Who, me?

“Here I am, offering you to take advantage of me in every way possible, and you’re behaving like such a prude. Like, seriously!”

File that under words I never expected to be addressed to me, ever.


Writing is a problem. Once the words are set somewhere, On paper or the ether of the internet, they’re precisely that. Set. What happens then, is that you start thinking about what you’ve set down. If the words are always in your brain, then you don’t have to worry. Because only sometimes will you be able to move 1 step ahead, and rarely three or four. But once you put something down, then it forces you to ask what next. And that, is the hard part. Because it makes you think. And thinking is hard.

The cause for this slight trouble in my usually untroubled mind, is my last post. Kaylin. As soon as I published it, and I was going through it again, I started getting a bit uncomfortable.

It was rather sexist, wasn’t it? It was disrespectful. I’m pretty sure Kaylin doesn’t come to office thinking oh I should wear this dress today because it shows off my ass so well that the guys in my office won’t be able to do any work because they’ll be too busy rushing off to the bathroom to jerk off. She wears it because she’s sexy and she knows it.

Its difficult you know; not impossible but difficult. For even a well-meaning guy to know where the invisible lines of sexism and associated evils start. And especially in a sexually repressed country like ours where each and every woman is fetishised. Does that mean that there are no decent men? All I’m telling you is I haven’t met any. Including myself, and I meet myself often.

This is not a post on self-hate. I am trying to reason out if I was fair in sexualising a colleague. One with whom I have a very comfortable relationship. And one who hasn’t hinted the slightest bit of sexual intimacy. Where does fantasising cross the line? If I imagine her naked? If I jerk off to her at home? If I write an anonymous blog post where no one will ever know whom I’m talking about? She hasn’t asked for any of this, yet I know multiple men must be leching at her. Does she know about all of them? I doubt it. But she must know of some.

Living in this country as a woman is hard, hard work. I’m lucky I’m a man. I don’t think I could’ve survived as a woman.




Working women.

I know you don’t want to be sexualized. That’s not what you’re here for. And I realise that you’ve already realised that I’m going to do it anyway. Apologies.

But not all of you. Just the one.

Two things, before I begin.

One, does a MILF have to be older than you? What if she’s a young mom? Oh lordy, lordy… the possibilities.

Two, there are so many types of working women. The ones who turn up so as to not be at home from 9-5. The ones who just passed out from college. The clinically efficient worker bee. The girl-next-door boss (I had one of these, and they’re the absolute best). And so on and so forth.

And then there are the ones like Kaylin.

Their passion for work, for growth, their ambition burns so hot and so bright that you feel it, just being around them. You don’t even have to be in the same room. Even a conference call will do.

The ambition provides the heat. The capability and intelligence is the seasoning. And the body is the yummy package it all comes in.

Kaylin doesn’t like to lose. Doesn’t like setbacks, temporary or otherwise. Doesn’t like being second best in anything – be it a presentation or a contest for being best-dressed for Diwali. She plays to win. And usually, she does.

When she goes someplace new, she checks out the women at least as hungrily as the men. Surveying the competition.  “That’s what you fuckers look for, unfortunately. And there’s no law against being good-looking. If you’re good-looking and not using it, you’re wasting one of the gifts God gave  you.” Isn’t that a bit cynical, I’ve asked. It is what it is, she says.

She’s fiercely devoted to her child and in a loving, stable relationship with her partner.

I admire the passion. There’s no other way to describe it – it’s their passion to be at the top. To take what they want, because they want it. Possibly the mirror image of my laid-back, take it easy attitude. I cannot imagine being that driven. I’m ashamed to even admit it.

It arouses me. That’s the simplest way to put it.

Seeing this beautiful, statuesque woman, own a room by walking into it, even when she’s not the most senior, by virtue of a fine mind in a finer body, gives me sexual cravings.

I know one, single, unbelievable fact about her, of the naughty type. I can’t tell you but it just blew my mind when she told me about it. How could it be possible?

It’s not a thunderbolt, in the Apolloniac sense. It’s more like my liking for her has increased slowly, and steadily, to such a point that I wish to express it in the best way I can think of, which happens to be sexual.

That sounds so lame, so cheesy, that I shouldn’t even put it up.

To be clear, would I have such feelings if she was 10-12 kgs heavier? God, no.

