To a friend who won't be coming to the threesome, on the eve of her poetry reading
Late at night I play a game
its a strange one, I take everyone
who figures between us.. (us being
an extremely broad category)
and google each one
Which one of us is least likely to have
problems getting a US visa?
one of us has disappeared in Iraq
and she's probably undergoing
torture
while I calculate relationships..
hmmm...maybe I'm not feeling that bad for her
There are 4 women and 2 men
but the men are much better known
You and I are not too far behind
but the other women are too young
to know they should figure on google
before they figure on love
and that one is not linked to the other
but without a random part of yourself
scattered through the world, maybe
you can't see the other
side of the night, and you can't laugh
your way through this in hysterical bursts
inside...
Who thought this would cause me trouble
at all? Easy come, easy go...all the way
through. Balcony fucks..but that was
punctuated by sex 'simple and deep, raw
and primal'
What can I say? Thought I had it that way
but then she disappeared after one page
of google, while I stoically wander into
my second page. And the man she left
leaves traces of his soul only on his third
..and the man I’m trying not to leave, has
remixed his words, his work, some of his soul
and meanders into what might be the
thousandth raving page...ok not that far,
but atleast the twenty fifth
You and I trail along, like mediocre beings
but just women, thinking, working..
not willing to be that well known, without
having googled love and found it.
We know better than the two men I would say
though you still can't see what I see
The connoisseur of slugs, in me, and the good omlette in you
doesn't want to give up yet...
Meanwhile pages unfold across this world
seeking all of us, without any one else
knowing, or wondering. Your traces are
examined, photographs found, credit card
details, shopping and cargo information...
and I watch ..I’m tempted to add more names
but on this lonely night, with no other comfort
this is my family and I’m willing
to not invite anyone else...
tonight
(from January, 2006. My google family has changed a lot now, from that night, from Stop the War to Beirut blogs to Love and Haterade to ...... )
by the way, I begin my goodbyes well in advance of the actual time of departure. So Allah Hafiz, my Amsterdam .... meeri jaan
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
The Google Series: Google Personal Search History
If you ever want to have a good laugh at yourself access your very own Google Search History, which is conveniently coloured in shades of green. Darker on days when you frantically googled every word that flitted through your brain, middish green where you actually worked and googled only relevant stuff, palish green for laconic days, when you only googled because you wanted to book a hostel in some city far away, and off the charts green when you were chatting with someone new and erudite and scholarly (and maybe slightly painful, but you haven't discovered that yet) and you've googled every author, every book, every movie he's mentioned.
To me the first sign that I'm losing interest in someone is if they say something, and I say - what is that, without googling it first. Its also what I do with friends, its easier to just ask them, some of them come with Google Searches in their brains faster than anything I've seen (for e.g. Hope-of-male-species). Hope-of-male-species once led me to Google Fight to help me decide which man I should choose. He said it was probably more reliable than online tarot readings.
Now I'm ashamed to admit, but online tarot readings shows up a lot in my Google Personal Search History (which the government is also watching I'm sure). This is because I refuse to admit that I'm addicted and that I use it to decide almost everything, even whether I should go to the concert in Melkweg or Paradiso. Alternately, I know, I could dump both in Babel Fish and figure out what the fuck is really happening in English and not in Dutch, but online tarot is a "powerful means of understanding complex situations" and gives me an answer that tells me that I am under the influence of a card that signifies Air and is also Five of Science (Division), which means that when faced with the decision of whether to go for Noondlanding(pop) or Crossfader (hiphop), I'm "feeling overwhelmed and unable to focus on the whole problem. Being unable to cut yourself loose. Being mentally hung up. Personal entanglements. Intellectually split. Divided loyalties. Inaction through indecision."
I knew that, goddamit. What I always hope that online tarot will tell me, with an appropriate burst of stars, sudden tinkling music from Moulin Rouge, is you will meet an amazing smart, articulate black man, who will be wearing spectacles and will be able to speak Dutch enough to get you a drink without struggling, but will also speak enough English to get dirty words over the loud music by the middle of the concert, and half an hour after the concert have you hanging on his lips, with hands hooked on his trouser front, in Amsterdam, between Bethaniendwars Straat and Keizergracht Plein...
But Google Search History is a scary invention, if I was scared of being watched (which considering my nationality, history of semi-political work etc. maybe I should be) but I'm guessing the government has bigger fish to fry than to find my search history while in Amsterdam. They are sitting in a room, looking at a print-out of my search history, its neat lists of bondage submission sites, erotic photography sites, anxious porings through sites on bondage going wrong, participation and frentic watching of online polls on what is preferred -shaved, waxed or trimmed, and saying ...tsk tsk...Check this one at the customs for sex toys, just to embarass her.
By the way, I have used online tarot for important life decisions. In retrospect, it was all bad. So ...no more online tarot in my google search. Should I say this, what does the 'Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn' say? Maybe I should do Stichtomancy to find out (I'm not that fucked out that I'll do Bibliomancy now) what I should do... I knew I should have bookmarked that page. Fuck, now I have to google it again..
There was a day when Google sweetly (Google in my mind looks a bit like an aging, balding, sometimes funny like my father, but much more scientific, very very Indian man, with a dark side that does filtering and corporate ass sucking, but is mostly unaware of what the fuck is going on).. anyway (i heart brackets) Google told me... eh...you've visited online tarot reading 56 times, and its only 2:00 in the afternoon. Either he'll come online or not, today, I don't care, but online tarot will loose its essential beautiful random logic that sustains its ability to answer your stupid questions, if you ask the same question so many times.
Online Tarot Readings at www.facade.com
If you have gmail, you can sign into your Google Account and it will give you an option to access your Personal Search History. Alternately you can find a nerd like Hope-of-male-species to tell you how to locate it on your hard drive, you can contact him easily ....he's a pop-up at the end of a long list of men in your life.
To me the first sign that I'm losing interest in someone is if they say something, and I say - what is that, without googling it first. Its also what I do with friends, its easier to just ask them, some of them come with Google Searches in their brains faster than anything I've seen (for e.g. Hope-of-male-species). Hope-of-male-species once led me to Google Fight to help me decide which man I should choose. He said it was probably more reliable than online tarot readings.
Now I'm ashamed to admit, but online tarot readings shows up a lot in my Google Personal Search History (which the government is also watching I'm sure). This is because I refuse to admit that I'm addicted and that I use it to decide almost everything, even whether I should go to the concert in Melkweg or Paradiso. Alternately, I know, I could dump both in Babel Fish and figure out what the fuck is really happening in English and not in Dutch, but online tarot is a "powerful means of understanding complex situations" and gives me an answer that tells me that I am under the influence of a card that signifies Air and is also Five of Science (Division), which means that when faced with the decision of whether to go for Noondlanding(pop) or Crossfader (hiphop), I'm "feeling overwhelmed and unable to focus on the whole problem. Being unable to cut yourself loose. Being mentally hung up. Personal entanglements. Intellectually split. Divided loyalties. Inaction through indecision."
I knew that, goddamit. What I always hope that online tarot will tell me, with an appropriate burst of stars, sudden tinkling music from Moulin Rouge, is you will meet an amazing smart, articulate black man, who will be wearing spectacles and will be able to speak Dutch enough to get you a drink without struggling, but will also speak enough English to get dirty words over the loud music by the middle of the concert, and half an hour after the concert have you hanging on his lips, with hands hooked on his trouser front, in Amsterdam, between Bethaniendwars Straat and Keizergracht Plein...
