RassMalaai Rites

Such a weird creature, desire. A few weeks ago, I was narrating my experience of a date to a friend. Although things didn't work out eventually, the night itself was memorable. We had dinner, went on a drive, made out in his car and debated the logistics of having sex in that limited space. But we didn't. Especially because I wanted the date to go, for once, according to me. And anyway, I enjoy making out more than anything else. I can spend hours exploring a person's mouth, ruffling through their hair and touching their skin. And he was happy to oblige. Whenever I think of that night, I ask myself this question - What do I really miss? The person, or the experience? Are these two questions so exclusive anyway? However, the answer is always 'experience'. I do miss the excitement of getting ready, going out, taking the metro, stepping into a restaurant, to (preferably) see someone waiting, talking and then (hopefully) going for a walk or a drive. I miss the process. ...

Is it fascination or identification? I would not say that I have been struggling  with this conundrum "all my life". But there are several moments of comfort that I can recall. All these moments of comfort (actually not "all" but at least the ones I have in mind) are ones where I dressed in a "woman's" attire. Other than looking (objectively) pretty, there was also a sense of being in one's own skin. An exhilarating feeling of being extremely true to oneself. However, these moments have been extremely private, if one discounts the "dressing up as the other gender" that almost every elder sibling subjects their guinea pigs to, in full-family view, often photographed and memorialized. Whenever I have chosen  to do those things to myself, it was when no one was looking, no one was present and no one but me had the option to remember or record it. If it is not in the public, is it not true? No record, so it didn't happen? But that is not ...

I swipe through profiles on Tinder, almost as a force of habit. When I match with someone, I'm thrilled. I send an excited message to them, hoping they'd reply. Sometimes, there is a short lived conversation. Sometimes so short that it ends with an "I'm good". Sometimes, it develops into a long monologue about life, love, loss and longing. And they are reminded of me only when there is something else to rant about. And I'm forced to think, "Am I not approaching people the right way?", "Are my 'hi's and 'hello's too regular and boring?", "Am I a boring person to chat with, in the first place?", "Do people only want to talk about their life problems with me?". One of my friends recently told me (and a group of other friends) that I give "amazing teacher vibes". Now, of course, that's a compliment, considering the professional stage I'm in. But has that always been so? These compliments/cha...

I recently started making a weekly plan of action. It consists of tasks to be done every day of the week, a list of which I send to my sister, who makes it a point to check with me daily, about my targets. I figured that as much as I'd like to believe I can monitor myself, I end up cutting myself a lot of slack. So, exercise of some authority seems like a good idea. Gosh, I'm such a sub/bottom. One of these days when I was done with around 8 things out of 10 for the day, I was like yay, time for a break. And as one does, I disabled the flight mode on my phone, opened Grindr and scrolled through my messages. And there were a quite a few. There was one guy who had messaged me weeks ago: shirtless photos, photos in a tank top, and one in a military print body-hugging shirt. I was like okayyy, yeah, happening. There was an unread message from him: "Hey man" I replied: "How's it going?" "Done with this app now" "It's ful...

It started when I saw my kundali in my parents' room, lying on the table underneath the TV.  Calling out to my mother, I asked what was it doing outside, more like why was it out. My father replied instead, "वो बस ऐसे ही देख रहे थे". What do you mean, ऐसे ही, I asked. Since when did the two of you get an astrologer's qualifications? I was also annoyed that my mother was avoiding answering the question. "माँ, ये क्या है? मेरी कुंडली के साथ क्या खेल खेल रहे हो तुम लोग?". She came in rushing. I could see a hint of nervousness in her eyes. "तेरे को बताया तो था! हम पूजा करने जा रहे हैं न, इसीलिए!". I knew about a  पूजा, but what connection did my kundali  have with it? I knew that they had been planning to go some 100 kms away from Lucknow for this पूजा, but why are my stars being studied for that performance? "मुझे क्यों नहीं बताया की मेरी कुंडली दिखाई जा रही है इस पूजा के लिए? और क्यों दिखाई जा रही है, ज़रा ये भी बता दो?", I said, with ...

A significant portion of my day is spent watching tv shows and movies. Either on one of the streaming platforms or on a pirated streaming website. More than anything, I just love watching something. It's the act of watching a show or a film or even a YouTube video that gives me immense pleasure. I marvel at the creation of such things, or at least that's the motivation behind binge watching so many of these shows. However one trait that I just cant make peace with (however much my friends try) is a character (who's usually the protagonist) who does nothing in terms of self development but relies on the mercy of others to make things right. And usually it's a cis-white-straight-male. Ugh. An annoying combination anyway. Why do show creators force feed a sympathy arc for such douchebags? Why should I feel anything for a character who's unnecessarily mean to his mother, trashes the house in an unplanned party, insults his ex girlfriend and potential partner at the same...

"I can feel your stool", he said. "I think I just touched it". I rushed to the washroom. Rolling out a handful of tissue from the stand, I wiped off the fuckload of vaseline he had applied to finger me. On the first wipe, there was just some translucent fluid that came off. I wiped again, some more of that. I continued. Further down this exercise, I saw a faint hint of red on the tissue. I ignored. I wiped again, and the hint became a smear and later, the quarters of paper came out white as dove. I went back into the room. I was embarrassed that he had to "touch" and "feel" my stool, so I did what I hate doing. I sucked his dick. He should have something in return for having come so close to my excretion. Even if that meant I had to take in his smelly, ugly dick down my throat. Dicks are ugly. At least the ones I have seen in my life, including mine. The way the foreskin collects at the top, wrinkly, lifeless, covering up a not-so-beautiful-lo...