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Archive for the ‘Beautiful Women’ Category

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.

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

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Lays

I seem to keep coming back, like a mild, not-very-unpleasant rash, don’t I?

I miss the attention, to be honest.

But that’s really not why I’m here today. Or maybe I am, how does it matter?

No, why I’m here is because yesterday, I was speaking to this amazingly sexy, sexual lady with whom I’d unabashedly agree for intercourse if we were in the same city. Now that was yesterday evening pre-conversation. Post-conversation, I ended up hoping that doesn’t happen for the next decade (?) or so. Why? Because during the conversation, I found out that if currently I were to somehow make it into her bed, I’d be classified as a ‘Bad Lay’ as defined by the amount of time I can last within her. And a ‘Good Lay’ would be someone who can last INSIDE her, thrusting, for 30+ minutes. I’m sorry, but right now, there’s just no way I can do that. Oh, and there was a ‘Moderate Lay’ in between too, in case you were wondering.

I’ve always, ALWAYS wanted to know this: how long must a fuck last to be called, you know, average? While I’d never underestimate the power of a common man, I’m not partial to overestimation either. I’m not talking God-level fucks. I’m not talking fucks to drive the woman insane with cum shooting out of her ears. I’m talking a normal fuck, just to make her orgasm. And please, spare me the spiel about lasting long enough to please the woman, as long as she orgasms who cares etc. etc. I know the party line, people. I am still me.

So, how long do you last?

And of course, ladies, I would never forget you.

This is juvenile, yes? Even as I write this, I’m aware of the sheer juvenility (is that a word?) of it. And yet, I cannot be able to let it go. And since the internet is kind of a free place (as of now) (for me) to let out this juvenility, I proceed. Not that I expect much of a response. The last two polls didn’t exactly set the world on fire, did they?

We shall speak more in the comments, and of course, via emails, if anyone is so inclined.

Stay beautiful, people.

 

P.S.: Its now that its gone that I realize the utter liberation that anonymity gives you. There’s a low single-digit number of people that know me for both who I am here and who I am IRL, and before posting I still gave it a thought, will they laugh at me? Will it be embarrassing? It is what it is…

P.P.S.: I read somewhere, ‘Love like you’re 80, Fuck like you’re 18’. I wouldn’t advise that. If I fucked like I was 18, I might not even have been within the parameters of this poll, if you know what I’m saying. Fuck like you’re 25-27 would be good enough, no?

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But I’ve held this post inside me for more than a month now and I have finally succumbed to the temptation of putting it out here.

Attention: This post is to officially declare the end of ‘The Era of Emmanuelle’ as the Hottest Woman in The Sindian World and to congratulate her on a truly spectacular run.  Thank you for the memories, Ms. Chriqui.

Further, this post also anoints her successor, Ms. Nazanin Boniadi as the New Hottest Woman in The Sindian World. This post would also like to humbly submit that Ms. Boniadi should appoint a new agent because (a) she does not seem to be in nearly as many movies/roles as she should be and more importantly (b) she does not seem to be in nearly as many movies/roles that require her to lose her clothes as she should be.

And yes, I do have a thing for women of Middle Eastern descent with distinct accents, preferably English… Why do you ask?

No long-drawn out gyaan here. Enjoy…

Oh, and Ta.

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And there I was, making my way home after yet another pleasant day at the office, in the cool innards of the AC bus, standing in its narrow aisle, on the left hand side where there are no “handle-type-things-you-hold-while-standing-in-the-bus” things, precariously subjecting my sadly-undeveloped biceps (and highly evolved armpits) to scrutiny from the lady (and her male friend) sitting cozily next to me (and showing no intentions of getting down, or going down, from the bus or on anyone), when I saw this:

I was angered. Angry. Not apoplectic, but that flash of anger when simmering disappointments are united by a singular event. The sort of anger that erupts and then lays down over that layer of disappointment and mates to form a bastardized blog post that will change absolutely nothing.

What’s the problem you ask? Lok at the fucking actress. That’s Genelia “Ex-Boobilicious” D’Souza, hereafter referred to as G’EB’D, whose movie “Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na” made a lasting impact on me in that I realized that Amisha Patel, if she’d been thinner could have been far more awesome than she is. Or was. I digress. I loved her in that movie, her boobs, her cute chubbiness (applies to Amisha, Ex-Genelia and The Takia), and the fact that she wasn’t stick-fucking-thin.