But Google Search History is a scary invention, if I was scared of being watched (which considering my nationality, history of semi-political work etc. maybe I should be) but I'm guessing the government has bigger fish to fry than to find my search history while in Amsterdam. They are sitting in a room, looking at a print-out of my search history, its neat lists of bondage submission sites, erotic photography sites, anxious porings through sites on bondage going wrong, participation and frentic watching of online polls on what is preferred -shaved, waxed or trimmed, and saying ...tsk tsk...Check this one at the customs for sex toys, just to embarass her.
By the way, I have used online tarot for important life decisions. In retrospect, it was all bad. So ...no more online tarot in my google search. Should I say this, what does the 'Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn' say? Maybe I should do Stichtomancy to find out (I'm not that fucked out that I'll do Bibliomancy now) what I should do... I knew I should have bookmarked that page. Fuck, now I have to google it again..
There was a day when Google sweetly (Google in my mind looks a bit like an aging, balding, sometimes funny like my father, but much more scientific, very very Indian man, with a dark side that does filtering and corporate ass sucking, but is mostly unaware of what the fuck is going on).. anyway (i heart brackets) Google told me... eh...you've visited online tarot reading 56 times, and its only 2:00 in the afternoon. Either he'll come online or not, today, I don't care, but online tarot will loose its essential beautiful random logic that sustains its ability to answer your stupid questions, if you ask the same question so many times.
Online Tarot Readings at www.facade.com
If you have gmail, you can sign into your Google Account and it will give you an option to access your Personal Search History. Alternately you can find a nerd like Hope-of-male-species to tell you how to locate it on your hard drive, you can contact him easily ....he's a pop-up at the end of a long list of men in your life.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Erotica in these troubled times
Codes: rom, sex, het, anal, cliches
A sign hangs outside the old theatre – proclaiming that inside there is a public meeting about human rights and racism. If you peeked inside, you would see the lights are burning on the stage, important persons all sitting in a line behind a table covered with a white cloth. They have an air of boredom and superiority, and also maybe the knowledge that the words that they are going to deliver have lost some of that passion because of repetition…
But right now they are sitting, patiently waiting their turn to rouse the crowds, somehow bringing to mind the words of Dorfman about Che Guevara– that he’s caged in t-shirts, bookmarks, caps but you can still see the passion burning in his eyes.
But there are moments before the speech, when little lesser beings flit around on the stage around the important personages, moments when their real humanity or sheer disregard for actual people around them, show. These are the actual moments in which leaders win followers, in their ordinary moments.
A girl walks around the stage checking all the equipment. She has to check the clip-on mikes, fill each glass in front of each important personage with water, and not knock over ghastly bouquets that each one has got today, because of their eminence. Cynical and mean thoughts flit through her mind, but also the lights glaring at the stage because of the television crew are making her nervous.
She looks at all of them sitting in various poses, at their almost bored calm and wonders about it, how many times will it be before she is like that. Then she figures she would never be one of them anyway, and surely there would be a day when she could adjust mikes, cables, and glasses of water on stage, without getting jittery. That is afterall possible, she thinks.
As she stands behind them, trying to be inconspicuous, one of the speakers turns around and looks at her. He catchers her eye, as if she is a waitress, and she automatically leans forward and asks – Yes Sir, is there something you want?
An involuntary chuckle escapes his lips at her obedient response, and for the first time that day she feels like she is being looked at really, as a person. He says – I’m not sure about my clip-on mike. She frowns, she had just checked it a minute ago. But she had just checked the connections, and maybe it wasn’t on really. Without thinking her hand goes to the small mike, hanging on the open collar of his shirt. Then she remembers that she is on stage, and probably being watched by each member of the audience, and being broadcast on television. She snatches her hand back, and looks at him, pleading with her eyes, that he should take it off and give it to her so she can check it.
He smiles at her, and doesn’t move a finger, and says – maybe you should check it, or is there someone else I should ask. There is a smile in his eyes, and she looks at him, with almost hatred, till she discerns the slightly flirtatious edge to his words, and against all her compunctions, she can feel herself smile. Fuck it, she thinks, as the television crew, the large audience watching fades out from her mind.
She stretches her hand and removes the mike, her hand brushing against the skin of his neck and chest, the hair on his chest briefly curling against her hand. She removes it, and surprisingly calm, checks the object as small as a battery carefully and hands it back to him, and says – it looks fine. She looks at him, and there is outright hilarity in his eyes. She groans inwardly, if this was a party then she would have cursed him for pulling such a stupid stunt, but its not, it’s a crowded event, where many people are here to hear him speak today, and that makes it so thrilling.
She moves to shift back to her usual position of stand-by-in-event-of-technological-emergency behind the tableau of important people sitting, and she feels a hand snake out and hold hers. There is shock in her eyes when she turns back, and then she notes how clever he has been. His hand is not visible to anyone else, even the other speakers cant really turn around and see what he’s doing without it being crassly obvious. He says – So is this what you do?
Slight irritation and nervousness combine, she almost snaps – I studied political science so hard, so I could check mikes. He laughs at that, surprisingly comfortable with her sudden display of cynicism. Then he says – You know, I’m slightly nervous about speaking. She looks at him with surprise and the first words that came out are stupid – You don’t look it at all. You look very ….leader-like.
He laughs – Years of practice. He winces as the lights seem to grow brighter, pushing the audience even further away from being human from this perspective, now they are just a blur, not people wanting, waiting, to hear how their world could be made better.
She looks at him, and suddenly and irrationally warms to him completely, and says – You look like you could use a tissue. He turns and says – That would be nice. She turns around and fishes a tissue out of her bag and gives it to him. Another speaker actually looks at him enviously and then at her – she ignores it thinking, you’re not that good looking or charming, and you weren’t nice to me. His hand stretches to take the tissue from her and then his eyes shift to her face, and he says – Will you wipe my face for me?
She looks at him in shock, especially because just as she was giving the tissue, the thought had flitted through her mind. Her lips parted a bit, and she smiled cautiously – You’re joking, right? He smiled and said – No. His head gestured to the crowd – They won’t think anything is wrong. She thinks to herself, that’s true, they would just think I’m the general dogsbody plus make-up girl for the TV crew.
Her hands shaking a bit, she takes the tissue and wipes off the sweat off his forehead, and is stunned at how aroused this whole thing was making her. She moves back, trying to control her breathing…and is standing quietly trying to control the rush.
And then she hears his voice again and almost groans. Give me time to recover, is all she could think before she could make out what he was saying. She stares at him blankly and he repeats himself, smiling almost broadly – Aroused, aren’t you?
Her black eyes narrow to slits and she just looks before going back to stand. And then she can hear him continue – You know, you look like those cute girls who stand around at the Wimbledon, picking up the tennis balls after bad serves.
Without thinking about who he was, she retorts – Dropped your balls, have you?
He laughs, almost loudly. The nice feminist woman sitting next to him, with her big bindi and cotton sari, turns around to give him a glare, probably merely for emitting such a masculine sound in her vicinity, without shame.