The combination, it’s always the combination.

It is what it is.


Yeah, No.

What I feel is – Not joy. The absence of happiness. Am I lonely? Am I Depressed?

I always maintained I did not care about money. Do I still? Can I still maintain that? And yet I left a perfectly cozy job – one that had crazy timings, minimum two weekends on the job in a month, shit pay, and unspoken, alluded-to future benefits but satisfaction of a job well done and the ability to speak your mind – for one that is almost the exact opposite. I became a whore – for the money. Paisa phek tamasha dekh. Now that I’ve got it do I feel any better? No. Is my life more comfortable? Not really. Do I have a bigger bank balance and savings? Yes. Shouldn’t that make me happy? I don’t know.

Im no longer a child, and yet I refuse to accept it. Even when I’ve got one of my own.

What am I? I’ve never introspected. I’ve done everything the wrong way around my entire life. Acted too old in childhood, too mature in teenage and now I behave like A child. Did this when I should have done that. And the other way round. Sometimes for years and years.

Joy. Sometime. Please let me feel some joy. Any joy.

Let me not welcome work in the middle of a party so I don’t have to make a pretence of dancing. Or speaking to other people.

I was a flirt who respected women too much when I should have been horny. And now that it’s time to pack it in I’m horny.

I cannot dance freely. I’ve bound myself so much that I’ve locked myself and thrown away the key. I cannot remember the last time I had a decent, witty, interesting conversation with a beautiful girl. I don’t even know how to talk anymore.

Confused confused confused.

What are my priorities? Do I even have any?

A role model? More like a scale model of a human being. The dimensions are ok, and expanding, but something’s off.

Is it too early for a mid life crisis? Or too late? Who knows?

I never know. Anything. I’m never sure. It’s a consequence of knowing that you can’t know everything.

And yet, obliviously confident people thrive. Not an iota of self-doubt.

My ability to hide is diminishing.

And the shittiest part is that I’m not actually lacking for anything. Everything’s fine. It really is. It’s just not joyful.

Only his smile gives me joy. That’s my one and only source of happiness. I treasure each one because nothing else gives me what that does.

I want to be strong for him. Please let me be.

Bollywood Musings

Just a few random notes that have been on my mind forever for your Monday morning.
1. I’ve never ever gotten a ‘sexy’ vibe off Shraddha Kapoor. I mean, she’s got a bangin’ bod but she just looks like she wouldn’t know anything once you actually get into bed and then you have to kind of do all the work on your own and it just gets awkward you know. And you finish and she doesn’t and you know she hasn’t but she says she has and you just take it at face value and clean up and leave. You both end up miserable and never call each other again and when you meet it public it’s just the worst. Yeah, that one.
2. You know who’d be the best? Asin. I’m 100% sure of this. Besides the fact that’s she’s a Mallu, girl looks like she’d be a freakin’ storm in the sheets. Just look up any random pic. Do it. She knows exactly what the fuck she wants and how the fuck she wants it and how long she wants it for. Only trouble is you gotta be up to that level man. Freshers need not apply. Don’t disappoint her man.
3. Funnest? Alia. You’d both enjoy, there’d be laughs and giggles. She’d have a couple of tricks up her tongue, it’d just be a great time for everyone involved. As I said, fun times.
4. Aishwarya, man. For the 3 days a year she drops the Ice Queen routine, there’s not a woman in the country who comes close.


Anyone else you’d want? Besides everyone, of course.

Acquaintances.  Rather, the elder one is. I don’t even know the younger one.

6 years or so? That’s how long I know them. Or of them.

I was in the elder one’s league once. There or thereabouts. We started playing different games, after a while. Leagues never crossed again.

She was pretty, all angular lines. Not the curvy type. Sharp. Eyes, chin, cheeks. Hips.

Younger one was a kid.

Time passes.

Happened upon them now. She’s still pretty but time comes for her. In the slightest of ways.

The lines aren’t as sharp. Hint of a smudge in her eyes. Slightest of curves in the cheeks. Hips just outside the margins. Loss of definition.

The younger one has grown. I’m an old relic for her. All lines, like what her sister was.

All will come… in time.

The Perfect Bhabhi

Good News, everyone,  I found the perfect Bhabhi!

Before I unveil who she is, let me take a moment, on this auspicious Mahashivratri day, to explain in a few inadequate words, the concept of Bhabhi.

