RassMalaai Rites

After having written the last two posts, I really don't know to what extent I can recount things. It's not as if I don't  recall them. I clearly do, in every minute detail possible, but I don't see the purpose of going into everything.  Somehow, getting involved in every detail and recounting almost everything makes  me forget  the purpose with which I had started this exercise. What was the purpose anyway? Of what I can recall now, is the faint memory of  how I want to see myself. It seems strange as to how  I remember details of incidents that happened years ago and not the reason with which I started writing about these incidents, the memory of the latter being more recent in time. Anyway, of what I do, the primary reason why I wrote about all of this is because it forms a very essential part of me, of who I am today and however much I try, I can't just chuck it from my life or my memory. This is not to say that it haunts me  day and night. As...

'कुछ नहीं होगा, एक बार कर के तो देखो....मैं ज़्यादा ज़ोर से नहीं करूँगा' was the way Ram first convinced me to insert his dick into my ass, or what I today understand as sex. The first time it happened, it wasn't pleasant at all. It pained and continued to pain for a good while. I had trouble sitting down to shit, it used to burn each time I had to use the loo. And this was the first time when he had said 'किसी को बताना नही..मेमसाहब को तो बिलकुल भी नहीं'. However, after a few times, I began to enjoy it. But largely, I would avoid having sex with him. My thrill and orgasm would be satisfied with our naked bodies rubbing against each other or with an occasional blow-job. He would largely stick to this pattern too but there would always be a hint of resentment in his eyes or his voice when I would say no.  However, there were times when the resentment was too hard for him to contain. I remember that time when we were on my bed, toying with each oth...

People have different ways of 'moving on'. Moving on from relationships, experiences, traumatic experiences, what not. I write. I prefer this mode because frankly, nothing else seems cathartic. Nothing else seems to make me focus my mind on that one thing. This is also because I have hardly been a speaker. Or expressive (in terms of words from my mouth). On top of that, I am evasive, and massively so. All this in combination makes me explosive (I don't think I have ever used so many adjectives for myself!). And I prefer to spew that explosion on my keyboard (or paper) rather than on someone. So, why this sudden urge to write? Primarily because I have been thinking. Thinking how I have never thought, at length, of the one thing that dominated my childhood. Most of the recounting of those series of incidents happens through speech and especially when it is the occasion of 'coming out' to someone. Then begins the saga which started years ago and ended quite some...