He says – Not exactly dropped, but yes, they figure, I think in this conversation.
She looks at him in surprise. Hadn’t he just told her that he was nervous about speaking, and here he was dropping dirty innuendo with ease, with her. But she smiles, especially because by now Nice-feminist-aunty was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
She giggles, and says – Should I help you find them?
He laughs – You know where you put my balls?
By now she is almost cracking up, and is only holding onto her composure because she is clutching to the mess of cables in her hand. She smiles back at him, and says – I think they probably are back between your legs, I remember them being there last.
He smiles, and his hands shift to the cables of different colour that she’s holding, and he asks – What are those for?
She looks at him, suddenly bereft of dirty talk, she wonders what he is really about and answers cautiously – Those are cables, they are connecting your mikes directly to the camera, that’s why there is no need for one of those strange boom rods hanging over your head, to catch what you’re saying as well.
He looks into her eyes again – Hmmm, that would just make me more nervous. She smiles, she wonders if he’s joking, but while their eyes are locked, she feels he isn’t, and is genuinely looking for something. Without thinking the words slip out of her mouth – You’ll be amazing, don’t worry.
He looks at her and smiles with genuine warmth, and she feels all warm and fuzzy, as if the stage just tilted. And she looks away, focuses her eyes on the now-again-indistinct-audience and says – Now stop making me nervous.
He laughs, and as if reassured of his power now, over women and the world at large, he turns away from her and faces the crowd. She looks at him from behind, the broad shoulders that she would right now probably collapse against. She could see his hands reaching for his glass of water and she imagines them against her skin. She’s shaken out of her sexual reverie, by the startling realization that he is actually engaged in conversation with Nice-feminist-aunty, and is managing to charm her as well. She giggles at that and watches his face, as she is obviously trying with her hand gestures and convoluted prose, to draw Venn diagrams in the air about the intersection of gender, race, caste and sexuality.
She then notices as someone gestures to her from the wings asking her to come off. One of the television crew thinks there is a problem. So she goes off stage, and while she is moving, she looks back at him, and he turns around then as if to check on her, but she isn’t standing there anymore. She expects him to simply turn back to the audience, but he swivels in his chair to check the entire back of the stage. She almost has this desire to retreat into the darkness of the wings, but she forces herself to stand at the edge of the stage, and wait till his eyes find her. He looks at her finally, and she feels suddenly nervous, her mouth dry and suddenly terrified at how powerfully she wanted to fuck just right there and then, she retreats back into the wings.
Her friend is staring at her – What the fuck are you doing with that man? Its all on camera. She looks at him and says – Edit it out. He says – Obviously, why the fuck would the world at large be interested in your random fascinations with older men. She giggles, and they proceed to discuss some technical issues. At the end she asks him – Can I now stay in the wings? Her friend says – You fucking idiot, find your older men online not during work, now go back and just stay there.
She goes back on stage, and stands quietly. Just when his turn to speak comes, he gets up, and briefly when his back is to the audience, faces her, and in that minute before the rest of his life takes him over, manages to smile at her directly and wink. Stunned at the audacity, and trying very hard to not make it look like something happened (because she knew that this could not be edited out) she smothers a laugh, and just smiles at him and claps with everyone else as he approaches the podium at the centre of the stage. He starts speaking and she is surprised by how enraptured she is still with him, the warmth and interest in other people so evidently alive in him still.
She looks at her friend who is standing behind the camera, and is looking at him, obviously impressed as well. His speech gets over and he comes back and sits back in his seat, to resounding applause, much more than for Nice-feminist-aunty. He turns around and gives her a broad grin, obviously more relaxed now that his speech was over. She feels nervous for him, because she knows that that moment might be difficult to edit out, but he’s facing sideways to the camera, so maybe it didn’t catch anything.
He turns back and Nice-feminist-aunty says friendly and admiring things to him obviously, because he looks like he’s thanking her. A brief spurt of jealousy flares inside her, and she wishes she were the one sitting next to him. She wouldn’t be sitting at a careful distance and maybe even behind that white tablecloth be rubbing her feet against his. But immediately he turns back and calls her again, like she’s a waitress.
She walks up to him, and says – Stop saying hey, my name is _____, if you’re going to call me that often, use it. He smiles and says _____, please remove this mike, I don’t want that television crew there to hear what I’m saying to you.
Again her hand goes out, but this time she’s bolder, the camera is not on them, and hopefully nor is the audience’s attention, though she couldn’t be very sure of that. She tries to lift the mike off his shirt, not so mindful this time about brief physical contact, and a lot more nervous this time as she feels him intensely staring at her. Ofcourse the clip-on mike is resisting all her attempts at doing this smoothly, so she actually sinks to her knees also to hide from the glare of the lights and maybe even people, as she tries to press the clasp and release the mike. In the middle she glares at him – Have you done some voodoo to this mike? He laughs and says – Maybe.
She finally presses the clasp and takes it off, and is attempting to move back, wondering if he was going to ask her something cheesy like what she was doing later. But he doesn’t, instead he says – Should I hire you, to do this for me, forever?
She looks at him, stunned, at the directness and obliqueness of the remark. She says – Maybe you should. He says – What would you want in return? She says – But what are you willing to give?
He looks at her directly – One night of pleasure in exchange for a lifetime of service. She smiles and looks back at the wings, at her friend – all signposts of safety that seemed really inviting now. She looks at him again and says – Okay, that seems fair. He looks surprised at her capitulation and then says – I’m not joking either about the one night or the lifetime of service. She says – I get that, I think its fair. Words are slipping out of her mouth, and she no longer knows what is being said to her or by her anymore.
She moves back into her position, profoundly nervous now, and shaking. The other speakers finish in a blur before her eyes and the event ends quite swiftly now. The speakers are given their thank-yous and the audience starts leaving. The speakers are meeting each other and the organizers at a party. As part of the television crew she obviously has no role to play in this whole after-event party, but the people are still milling around, laughing and talking about the event, its possible success, the turnout. She walks around the stage, now devoid of people who are standing around below with glasses of alcohol and cigarettes in their hands, talking. She starts winding up the cables, while the rest of the crew is packing up the rest of the equipment. She winds up the cables and starts putting them into the wings one by one. As she moves off and on the stage, she figures he was joking and hopefully he took her answer also as a joke and not as a serious response, though she herself is not sure what she meant.
She’s thinking about all these things, while she goes into the wings once more to stack the cables. Its now dark there and she feels her way around the stacked up chairs, when she feels suddenly arms around her waist pulling her deeper into the darkness. And a familiar voice, close to her ear, whispering – So this is where you disappear? A shudder fills her, and though the voice is familiar she is not completely sure its him, the place is too dark. But then he laughs, and it sounds familiar. She feels his hand go all over body and is thinking – so fast, almost breathless at the speed. His hands go inside her shirt and are already cupping her breasts, and she hears him groan as both his hands grab and squeeze her breasts. She is stunned at the rush of desire inside her, and moves restlessly against him. She then feels him push her against the wall and her hands reach inside his shirt as well and feel the warmth of his skin against her hands.