Who is a Bhabhi? 

A Bhabhi (always with a capital ‘B’) is a near-mythical creature existing in the minds of several Indian men of a certain age group, almost always associated with a curious mix of respectfulness and seductiveness. 

The concept of Bhabhi springs from the eternal human longing for incest, a longing certainly undiminished by the peculiar Indian cultural response towards anything sexual.

Who are the women closest to a typical horny young male? Mother, sisters, assorted cousins, and bhabhis. Now, every guy has his Bhabhi, from this group of bhabhis. The first three related by blood, but the Bhabhi? Someone from the outside, related only by marriage. Not very much older to you, but still not nearly as young as you. A Bhabhi is ‘safe’.

A Bhabhi is real, someone you can touch. Someone, whom you know has experience touching another man in his special place, in special ways. Someone who has been touched too, and not gently, you presume. You even hear them, sometimes.

However,  The Bhabhi, in this scenario, is unsatisfied, or not satisfied enough with her sex life. While everything on the surface might be going swimmingly well, whether she’s married to the most average guy in the city or the richest/handsomest dude in town, there are deep cravings within her that need to be satisfied. And fortunately for everyone, you have been given this special insight into this burden she bears, and you alone can bear it in the most manly way possible. (Sidebar: This was also why the Savita Bhabhi comics worked so brilliantly. They captured the essence of the Bhabhi in the body of a supermodel.)

Even more importantly – The Bhabhi, on her part, understands what your needs are, and considers it a part of her duties to relieve you. No matter if she feels guilty about it, no matter if that’s not what she knows is the right thing to do. If she’s going to be a part of this family, then goddammit, everyone’s going to be happy, if she can help it. And help it she can.

This works brilliantly both ways. Both of you, then, can fuck each other’s brains out, out of nothing more than this impersonal, heroic sense of duty.

The Bhabhi, has to be beautiful, but in a cute kind of way, rather than a hot kind of way. Approaching cute women is of course easier for you than approaching hot women. She had slimmed down for her marriage, but the weight’s coming back, and she knows it. Her husband must be a trier. He tries, and tries so hard, but he knows it, and she knows it, that he just doesn’t do it for her. This helps too. Its not really cheating, if the husband doesn’t even belong in the game, is it?

So who is this Bhabhi, who has made me stop looking, because dammit they broke the mould after she climbed out of it?


This lady, from the assorted Crompton Greaves ads.

Now, this is a slightly misleading pic. And this isn’t the ad where I sat, slightly agog, through 20 seconds of stunning  Perfect Bhabhi-ness. For real, I didn’t realize myself what the hell just happened. Only after I settled down for a bit did I realize that I had seen the Perfect-est Bhabhi ever.

That was this ad:

Just look at it! It encapsulates everything perfectly!

When we first see her, she’s thinking “Why’s he buying stuff for the house? He doesn’t know jack about what goes in this house. Has to be related to money, or maybe that nice Sindian guy told him about it. I like that guy, he always treats Mrs. ST so well. And she always looks so goddamned happy in the mornings… I wonder what they get up to?”

Anyways, moving on, she asks him, Have prices fallen so much that YOU have condescended to buy stuff for the house?


This moment – captured above – was when I realized I was onto something very special. You know how? There’s this favorite ratio of mine – Boob Size-to-Stomach Rolls – which is a trademarked ratio, of course, and as soon as I saw this, it just clicked. This is THE ideal BSSR ratio for the Perfect Bhabhi.

And just like that, I was hooked.

Next, in a typical husbandly manoeuvre, he asks her to guess. And she does this:



No one. Also, close-up BSSR.

She blurts out a number. It doesn’t matter what it is. From the time it takes her to give that look, to the time of her first guess, she realizes – at least he’s done this. At least he’s gotten some thing for this house, this room, which we share. Something where I did not need to nag him for days.

Against all her best instincts, her hopes begin to rise.

She’s almost… happy?


Before the inevitable, crushing realization. He’s just got one – for himself, for his side of the bed.

She pretends to laugh, and bends forward, so he cannot see her eyes.


And her clueless husband smiles, maybe even congratulating himself.


But you know… And I know. The truth cannot hide.

Come Bhabhi, come. Let us perform our respective duties, and let us not dither.



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