And now? She’s reed thin, her arms seem thinner than mine, her face homogenized so much that I had trouble differentiating her from Shenaz Treasurywala (not a compliment, believe me)  and more fuckin’ importantly, WHERE DID HER FUCKING BOOBS GO? I groaned. I actually groaned. Yet another one lost to the myth of flat abs and toned bodies. She’d slimmed down considerably and for WHAT? She’s down half-a-bra size for sure. Maybe she isn’t. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I’m exaggerating. I don’t fucking care.

I have so many issues with this.

G’EB’D had a great figure. GREAT. She was FRESH. Beautiful woman walking on the street looking fucking hot figure. Her thighs were just right, her curls/bangs/hair was fuckin’ A, she had a killer smile and an ass with potential. And BOOBS. Fucking grade-A boobs. Non-model boobs served up on a generous platter of skin. And some mother-fucker in a gym in Lokhandwala or an agent who couldn’t climb a flight of stairs to fuck Irina if she was asking for it, probably tells her, “Baby, aaj kal full fitness ka style hai. Apne ko flat stomach aur lean look rakhneka. Kya hai na, aaj kal ye sab toned bodies ka style chalrela hai na, toh apun kahe ko peeche rehneka?”

Bhenchod rehne ka. Ayesha Takia ko dekha Wanted mein? She looked like an overgrown blue whale but it didn’t fucking matter because she has, had and probably will always have the BOOBS.

Or maybe the film ‘asked’ for this kind of look. Don’t make me puke. Or maybe she decided she wanted to go this way. Now you’re just making me sad.

Let’s face it, you’re not much of an actor. Or actress. Why would you actively try to reduce what is effectively one of the few assets you have? And (this is important) you were beautiful enough as it is. Why, why, why the weight loss?

I am against this standardization of looks. Who to blame? Kareena Kapoor for her size-zero obsession? She was probably one of the few heroines in BWood who looked better with her clothes on than without. I suspect ‘Hungama’ ‘Hulchul’ had something to do with her weight obsession. Anyone with half-a-functioning eye could have seen how uncomfortably fat she’d gotten.

Or Katrina? She was always on the chubbier side. How did it fucking matter? Then she went all Sheela ki Jawani on us. Fuck, bitches please. Realize Malaika is one of a kind. Don’t go around imitating her for chrissakes. The new generation of starts are effectively out Malaika-ing Malaika. Damn you Chaiyya Chaiyya.

Coming back to G’EB’D, that GAP t-shirt. Do you realize how much you would have rocked the scene if you know, you only had your original set of boobs?

[John, WTF is up with those girls doing Bharatnatyam in the background? Seriously, WTF?]

Which leads me to the sex scene. Or song. Whatever, I don’t care.

First, you looked nervous enough ON SCREEN to lead me to believe that the scene entails you losing your virginity in the shower. Bad move, director, bad move. First standard mein you give baccha 12th ka paper toh she will fucking pass or what?

Second, the bed scene. I don’t blame you. Its the template on which every fucking mainstream Bwood sex scene is built. Lay the girl down gently. Kiss, real or implied. Some ‘deep’ staring into the eyes. A bit of foreplay (mostly neck, stomach if Hashmi is involved). Penetration (always implied). Want to really rock the boat? Show the girl on top (for a bit, sometimes for the climax). Hey assholes, heard of oral sex? Or fuck it, even SEX?

[In this context, I MUST MUST MUST recommend the oral sex scene from Chhatrak. Paoli Dam, I doff my hat to you. My penis sends its regards too.]

I am ranting. I usually don’t. In fact, I’ve considerably calmed since I started writing.

Guess the South Indian in me really rears up sometimes eh?

Sigh. Et tu, Genelia?

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Yes, Hina Rabbani Khar, she of the perfect jawline, incredible features, glowering sultry looks, fashionable sunglasses, Birkin bags and perfectly coiffured salwar-suits, came and went. This isn’t about her.

This is about another Pakistani lady whom I happened to see via my other new love, Coke Studio. Her name is Meesha Shafi, and she’s the most sensual being I’ve seen for some time now, angular face, flaming lips, sapling-like arms, thin waist and all. Naturally, the question arises, Why?