His hands meanwhile are busy pulling her skirt upto her waist, and she can feel her knees almost buckle as his hand brushes against her pussy still covered coyly by her panties. He slows down a bit to take her panties off smoothly and with almost no resistance from her. Her hands reach for his belt and he brushes them off. She’s surprised but waits as he adjusts her body so his hand is on her thighs and then around her clit. He says – Hmmmm, so wet. She says – Well, now I’ve been that way for hours. He say – So when did you start getting turned on? She smiles and trying to be clever and flirtatious says – When you walked in. Then he says- No tell me when you really started getting turned on. She took a deep breath – When I realized that you were flirting with me, when everyone was watching you.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could now see details of his face. And he was smiling – So when you thought you were being watched? She looked at him and said – Yeah, maybe. And now, he said, Why are you wet now?
Because we could be caught any minute, because anyone could walk in, could be watching even now.
So what do you want to do for this audience of yours?
Its your audience
No its yours now… what do you want to do for them
I want to cum right now, for them.
And she feels his hands between her legs, now slipping between her lips, and he says into her ear as he does this – Only cum
Maybe fuck, she hears herself say
And his fingers slip into her pussy. She almost groans aloud as it happens. But its muffled because she has buried her mouth against his chest, but he yanks her hair back and her groan escapes a little louder, almost echoing in the high roofed wings. They are in the greenroom and she can see her reflection in the row of glasses and wonders if they have ever seen someone fuck, countless faces coming to be made up and change into other beings, but have they seen someone fuck.
Her hands go around his head, to feel their contours against her fingers. And then her fingers travel down his chest and down to his throbbing cock covered by cloth. She rubs her hand against him, while her eyes peer to watch him. Inspite of obvious responses to her hand, his face reveals nothing. He pushes her against the wall, the skirt is yanked up totally and she feels the rush of cold air against her legs. She hears the almost violent sound of unzipping and feels his cock pressing against her. She holds onto his shoulders as he pushes inside her suddenly. A cry escapes her lips, almost a help and a brief spurt of fear fills her. He pushes deep inside and she feels her back rub against the hard wall. Her legs are almost lifted off the ground and he starts fucking her hard. She whimpers at each thrust and he is almost soundless except that she can see the sweat and the breath coming out harshly from him.
With his cock inside her, he wets his hand with his own saliva and brings it between them to her clit and rolls it between his fingers and slips in and out between the hot flesh bringing her closer and closer to climax, and as she shudders against his fingers in unending climax, she feels his lips on hers to swallow her sounds. Her eyes open, and she can see people from the television crew moving around in the wings. This was far more dangerous for him than for her, she realizes. But her climax is endless and the sounds are difficult to control, but as she shudders what she believes to be her last, his hands go behind her and cup her arse before slipping between her cheeks. She gasps as his fingers play gently with her cheeks before slipping between and then into her slowly while his cock is still inside her. And she can feel his cock grow harder and she moves her body back and forth against it, so she could also feel his finger going in and out.
Again a groan almost escapes her, but this time she bites into his neck. And he gently whispers – Ouch, before she realizes that she must be hurting him. She giggles softly then, and stops biting, and looks at him. He’s smiling now, almost looking like he did outside, charming, distant, and not like his finger is up her arse and his cock is inside her pussy.
He pushes her back against the wall oblivious that the wall must be scraping against his hand and again begins to fuck her. His thrusts get harder and harder, and then sometimes slower as he feels her approach climax again and this time, she practically lifts off the floor as the climax rides through her vagina, anus and her clit and travels upward through her body. Her hands now go around his shoulder, completely surrendering any control over her body to him. And he thrusts inside her again and again, till her shudders complete. Still she feels like she wants more, and he pounds inside her hard, two of his fingers completely buried inside her. She feels him approach his climax and feels a groan forming inside his throat, and covers his mouth with her own, to swallow it. And she feels him release himself inside her, deep. Still shaking against her, he slips his hand out, and she feels immediately bereft of sensation and warmth. But his cock is still inside her, when he looks at her, and with the same hand, pushes back her sweaty hair from her face. She smiles, as she smells their combined smell of her juices and his cum mingling around them.
He slips out of her and stands, while she shakenly pulls down her skirt. And tries to peer in the darkness for her panties. He too is zipping up. And then looks at her, still looking shaken and completely taken, and he pulls out the panties out of his pocket and says – I think I’m going to keep these.
She almost protests at the thought of having to go back home without panties, sitting with the television crew in the cramped bus without panties on, and then thinks about him taking her panties with him and maybe looking at them, unwashed and kept to remind him of her. And then smiles and says – Okay, keep them.
And before he turns away he says – Remember, a lifetime of service. She says – For that, I think you have some more hours of pleasure to give me. He smiles – You’re tough, but it’s a deal. And when its over, a lifetime of service.
A sign hangs outside the old theatre – proclaiming that inside there is a public meeting about human rights and racism. If you peeked inside, you would see the lights are burning on the stage, important persons all sitting in a line behind a table covered with a white cloth. They have an air of boredom and superiority, and also maybe the knowledge that the words that they are going to deliver have lost some of that passion because of repetition…
But right now they are sitting, patiently waiting their turn to rouse the crowds, somehow bringing to mind the words of Dorfman about Che Guevara– that he’s caged in t-shirts, bookmarks, caps but you can still see the passion burning in his eyes.
But there are moments before the speech, when little lesser beings flit around on the stage around the important personages, moments when their real humanity or sheer disregard for actual people around them, show. These are the actual moments in which leaders win followers, in their ordinary moments.
A girl walks around the stage checking all the equipment. She has to check the clip-on mikes, fill each glass in front of each important personage with water, and not knock over ghastly bouquets that each one has got today, because of their eminence. Cynical and mean thoughts flit through her mind, but also the lights glaring at the stage because of the television crew are making her nervous.
She looks at all of them sitting in various poses, at their almost bored calm and wonders about it, how many times will it be before she is like that. Then she figures she would never be one of them anyway, and surely there would be a day when she could adjust mikes, cables, and glasses of water on stage, without getting jittery. That is afterall possible, she thinks.
As she stands behind them, trying to be inconspicuous, one of the speakers turns around and looks at her. He catchers her eye, as if she is a waitress, and she automatically leans forward and asks – Yes Sir, is there something you want?
An involuntary chuckle escapes his lips at her obedient response, and for the first time that day she feels like she is being looked at really, as a person. He says – I’m not sure about my clip-on mike. She frowns, she had just checked it a minute ago. But she had just checked the connections, and maybe it wasn’t on really. Without thinking her hand goes to the small mike, hanging on the open collar of his shirt. Then she remembers that she is on stage, and probably being watched by each member of the audience, and being broadcast on television. She snatches her hand back, and looks at him, pleading with her eyes, that he should take it off and give it to her so she can check it.
He smiles at her, and doesn’t move a finger, and says – maybe you should check it, or is there someone else I should ask. There is a smile in his eyes, and she looks at him, with almost hatred, till she discerns the slightly flirtatious edge to his words, and against all her compunctions, she can feel herself smile. Fuck it, she thinks, as the television crew, the large audience watching fades out from her mind.
She stretches her hand and removes the mike, her hand brushing against the skin of his neck and chest, the hair on his chest briefly curling against her hand. She removes it, and surprisingly calm, checks the object as small as a battery carefully and hands it back to him, and says – it looks fine. She looks at him, and there is outright hilarity in his eyes. She groans inwardly, if this was a party then she would have cursed him for pulling such a stupid stunt, but its not, it’s a crowded event, where many people are here to hear him speak today, and that makes it so thrilling.
