group of gal pals who were supportive in calls and texts, but I could sense them silently asking if I could have done something. They suggested that I take a weekend away, drink a few cocktails and meet men at a bar. I decided to give it a try, even though my baby was at home, getting bottle fed by me or someone else. "Anjali, you need to do something," Jhamela told me on the phone one day, "mall-hopping is not going to make you feel better." "I know," I replied and fell silent. "You need to get out and meet people. We all have boyfriends. I've been with Gary since high school." "I know. It's just that I'm worried about my son." "Don't be. You've got a maid and a nanny, and they both love him like their own kids." "I know, but they can't just take care of him for the rest of my life." She sighed loudly, as if she was frustrated with my lack of plans. She suggested that I join an online dating community; after all, it wasn't as if I had anything to lose—my husband was no longer concerned with it. But I wasn't interested. I felt I didn't have sufficient background to join a dating website, and the constant attention from men would be more distracting than satisfying.I was thirty-eight but felt as if I had never been young enough to have a fling or try anything new. "You can do whatever you want," she continued, "but perhaps it's time for a change." The more time passed, the harder it was not to feel desperate for human company. I knew that I must be more careful about what I say on the phone, but one day Jhamela asked if she could come over. I must have sounded lonely, because just a few hours later, she was there with two of her friends. "I haven't showered this week," I told Jhamela when she arrived at my door, "and I've been up all night with the baby." She gave me a hug and looked down at my hair. She smiled sympathetically. "We brought some wine," Jhamela announced proudly as if she had won the lottery. I led them to the kitchen where the red bottle of wine sat in pride in the center of the table. We each took a glass, and in no time at all they were chatting away about their lives in general, women in particular. cfa1e77820
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