I’m going to ask you to read this, before you go clicking on the link I’ve given below. Its one of my more-liked songs on CS, “Alif Allah” sung by Arif Lohar, accompanied by Meesha. When we see Meesha first, she’s just warming up, singing “ae we allah waaliyaan di jugni ji  (indeed, this is the Godly Ones’ Spirit-being)”, a humming, so to speak with minimal movements of her body, testing the waters of where the song would go. We also see a close-up of her face, eyes shut, immersing herself, getting the grooves right, synchronizing with the instruments, not letting it all out, holding some things back in.

And so on,

“ae we nabi paak di jugni ji (indeed, this is the Holy Prophet’s Spirit-being);

ae we maula ali waali jugni ji (indeed, this is the Spirit-being devoted to Ali, the Friend of God)

ae we mere peer di jugni ji (indeed, this is my Pir’s Spirit-being)

ae we sar-sabaz di jugni ji (indeed, this is the long-living Pir’s Spirit-being)”

All lines repeated twice, and by the end of the chorus, she’s into the song. She’s tested the waters, found it cold enough for her liking and now she’s wading in. The shoulders start rocking, back and forth and sideways, and the movements proceed to her legs, which don’t move but instead transmit it back to her shoulders which rock even more. All this, almost imperceptibly, through her waist and her bosom which is hidden and yet not. I’d wager she knows belly dancing. Or has studied it for a part somewhere, but she knows the basics. The trick in the movements of the waist lies in the legs, and in not moving them, which she executes to perfection here.

Moving on, at “dum gutkoon”, when the camera moves in for a close-up of her face, blood flows, and you know where. I am sure she never intended it to be a blowjob-face, but there’s nothing else I can think of for those few precious seconds.

The song is moving along nicely now, both singers have gotten into the groove completely and along with the orchestra, are making wonderful music. For the next couple of minutes, its a wonderful interplay between Arif and Meesha. Meesha moves, sideways and back and forth and with her eyes closed, singing, moving her lips. Now, I’m going to ask you to imagine. Meesha keeps her left hand on the microphone all the time and with her right hand, counts the beats or whatever it is that she does. Imagine the mic to be your cock and her fingers tapping on your balls. For the next few minutes, as she moves ever so closer, and then away and back to the front again, her mouth so tantalizingly close to your dick, it is as perfect an imaginary blowjob that I’d ever like to receive. Also, she never stops moving her body, you see, adding an element of urgency to the act.

At the 4:00 minute mark is one of my favorite parts of the song. Meesha breaks into a dazzling smile at Arif (there’s one more at 6:30), and this part is pivotal. Arif is a jolly good singer, but for me he’s just an add-on. His performance, for me, is like that of the clowns at a circus before the lion-tamer comes in to close the show. Except that here its a lioness and she’s not into the taming bit. Maybe, to put it a tad more generously and accurately, Arif’s the Santa Claus who’s given me the present of Meesha.

Just after that there’s a segment which, if you’re not into the whole blowjob thing yet, leaves you no option but to enter into it. Her actions are so exaggerated, so in your face (or on your cock, if you’d prefer) that its pretty hard for me to see this part without actually, you know, getting hard. But that’s just me, of course. Especially the places where she goes “Koiiii…”. And at 4:39, there’s a cocky smile which makes my heart skip a beat, every single time.

The best thing about the song (and when I say the song, I mean the song as well as Meesha’s performance in it, which for me are two separate yet interconnected things) is how well it flows and similarity to really good sex. Begins slowly, with the foreplay, gets into a good gear where everyone’s having fun and really enjoying it,  some girls looking on wanting to be in the middle of the action, a man who knows his craft, a woman who’s slutty yet sexy (and really flexible), lots of movement, slight changes in tempo for some spice, and to establish a base for the final push ahead, and then the final frantic rush, faster, faster and climax. Phew.

(Psst, go to this link, and see the BTS video of Alif Allah to catch a glimpse of Meesha in the most adorable glasses.)

However, for an unadulterated dose of Meesha’s sensuality,one must look further to the other song that she performed with CS, “Chori Chori”. This one has everything, the grind, the mic-holding (or cock-holding), the exaggerated red lipstick, the crooning voice and an overcast cloud of sexual tension. Enjoy!

One of the best pictures of Meesha I’ve found is this:

The almost-closed eyes, the half-smile, the sense of completion that comes from the pic, everything reminds me of post-coital bliss. Aahh, the joys of a great imagination, I tell you…

I hope you enjoyed listening and watching her as much as I did, in the way that I do. She is a complete sensual experience in herself.

I must end with the oft-asked question: Are there no non-beautiful women in Pakistan?

Look at that damn ridiculous necklace!

 

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