She moves to shift back to her usual position of stand-by-in-event-of-technological-emergency behind the tableau of important people sitting, and she feels a hand snake out and hold hers. There is shock in her eyes when she turns back, and then she notes how clever he has been. His hand is not visible to anyone else, even the other speakers cant really turn around and see what he’s doing without it being crassly obvious. He says – So is this what you do?
Slight irritation and nervousness combine, she almost snaps – I studied political science so hard, so I could check mikes. He laughs at that, surprisingly comfortable with her sudden display of cynicism. Then he says – You know, I’m slightly nervous about speaking. She looks at him with surprise and the first words that came out are stupid – You don’t look it at all. You look very ….leader-like.
He laughs – Years of practice. He winces as the lights seem to grow brighter, pushing the audience even further away from being human from this perspective, now they are just a blur, not people wanting, waiting, to hear how their world could be made better.
She looks at him, and suddenly and irrationally warms to him completely, and says – You look like you could use a tissue. He turns and says – That would be nice. She turns around and fishes a tissue out of her bag and gives it to him. Another speaker actually looks at him enviously and then at her – she ignores it thinking, you’re not that good looking or charming, and you weren’t nice to me. His hand stretches to take the tissue from her and then his eyes shift to her face, and he says – Will you wipe my face for me?
She looks at him in shock, especially because just as she was giving the tissue, the thought had flitted through her mind. Her lips parted a bit, and she smiled cautiously – You’re joking, right? He smiled and said – No. His head gestured to the crowd – They won’t think anything is wrong. She thinks to herself, that’s true, they would just think I’m the general dogsbody plus make-up girl for the TV crew.
Her hands shaking a bit, she takes the tissue and wipes off the sweat off his forehead, and is stunned at how aroused this whole thing was making her. She moves back, trying to control her breathing…and is standing quietly trying to control the rush.
And then she hears his voice again and almost groans. Give me time to recover, is all she could think before she could make out what he was saying. She stares at him blankly and he repeats himself, smiling almost broadly – Aroused, aren’t you?
Her black eyes narrow to slits and she just looks before going back to stand. And then she can hear him continue – You know, you look like those cute girls who stand around at the Wimbledon, picking up the tennis balls after bad serves.
Without thinking about who he was, she retorts – Dropped your balls, have you?
He laughs, almost loudly. The nice feminist woman sitting next to him, with her big bindi and cotton sari, turns around to give him a glare, probably merely for emitting such a masculine sound in her vicinity, without shame.
He says – Not exactly dropped, but yes, they figure, I think in this conversation.
She looks at him in surprise. Hadn’t he just told her that he was nervous about speaking, and here he was dropping dirty innuendo with ease, with her. But she smiles, especially because by now Nice-feminist-aunty was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
She giggles, and says – Should I help you find them?
He laughs – You know where you put my balls?
By now she is almost cracking up, and is only holding onto her composure because she is clutching to the mess of cables in her hand. She smiles back at him, and says – I think they probably are back between your legs, I remember them being there last.
He smiles, and his hands shift to the cables of different colour that she’s holding, and he asks – What are those for?
She looks at him, suddenly bereft of dirty talk, she wonders what he is really about and answers cautiously – Those are cables, they are connecting your mikes directly to the camera, that’s why there is no need for one of those strange boom rods hanging over your head, to catch what you’re saying as well.
He looks into her eyes again – Hmmm, that would just make me more nervous. She smiles, she wonders if he’s joking, but while their eyes are locked, she feels he isn’t, and is genuinely looking for something. Without thinking the words slip out of her mouth – You’ll be amazing, don’t worry.
He looks at her and smiles with genuine warmth, and she feels all warm and fuzzy, as if the stage just tilted. And she looks away, focuses her eyes on the now-again-indistinct-audience and says – Now stop making me nervous.
He laughs, and as if reassured of his power now, over women and the world at large, he turns away from her and faces the crowd. She looks at him from behind, the broad shoulders that she would right now probably collapse against. She could see his hands reaching for his glass of water and she imagines them against her skin. She’s shaken out of her sexual reverie, by the startling realization that he is actually engaged in conversation with Nice-feminist-aunty, and is managing to charm her as well. She giggles at that and watches his face, as she is obviously trying with her hand gestures and convoluted prose, to draw Venn diagrams in the air about the intersection of gender, race, caste and sexuality.
She then notices as someone gestures to her from the wings asking her to come off. One of the television crew thinks there is a problem. So she goes off stage, and while she is moving, she looks back at him, and he turns around then as if to check on her, but she isn’t standing there anymore. She expects him to simply turn back to the audience, but he swivels in his chair to check the entire back of the stage. She almost has this desire to retreat into the darkness of the wings, but she forces herself to stand at the edge of the stage, and wait till his eyes find her. He looks at her finally, and she feels suddenly nervous, her mouth dry and suddenly terrified at how powerfully she wanted to fuck just right there and then, she retreats back into the wings.
Her friend is staring at her – What the fuck are you doing with that man? Its all on camera. She looks at him and says – Edit it out. He says – Obviously, why the fuck would the world at large be interested in your random fascinations with older men. She giggles, and they proceed to discuss some technical issues. At the end she asks him – Can I now stay in the wings? Her friend says – You fucking idiot, find your older men online not during work, now go back and just stay there.
She goes back on stage, and stands quietly. Just when his turn to speak comes, he gets up, and briefly when his back is to the audience, faces her, and in that minute before the rest of his life takes him over, manages to smile at her directly and wink. Stunned at the audacity, and trying very hard to not make it look like something happened (because she knew that this could not be edited out) she smothers a laugh, and just smiles at him and claps with everyone else as he approaches the podium at the centre of the stage. He starts speaking and she is surprised by how enraptured she is still with him, the warmth and interest in other people so evidently alive in him still.
She looks at her friend who is standing behind the camera, and is looking at him, obviously impressed as well. His speech gets over and he comes back and sits back in his seat, to resounding applause, much more than for Nice-feminist-aunty. He turns around and gives her a broad grin, obviously more relaxed now that his speech was over. She feels nervous for him, because she knows that that moment might be difficult to edit out, but he’s facing sideways to the camera, so maybe it didn’t catch anything.
He turns back and Nice-feminist-aunty says friendly and admiring things to him obviously, because he looks like he’s thanking her. A brief spurt of jealousy flares inside her, and she wishes she were the one sitting next to him. She wouldn’t be sitting at a careful distance and maybe even behind that white tablecloth be rubbing her feet against his. But immediately he turns back and calls her again, like she’s a waitress.
She walks up to him, and says – Stop saying hey, my name is _____, if you’re going to call me that often, use it. He smiles and says _____, please remove this mike, I don’t want that television crew there to hear what I’m saying to you.
Again her hand goes out, but this time she’s bolder, the camera is not on them, and hopefully nor is the audience’s attention, though she couldn’t be very sure of that. She tries to lift the mike off his shirt, not so mindful this time about brief physical contact, and a lot more nervous this time as she feels him intensely staring at her. Ofcourse the clip-on mike is resisting all her attempts at doing this smoothly, so she actually sinks to her knees also to hide from the glare of the lights and maybe even people, as she tries to press the clasp and release the mike. In the middle she glares at him – Have you done some voodoo to this mike? He laughs and says – Maybe.
