The other day I went on a date with a writer, you know because I am a writer, and I do have this weird notion that writers are good in bed.
I connected with him on Facebook. He sent me a friend request and I read his poetry where he pushes the books off the desk and his woman shatters the glasses kept on the study table, they throw away the clothes scattered on the clothes line and clean the bed off all pillows.
And then in clutter free room they make passionate love.
Well, if that weren’t an indication of his raging, intense libido, nothing would be.
We chatted; I told him that he writes well.
He replied, “Once written I don’t own it. Your eyes and soul make it beautiful.”
I smiled because even with a writer, you need to wade through a ton of bullshit before you can have an actual conversation.
And then he ‘opined’ the ‘postulate’ that since we were in the same city, we could perhaps meet sometime.
His ‘opining’ and ‘postulation’ wasn’t really necessary because had he not asked, I would’ve suggested a meeting myself.
I had been depraved of a good romp in bed for so long that lately my bidet was my favourite gadget at home. But that didn’t mean I was into one-night stands or friends with benefits. I really needed to get to know the guy well and to be courted, before I even started anything. I am old school like that.
We met at Starbucks, where I walked in a Mango dress carrying my Fendi bag and wearing Aldo shoes.
It did not take much to recognise him there, the only man sitting in a corner furiously typing away.
He was the kind of writer who would buy kurtas from FabIndia and then poke holes in it to fit into the ‘struggling writer’ stereotype; the kind who would carry his Macbook Pro in a jhola and order Pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.
