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?’

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

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.

 

 

Kaylin

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.