She finally presses the clasp and takes it off, and is attempting to move back, wondering if he was going to ask her something cheesy like what she was doing later. But he doesn’t, instead he says – Should I hire you, to do this for me, forever?
She looks at him, stunned, at the directness and obliqueness of the remark. She says – Maybe you should. He says – What would you want in return? She says – But what are you willing to give?
He looks at her directly – One night of pleasure in exchange for a lifetime of service. She smiles and looks back at the wings, at her friend – all signposts of safety that seemed really inviting now. She looks at him again and says – Okay, that seems fair. He looks surprised at her capitulation and then says – I’m not joking either about the one night or the lifetime of service. She says – I get that, I think its fair. Words are slipping out of her mouth, and she no longer knows what is being said to her or by her anymore.
She moves back into her position, profoundly nervous now, and shaking. The other speakers finish in a blur before her eyes and the event ends quite swiftly now. The speakers are given their thank-yous and the audience starts leaving. The speakers are meeting each other and the organizers at a party. As part of the television crew she obviously has no role to play in this whole after-event party, but the people are still milling around, laughing and talking about the event, its possible success, the turnout. She walks around the stage, now devoid of people who are standing around below with glasses of alcohol and cigarettes in their hands, talking. She starts winding up the cables, while the rest of the crew is packing up the rest of the equipment. She winds up the cables and starts putting them into the wings one by one. As she moves off and on the stage, she figures he was joking and hopefully he took her answer also as a joke and not as a serious response, though she herself is not sure what she meant.
She’s thinking about all these things, while she goes into the wings once more to stack the cables. Its now dark there and she feels her way around the stacked up chairs, when she feels suddenly arms around her waist pulling her deeper into the darkness. And a familiar voice, close to her ear, whispering – So this is where you disappear? A shudder fills her, and though the voice is familiar she is not completely sure its him, the place is too dark. But then he laughs, and it sounds familiar. She feels his hand go all over body and is thinking – so fast, almost breathless at the speed. His hands go inside her shirt and are already cupping her breasts, and she hears him groan as both his hands grab and squeeze her breasts. She is stunned at the rush of desire inside her, and moves restlessly against him. She then feels him push her against the wall and her hands reach inside his shirt as well and feel the warmth of his skin against her hands.
His hands meanwhile are busy pulling her skirt upto her waist, and she can feel her knees almost buckle as his hand brushes against her pussy still covered coyly by her panties. He slows down a bit to take her panties off smoothly and with almost no resistance from her. Her hands reach for his belt and he brushes them off. She’s surprised but waits as he adjusts her body so his hand is on her thighs and then around her clit. He says – Hmmmm, so wet. She says – Well, now I’ve been that way for hours. He say – So when did you start getting turned on? She smiles and trying to be clever and flirtatious says – When you walked in. Then he says- No tell me when you really started getting turned on. She took a deep breath – When I realized that you were flirting with me, when everyone was watching you.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could now see details of his face. And he was smiling – So when you thought you were being watched? She looked at him and said – Yeah, maybe. And now, he said, Why are you wet now?
Because we could be caught any minute, because anyone could walk in, could be watching even now.
So what do you want to do for this audience of yours?
Its your audience
No its yours now… what do you want to do for them
I want to cum right now, for them.
And she feels his hands between her legs, now slipping between her lips, and he says into her ear as he does this – Only cum
Maybe fuck, she hears herself say
And his fingers slip into her pussy. She almost groans aloud as it happens. But its muffled because she has buried her mouth against his chest, but he yanks her hair back and her groan escapes a little louder, almost echoing in the high roofed wings. They are in the greenroom and she can see her reflection in the row of glasses and wonders if they have ever seen someone fuck, countless faces coming to be made up and change into other beings, but have they seen someone fuck.
Her hands go around his head, to feel their contours against her fingers. And then her fingers travel down his chest and down to his throbbing cock covered by cloth. She rubs her hand against him, while her eyes peer to watch him. Inspite of obvious responses to her hand, his face reveals nothing. He pushes her against the wall, the skirt is yanked up totally and she feels the rush of cold air against her legs. She hears the almost violent sound of unzipping and feels his cock pressing against her. She holds onto his shoulders as he pushes inside her suddenly. A cry escapes her lips, almost a help and a brief spurt of fear fills her. He pushes deep inside and she feels her back rub against the hard wall. Her legs are almost lifted off the ground and he starts fucking her hard. She whimpers at each thrust and he is almost soundless except that she can see the sweat and the breath coming out harshly from him.
With his cock inside her, he wets his hand with his own saliva and brings it between them to her clit and rolls it between his fingers and slips in and out between the hot flesh bringing her closer and closer to climax, and as she shudders against his fingers in unending climax, she feels his lips on hers to swallow her sounds. Her eyes open, and she can see people from the television crew moving around in the wings. This was far more dangerous for him than for her, she realizes. But her climax is endless and the sounds are difficult to control, but as she shudders what she believes to be her last, his hands go behind her and cup her arse before slipping between her cheeks. She gasps as his fingers play gently with her cheeks before slipping between and then into her slowly while his cock is still inside her. And she can feel his cock grow harder and she moves her body back and forth against it, so she could also feel his finger going in and out.
Again a groan almost escapes her, but this time she bites into his neck. And he gently whispers – Ouch, before she realizes that she must be hurting him. She giggles softly then, and stops biting, and looks at him. He’s smiling now, almost looking like he did outside, charming, distant, and not like his finger is up her arse and his cock is inside her pussy.
He pushes her back against the wall oblivious that the wall must be scraping against his hand and again begins to fuck her. His thrusts get harder and harder, and then sometimes slower as he feels her approach climax again and this time, she practically lifts off the floor as the climax rides through her vagina, anus and her clit and travels upward through her body. Her hands now go around his shoulder, completely surrendering any control over her body to him. And he thrusts inside her again and again, till her shudders complete. Still she feels like she wants more, and he pounds inside her hard, two of his fingers completely buried inside her. She feels him approach his climax and feels a groan forming inside his throat, and covers his mouth with her own, to swallow it. And she feels him release himself inside her, deep. Still shaking against her, he slips his hand out, and she feels immediately bereft of sensation and warmth. But his cock is still inside her, when he looks at her, and with the same hand, pushes back her sweaty hair from her face. She smiles, as she smells their combined smell of her juices and his cum mingling around them.
He slips out of her and stands, while she shakenly pulls down her skirt. And tries to peer in the darkness for her panties. He too is zipping up. And then looks at her, still looking shaken and completely taken, and he pulls out the panties out of his pocket and says – I think I’m going to keep these.
She almost protests at the thought of having to go back home without panties, sitting with the television crew in the cramped bus without panties on, and then thinks about him taking her panties with him and maybe looking at them, unwashed and kept to remind him of her. And then smiles and says – Okay, keep them.
