The Date

“You look lovely, by the way. The profile picture, doesn’t do you any justice, you know.” He says.

Ah fuck, the hopeful look in his puppy dog eyes tell me that I need to return the compliment. I scrutinise him hard, I mean, there must be something I could compliment him on.

He is big, muscular. Clearly he works out, a lot. His beard; stands out in a disarray of tiny hair that just could not decide what direction to take. His hair is gelled; gelled to the point that each spike reminds me of a mini Eiffel tower.

He is wearing a white V-neck t-shirt covered with a grey woollen blazer; a blood red silk handkerchief stuffing down his breast pocket.

What is it that the fashion whores call those things? I think. Ah yes, a pocket square.

 “That’s a nice pocket square.” I say. Smiling brilliantly, a smile I am sure does not reach my eyes, hell; I don’t even think it reaches my cheekbones.

“Well thanks, darling. I am glad you noticed.” He returns my smile and speaks in a low baritone that is meant to indicate sophistication and class. He probably expects my knees to wobble, my heart to flutter like a humming bird, my body to surge with electric energy and my pussy to melt on his face.

Seducing beautiful woman looking at her lover with wine glass.

But all he gets is a smirk followed by a burp.

I should’ve known that, a starter of deep fried calamaris, was a recipe for burps and farts. Already my stomach complains at the onslaught of that sea dwelling urchin and I know I will have to pay a visit to washroom.

What is it that those elitist whores call it? I think. Ah yes, the powder room.

“Looks like the hors d’oeuvre do not agree with you, my love.” He is amused by the burp and the shock on my face there after.

“Looks like you are right.” I say. I am too classy to ask him what the fuck hors d’oeuvre means; but not that classy, because I decide that I will be saving his number on my phone as ‘The French Whore’.

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50 Shades of Black and White

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Disclaimer: Mild erotic content

“So if I do end up sleeping with this guy, can you tell me what would be your psychological analysis of the situation?” said Lena, raising an eyebrow across the table.

She watched as Serene’s hair fluttered in the gentle breeze of the fan, as an image flashed before her – Lena leaning forward, planting a gentle kiss on the therapist’s lips, savoring her shock and the crumbles of the strawberry lip balm.

“I would say you were giving in to your symptoms,” replied Serena, matter-of-factly, clearly unaware of Lena’s wandering mind.

“Sexual needs are a human requirement.” replied Lena, brushing aside her own hair roughly.

“Yes. But what’s the worst that could happen if you don’t sleep with this guy?” Serena smiled at her, almost as if the therapist enjoyed the mental bondage that she was putting Lena into. Lena could have this guy, but she shouldn’t. Lena had to undergo the turmoil of watching him every day. Like a hungry predator lusting after a deer grazing a few feet away. Continue reading

A Night Of Vegan Cheese

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“You know he’s the kind of guy who free-balls to the grocery store”, I could almost picture him as I said this, standing within my arm’s reach in a pool of pulsating sex-vibes, “… straight out of the tennis court, with a modest intimation of sweat and pheromones but nothing too overwhelming; clean but also dirty, composed but also holding back something you want to get hold of; with a gym bag and a big headphone; his hair short, soft and prickly to touch; his chin sharp as a ledge dotted with a stubble that’d drive you insane if it brushes against your neck like this…” I rubbed her neck with my wrist but regretted almost immediately for it was wet with the grime of a long summer day, “…his arms smooth and supple, and his eyes big and eager but also deep and Continue reading

The Thirty-Year-Old Virgins

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Divya assured herself, despite a burning dubiety, that she’d reached a significant milestone in her relationship with Aditya when, on a late Saturday night, her antsy phone buzzed with a storm of messages from Aditya. A cold inexplicable fear gipped her heart as she clutched the phone and scrolled through the stream of messages. Aditya’s love for poetry, or rather what he believed to be poetry, was notorious in the posse of aspiring writers who met every Saturday in a derelict café in North Bangalore. Divya wouldn’t have taken to him if she could take to anyone else but being a year shy of turning into a thirty-year-old virgin, Divya knew all too well the seething urgency of falling in love. She had begun with mild doses of admiration weaved intricately into casual conversations – finding the most opportune moments to call his fiction Kafkaesque or finding his jarring asymmetric poetic compositions venomously post-modern. Every praise was a chuckle pickled and preserved and it spread a sourness in her heart every time he blushed. She would overcome with pity – for the poor boy but more so for herself, and guilt and sorrow and a cruel screaming gaiety and it’d leave her wiping her hands with the tissue-paper for a minute too long as if she’d been plunged into a deep undersea cavern by the impact of his work of ground-breaking ingenuity. She’d then make a quiet show of getting back to normality – by pretending, for instance, not to have heard the last sliver of conversation or visibly forcing a laugh – and appear briefly flustered as if she’d witnessed sharp inerasable visions of other-worldly love-making with the man himself. Continue reading

Being Elsewhere

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Adil felt a fresh frisson of excitement watching the vista of the Blue Mountains unfolding before him. He clutched Girish’s handsome hand. Girish had, despite numerous nudges from Adil, dozed through the entire journey up the mountains until a few moments ago when a rough stretch of snores had woken him up. Adil couldn’t stop smiling – the day had finally dawned when he’d be travelling as Aditi – with a man. A tall dark man. His nails dug into Girish’s cheeks as he pinched them and Girish offered a tired smile. “Oh, don’t be such a downer, get excited already, we’re here, we’re hereContinue reading

Dystopian indulgence…

“When was the last time you indulged?” my therapist asked. The rim of her glasses sat at the bridge of her nose, and her piercing blue eyes penetrated mine as if she already knew the answer to her questions. Daring me to defy her, daring me to lie.

I swallowed, hard. Well, it had been long, long enough, since I indulged. Definitely, longer than the government prescribed abstinence period.

“Answer my question, Anya.” Her voice threatened to drown me in her fury. But somehow, what comforted me was the fact that I wont have to face the brunt of that fire vividly raging inside my therapist. I decided to be truthful. Continue reading

One night stand

“Another whiskey sour, please.” She taps the glass, which is almost empty and winks playfully at the young bartender. He grins and blushes as he walks away and her eyes follow his swaying tight posterior.

She sighs. She is on a rehab, de-addiction, and convalescence, what ever you want to call it. And it does not help to be in this bustling bar, bustling with youth, energy, drugs, alcohol and the smell of sex wafting off every bead of sweat that falls to the floor. Her ears twitch at the sound of that minute splash and disintegration of bodily fluid as it collides with the smooth floor. Her tongue slowly rotates the inside of her mouth, wishing, hoping that she could taste the sweat that smelled so much of sex. Continue reading