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Shakespearean

“Better Three Hours Too Soon Than a Minute Too Late.” – William Shakespeare

Came across this quote a while back. While in sure there’s something seriously NSFW hidden in it somewhere, I’m not able to pinpoint it exactly.

Is it premature ejaculation or is it on impregnation?

I leave it here for general discussion.

For the way things were, the things that were. Now, I don’t even remember those things, I just remember the ache I used to get when I used to miss those things, those ways.

I haven’t been good at letting go.

Just once more, just the once.

That flutter in my heart, the tightening of breath.

But I know it’ll never stop. If I get it once, I’ll want it again. Or I’ll want the fantasy version of what I know I shouldn’t want.

The ache has gone, the memory remains.

Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.

Rust

How do you invigorate yourself when you have so fully sunk into inertia?

I feel I have forgotten to talk, forgotten to chat, forgotten to flirt, forgotten to write.

Inertia leads to regression. Hopelessness, when you know you will take years to reach where you were a few years ago.

How do you fight that?

How do you not give up?

Arise, awaken, but how?

Growth is so painful, staying here even more so.

Weep for the years lost, yet know that I will weep more for the years to come.

Guide me, teach me.

For God’s sake, inspire me.

Frequency?

So, after a rather nice night (cough, cough) a few nights ago, me and the Mrs. were wondering – how often do married couples have sex anyway?

Reason being – we’ve been monitoring the situation (as it were) for the last few months, and things are very unsatisfactory. I mean, even more unsatisfactory than what we’d suspected it would be. The frequency, that is. Not the nice times. They’re still nice. You get my point.

Well, apparently women don’t discuss sex as much as we think they do, or they discuss something else altogether – but not the frequency, apparently. So we decided to drop the topic for the moment – because who can we ask anyway? None of our friends, that’s for sure.

Well, why not here? So tell me, lovely readers…

How often do you have sex in a month?

Weakness

I hate it so much. It happens all the time to me and I hate it.

I try to fight it again and again and I always lose and I end up feeling disgusted with myself every single time.

It cheapens me, it decreases my value – sometimes in front of others, mostly in my own eyes.

As with a lot of other shit in my life, it has to do with women.

Like a lot of men, I prefer texting women. Sometimes, those women do not text back. If they are good looking and/or young, I get butthurt. When they do reply, which could be weeks or months later, instead of  maintaining some shred of dignity, I prostitute myself to them. And this happens again, and again, and again.

I am being shameless enough to admit this. In fact, some of you here might be aware of this; some may have realised it on their own. (Except you, Ponni. You’re the purest relationship I’ve had the misfortune to not have.)

A cousin, close to me in some ways, incredibly distant in others, decades ago, described me almost perfectly in a single word – ‘Chootbhagat’. It was meant to as be derogatory then as it is now, and yet I cannot but regret how prescient his description has been. I was one then, I am one now.

Knowing it, acknowledging it, does not make me a better man. Not acting on it does not make me a better man. I do not expect sympathy, nor do I deserve it.

I want to not be hurt. I know the answer – (a) be so good that the women don’t have a choice but to come to you or (b) hunt in your own league – fat, and getting older. Where’s the fun in that, amirite?

want to be a better man, and slowly I am falling into the conclusion that I am, in fact, not a good man at all. I’m a fucking middle aged man! This whole post is ridiculous – I am not a teenage girl for fuck’s sake. I should just get some whores and be done with this. If you know any high end ones, drop me a line.

Else Fuck off.

D – Disheveled

Disheveled.

Sometimes, some words stick. I mean, I know this word. Never used it in a conversation but yeah, I know it. And one morning, while I’m still trying to run the sleep out of my eyes, it comes to me. Maybe I dreamt of something, I don’t know. And it sticks, and it doesn’t go away. One day, two days, a week. It stays in my mind.

Is it because that’s how our life is? It’s not perfect, it’s not a straight line, it’s not a jog around the park. It’s messy, and untidy and altogether so grown up.

And maybe, why it doesn’t go is because that’s how the sex is.

Tell me, if it’s more than one, but less than two, is it plural?

We’ve been sex-ing for decades, then. Not making love, for all of it. Not fucking, for lot of it. But sex-ing, yes.

Our bed is disheveled. It starts from there. When was the last time we had sex on a made-up bed? When the door of the suite opened up to our honeymoon bed, probably. You’re tidier, but I’m messy. Messy wins, most of the time. And the pillows won’t align. And the mattress is so heavy, we can’t tuck the bedsheets in. Disheveled bed.

Clothes. We look worse than some of the peons in our respective organizations, and we know it and we can’t be bothered to change. It’s become ridiculous, now. And we take those same clothes off, now. Or we don’t. Nowadays, we don’t even need naked.

I love crumpling your clothes. Squeezing your breasts through a top, a slip, a bra. And the clothes, they crumple. All ironing is lost. And our pants are down on the floor, always. I don’t know how, they never remain on the bed, do they? And shirts, they crumple.

I seem to be getting warmer. I really do feel so. Why did it stick? Disheveled?

My beard. Unkempt for a month. No time, no time. No desire. It mimics my hair, curls away at all places. Errant strings move out of place, a cacophony of chaos.

And I’m down between your legs, and my beard is disheveled.  And so is your bush.  Unkempt, grown. No time, no time, no time to shave. You or me.

Pussy juice, pussy juice. So sweet, it sticks, on a beard, so wet it drips. And spreads all around your pussy, and I drink. No, I lick. My tongues. One, many, each hair of mine. Been so long, no time, no time.

And I spread it on your breasts, as I slobber on them. Only to suck it all in again.

And your hair’s all spread out now, and it’s disheveled. It comes on your face and you slap it back and I bury my head in it when I’m on top, and it falls on me when you’re on top, and it doesn’t matter what parlour you’ve been to, because it’s all over now.

Isn’t it tidiest when I cum? You cum, I hope you do. You don’t squirt. When I cum in you, it’s tidy. Nothing leaks out, usually. When you swallow, it’s tidier. Inside the condom, tidy. Neat little endings, bar the sweat. Lick, lick.

And as I wake to more happy mornings daily, now I know why it sticks. Disheveled, our life, my cock, your pussy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Love.

 

Permission

He gazed in wonder, as revelations he had asked for, hoped for, craved for, gazed back at him.

Not only him, but the world at large. There for anyone’s taking.

Ever the gentleman, he couldn’t do it, not even then.

‘Madam, do I have your permission to masturbate?’

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