And before he turns away he says – Remember, a lifetime of service. She says – For that, I think you have some more hours of pleasure to give me. He smiles – You’re tough, but it’s a deal. And when its over, a lifetime of service.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Sweet Dreams are made of Internet Mixed Up Chat Windows and Cheese
To The Barmaid (at http://loveandhaterade.typepad.com)
Romances that live partly in your inbox and in your imagination are definitely 2005. Possibly I carried a few into 2006, but the penny is dropping. But I want to tell a story about a friend of mine, very much like you, belonging to a category that I like to call - the Writing Woman. Even I write, I guess...but its different from the Writing Woman, the Writing Woman writes to her lovers, to her friends, to her parents, to everything and everyone in sight, and she talks about her writing. (I hide in a corner of the world wide web in a secret blog, that I take pleasure at looking at myself like I just stumbled on it).
Well, so she writes, and she says that she's been on the dating rollercoaster, little wheel for the mice to run in, and any other unending analogy that one can come up with, for now 3 years. So she's pissed, she's tired; she had an amazing first date with someone, who never quite came back with the same intensity.
And let me tell you, to date in a dateless world like India, is a little tough. I'm sure that there are people even here, who actually date, with all the little rules about phone-calls and walk-you-back-home all in place. But basically, how do Indians in India get around to sex and relationships... I think its called sleep-together-first-time-we-meet-and-lets-see-how-it-goes.
lol
I’m serious, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But pretty much you realise it was a date, because you had sex, so you retrospectively rename it as one.
But this woman does it the correct way, she meets for coffee and there are intentions that are clear and spelt out in the air. And yet it manages to unravel into a night of no-sex but amazing conversation, and a lot of lean-ins, kisses and hands combing through hair. (this is not me, as mentioned above, I fuck ASAP so I know for sure)
And then, to put it in a banal way, which should hopefully not disguise for you, how horrifying and earth-shaking these moments can be, he never came back. Well, he called, they met, but it was never the same.
This was preceded by another horrifying online relationship (by the way online dating - its not bad, but yes, I wouldn't recommend it, because butterflies from words, I suspect, might just be that weakness that absolutely does you in, beyond Eye-fucking and the Glances). The horrifying online relationship ended when the man said - I can't do this, I’m married.
This is beginning to sound like I made up this friend, but its actually me. It isn't, my story is far more horrible and guilt-ridden and not worth laundering (hence the secret blog visited only by dirty men)
But to get to the juicy part of the story. so she decides - its enough, lets get off this ride, lets call a ban, lets end it, lets take a break. and she tells me this, and for some strange reason, it breaks me to see this lose of hope. I’m the cheating, lying cynic in the world, she's the romantic who allows me to be that way.
I can say things like I can live in multiple worlds, have sex only for sex, be with men for a long time, and still never call it more than fucking, because she exists. She's still looking and wants to find that earth shattering connection, that makes all the mistakes before look like all the bad songs in a Bollywood movie, till the one that has been aired the most and is the 'rocking number' comes along.
And one day, she's talking to me online (by the way, important element of the story - I’m stuck in Amsterdam for two months far from my desh ki dharti, which makes me chat-dependent and internet-dependent to a horrifying extent) and I’m also talking to my oldest friend, a sweetheart, a man who makes up for the entire mistakes of the rest of the male species, makes their cynicism bearable - hell, makes mine palatable. And is not gay.
Now I’ve suggested the two to each other, very tentatively before, but never quite seriously. But they are both talking to me, and I’m trying to talk to yet another inaccessible, 30 something man who has that exact mix of intensity, sexual experience and indifference that turns me on. So I paste a portion of what she's saying to him. And what he's saying to her.
For convenience sake - he's - Hope-of-male-species
and she is - Writing Woman
me (is me, though catwoman to the 30 something BDSM obsessed man)
imagine me juggling through the 3 conversations, two - being friendly and supportive, and one - talking dirty and sexy
me : Hope-of-male-species is very upset today, he almost got back with his ex-girlfriend (who is a bitch and seriously psycho)
Writing Woman: very good, tell him there are some nice women in this world, especially for a man who is funny
me : I will (and I do - text flies from this chat window to the other one)
me (pasting from Hope-of-male-species): Hope-of-male-species says this- she (psycho ex-girlfriend) asks if she can't be there in my life to help me with my hurt, and I say no, I have friends for that
Writing Woman : rocking, go mallu boy
Oh devil woman devil woman let go of me
Devil woman let me be leave me alone I'm going back home
Writing Woman: laugh
that was for Hope-of-male-species
me: *grin* (evil plans are hatching in my head, and the text has obviously flown to the other chat window)
Writing Woman: also
She’s just a devil woman with evil on her mind
Beware the devil woman she’s gonna get you
She’s just a devil woman with evil on her mind
Beware the devil woman
She’s gonna get you from behind
me: okay...you're on a roll
Writing Woman: a google roll
me: hmmmm.... he says devil woman maane horn yukt (with)
Writing Woman: horn is a sign of sexual deviousness...hence the word horny
me: haha...then why toey in australia. toes are a sign of sexual deviousness too?
Writing Woman: because satan was cast in the image of pagan gods
Writing Woman: no australia is a sign of sexual deviousness
me: hahahahaha
me: Hope-of-male-species says - The real lyrics were:
I want to f*ck you like an animal
You get me closer to god
But I misheard them as:
I want a duck shaped like a triangle
You give a toaster to Bob
me: lol
Writing Woman: haha... www.kissthisguy.com/
me: yeah...
Writing Woman: I think its one of the cutest things on the net
me: sweet dreams are made of cheese
me: they are actually
Writing Woman: laugh
Notice that they are now both equipped with each other's chat ids (this is me being unwittingly subtle)
And so they got to know each other, talked for seven hours the first time that night after I left, and then proceeded to skype, meet in person and fuck and talk and fuck and talk, like crazy little animals who just discovered a sex drive that all along had been held in check because of missed chances, intermittent sadness and stupid people who are unfortunately still out there. All the things you dream that you would do if you found the one, they did... (or so I hope and imagine)
Just to give an insight into how this whole thing gives me hope, lets look at my hiterhto hidden third chat window with 30 something sex-crazed extremely politically savvy and important man
SexyThrillofMonth says: shame you dont have a cam. I would love to see you wet and open
catwoman says:
shame you don't have a cam... would like to see you swell ... a little
SexyThrillofMonth says:
mmm you will soon... as my cock rests gently on your tongue... feeling it starting to swell and harden... wishing to close your mouth around it.. waiting for permission to taste it
catwoman says:
can I taste it?
SexyThrillofMonth says:
hmmm not yet
Not yet by the way has still not materialized.
It is the irony of the world, that I who asked for as little as just a "sexy weekend away from your girlfriend" didn't get any juice, and two people who stuck it out and asked for nothing less than love, are having the wildest sexiest weekend.
But it isn't something that makes me feel bad, as much as it gives me hope, that people like you, Writing Woman and Hope-of-male-species are holding out to the somewhat ridiculed and considered naive hope that you can be taken in from the cold, unfriendly rain, and not just for a brief escapade.
*hugs* and *kisses*,
Wild Horses(aka wild cat *giggle*)
PS : If I had known you before, I would have set you up with Hope-of-male-species. I think I like you more .... but now he's gone, and I think you've learnt valuable lessons about taken men, so I wouldn't want to undo that. Besides long-distance with few continents in the middle - not a good idea.
