I wasn’t prepared for the heat.
It was a dry, sticky heat that lingered just a little longer than it really should have done, even when I moved into a cooler place. I had to move constantly, but the heat seemed to follow me, and catch up.
Beads of sweat on my forehead did nothing to cool me down.
Fizzy, cool drinks helped temporarily, but the familiar warmth returned within seconds.
There was no respite. It was almost torturous.
Almost, but not quite.
It was deliciously pleasurable, and also strangely moreish. The more the heat built up, the more I wanted it. The more it burned, the more I wanted it. The more it hurt, the more I wanted more. Quite strange, really.
No, I haven’t travelled to some steamy, hot and humid part of the world that is currently enduring a very hot Summer. No, I haven’t visited the fiery depths of Hell. And no, I haven’t been involved in any kind of ritual that involves candle wax. If ever such a ritual exists, not that I would know.
I’ve tried a new curry. New to me, anyway. Bhut Jolokia is the name of it, made with the Bhut Jolokia chilli, which, apparently, is four hundred times hotter than Tabasco sauce. How hot Tobasco sauce is, is beyond me as I’ve never tried it to the best of my knowledge. But if it’s four hundred times cooler than the Bhut Jolokia chilli, it must be very mild indeed.
Before I even tasted it, the spices got the back of my throat. That familiar tickling that instantly makes your eyes water. A slightly discreet ‘ahem’ removed the affect, until the first forkful. And then, it was like many volcanoes erupting on my tongue. The front, sides and back were all dancing in their own way, within seconds… exploding… writhing… both in agony and ecstasy… screaming and sighing; longing and loathing; hungry for more yet demanding for the experience to stop.
My lips were the colour of an angry flame, reddened and glowing as they tried to compete with the thrashing that my tongue was giving me. My nose decided it would join in, to try to cool down the situation by dousing the invisible flames just beneath it to no avail.
I had to walk. I couldn’t sit. I had to clench my fists with every quarter of a forkful… punch my thighs…scrunch my eyes… swallow slowly.
It was as though I’d had a full body workout when I finished the meal. Which I did.
Every delicious morsel.
Fabulous.
Now that’s an experience I wouldn’t mind trying again.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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