Romances that live partly in your inbox and in your imagination are definitely 2005. Possibly I carried a few into 2006, but the penny is dropping. But I want to tell a story about a friend of mine, very much like you, belonging to a category that I like to call - the Writing Woman. Even I write, I guess...but its different from the Writing Woman, the Writing Woman writes to her lovers, to her friends, to her parents, to everything and everyone in sight, and she talks about her writing. (I hide in a corner of the world wide web in a secret blog, that I take pleasure at looking at myself like I just stumbled on it).
Well, so she writes, and she says that she's been on the dating rollercoaster, little wheel for the mice to run in, and any other unending analogy that one can come up with, for now 3 years. So she's pissed, she's tired; she had an amazing first date with someone, who never quite came back with the same intensity.
And let me tell you, to date in a dateless world like India, is a little tough. I'm sure that there are people even here, who actually date, with all the little rules about phone-calls and walk-you-back-home all in place. But basically, how do Indians in India get around to sex and relationships... I think its called sleep-together-first-time-we-meet-and-lets-see-how-it-goes.
lol
I’m serious, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But pretty much you realise it was a date, because you had sex, so you retrospectively rename it as one.
But this woman does it the correct way, she meets for coffee and there are intentions that are clear and spelt out in the air. And yet it manages to unravel into a night of no-sex but amazing conversation, and a lot of lean-ins, kisses and hands combing through hair. (this is not me, as mentioned above, I fuck ASAP so I know for sure)
And then, to put it in a banal way, which should hopefully not disguise for you, how horrifying and earth-shaking these moments can be, he never came back. Well, he called, they met, but it was never the same.
This was preceded by another horrifying online relationship (by the way online dating - its not bad, but yes, I wouldn't recommend it, because butterflies from words, I suspect, might just be that weakness that absolutely does you in, beyond Eye-fucking and the Glances). The horrifying online relationship ended when the man said - I can't do this, I’m married.
This is beginning to sound like I made up this friend, but its actually me. It isn't, my story is far more horrible and guilt-ridden and not worth laundering (hence the secret blog visited only by dirty men)
But to get to the juicy part of the story. so she decides - its enough, lets get off this ride, lets call a ban, lets end it, lets take a break. and she tells me this, and for some strange reason, it breaks me to see this lose of hope. I’m the cheating, lying cynic in the world, she's the romantic who allows me to be that way.
I can say things like I can live in multiple worlds, have sex only for sex, be with men for a long time, and still never call it more than fucking, because she exists. She's still looking and wants to find that earth shattering connection, that makes all the mistakes before look like all the bad songs in a Bollywood movie, till the one that has been aired the most and is the 'rocking number' comes along.
And one day, she's talking to me online (by the way, important element of the story - I’m stuck in Amsterdam for two months far from my desh ki dharti, which makes me chat-dependent and internet-dependent to a horrifying extent) and I’m also talking to my oldest friend, a sweetheart, a man who makes up for the entire mistakes of the rest of the male species, makes their cynicism bearable - hell, makes mine palatable. And is not gay.
Now I’ve suggested the two to each other, very tentatively before, but never quite seriously. But they are both talking to me, and I’m trying to talk to yet another inaccessible, 30 something man who has that exact mix of intensity, sexual experience and indifference that turns me on. So I paste a portion of what she's saying to him. And what he's saying to her.
For convenience sake - he's - Hope-of-male-species
and she is - Writing Woman
me (is me, though catwoman to the 30 something BDSM obsessed man)
imagine me juggling through the 3 conversations, two - being friendly and supportive, and one - talking dirty and sexy
me : Hope-of-male-species is very upset today, he almost got back with his ex-girlfriend (who is a bitch and seriously psycho)
Writing Woman: very good, tell him there are some nice women in this world, especially for a man who is funny
me : I will (and I do - text flies from this chat window to the other one)
me (pasting from Hope-of-male-species): Hope-of-male-species says this- she (psycho ex-girlfriend) asks if she can't be there in my life to help me with my hurt, and I say no, I have friends for that
Writing Woman : rocking, go mallu boy
Oh devil woman devil woman let go of me
Devil woman let me be leave me alone I'm going back home
Writing Woman: laugh
that was for Hope-of-male-species
me: *grin* (evil plans are hatching in my head, and the text has obviously flown to the other chat window)
Writing Woman: also
She’s just a devil woman with evil on her mind
Beware the devil woman she’s gonna get you
She’s just a devil woman with evil on her mind
Beware the devil woman
She’s gonna get you from behind
me: okay...you're on a roll
Writing Woman: a google roll
me: hmmmm.... he says devil woman maane horn yukt (with)
Writing Woman: horn is a sign of sexual deviousness...hence the word horny
me: haha...then why toey in australia. toes are a sign of sexual deviousness too?
Writing Woman: because satan was cast in the image of pagan gods
Writing Woman: no australia is a sign of sexual deviousness
me: hahahahaha
me: Hope-of-male-species says - The real lyrics were:
I want to f*ck you like an animal
You get me closer to god
But I misheard them as:
I want a duck shaped like a triangle
You give a toaster to Bob
me: lol
Writing Woman: haha... www.kissthisguy.com/
me: yeah...
Writing Woman: I think its one of the cutest things on the net
me: sweet dreams are made of cheese
me: they are actually
Writing Woman: laugh
Notice that they are now both equipped with each other's chat ids (this is me being unwittingly subtle)
And so they got to know each other, talked for seven hours the first time that night after I left, and then proceeded to skype, meet in person and fuck and talk and fuck and talk, like crazy little animals who just discovered a sex drive that all along had been held in check because of missed chances, intermittent sadness and stupid people who are unfortunately still out there. All the things you dream that you would do if you found the one, they did... (or so I hope and imagine)
Just to give an insight into how this whole thing gives me hope, lets look at my hiterhto hidden third chat window with 30 something sex-crazed extremely politically savvy and important man
SexyThrillofMonth says: shame you dont have a cam. I would love to see you wet and open
catwoman says:
shame you don't have a cam... would like to see you swell ... a little
SexyThrillofMonth says:
mmm you will soon... as my cock rests gently on your tongue... feeling it starting to swell and harden... wishing to close your mouth around it.. waiting for permission to taste it
catwoman says:
can I taste it?
SexyThrillofMonth says:
hmmm not yet
Not yet by the way has still not materialized.
It is the irony of the world, that I who asked for as little as just a "sexy weekend away from your girlfriend" didn't get any juice, and two people who stuck it out and asked for nothing less than love, are having the wildest sexiest weekend.
But it isn't something that makes me feel bad, as much as it gives me hope, that people like you, Writing Woman and Hope-of-male-species are holding out to the somewhat ridiculed and considered naive hope that you can be taken in from the cold, unfriendly rain, and not just for a brief escapade.
*hugs* and *kisses*,
Wild Horses(aka wild cat *giggle*)
PS : If I had known you before, I would have set you up with Hope-of-male-species. I think I like you more .... but now he's gone, and I think you've learnt valuable lessons about taken men, so I wouldn't want to undo that. Besides long-distance with few continents in the middle - not a good idea.
Slightly Incomplete Amsterdam
sex capital, bicycle capital -- bicycle at the red light district
functional but still looking torn up somehow
(people take off cycle wheels so the cycle doesn't get stolen, i think that is what this is)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)