COFFEE LOVE

COFFEE LOVE


I am on the bed. Too sleepy, too weary. Sandbags literally hanging down my eyelids. A tray with a hot coffee cup is in front of me. My lazy fingers reach out for it with an estimation of where the cup could possibly be, what with my eyes closed all they can do is estimate. I topple the cup. The hot coffee envelopes a good patch of the bed . I get a minor jolt as soon as the coffee reaches my banyan covered belly but don’t bother to open my eyes. I wonder if the coffee had a mind of its own and on seeing that I was not intent on sipping it through my mouth it had decided it would directly seep into me through my belly. As soon as the ridiculousness of the idea hits me I wake up to a puddle of coffee all around me . I jump out of the bed calling her name . I find her sitting on the cashmere sofa in her cute baby pink pajamas . I tell her about my little mishap . She frowns, gets irritated, curses me a bit . But gets up nonetheless and goes about cleaning the bed sheet, poring water onto the bed sheet through her palm. She then dips the entire bed sheet into a bucket of water. She does all this pretty mechanically with an evident look of displeasure on her face and continues to mumble audible curses at me.
I, pretending to care about the bed sheet, ask
“Will the stain go?”
“Lets see. You first get out of that banyan and put it in that same bucket”
I do that.
Put on another shirt.
Drag myself to the pc.
Feeling a bit peeved at myself for having spilled a nice smelling cup of coffee and ruining my start for the day. I am still feeling sluggish and I would continue feeling slothful and pretty constipated the whole day, I assume, since I have missed my usual dose of the “magic drink”. Not a thought about her reaches my mind.
Just as I am about to start typing,
She walks in with a tray caryying a coffee cup.
“Drink this and for gods sake don’t spill it” in a pretty irate and pissed-to-hell manner.
I don’t say thank you or even smile just watch her turn her back and go away. I catch myself admiring her round peach shaped butt . But I wasn’t just looking at her oscillating rear.
I am wondering “ I hadn’t asked for another cup. But still… ”
At that moment I would know that what ever that “thing” is that she feels for me-that is love . Even if it wasn’t I wouldn’t care.
I rush back to her. And give her a snug hug and also pinch her left butt cheek .
Just cant keep my hands off them!!!!!!!!!!!


This is something I had dreamt about last night just before my English literature paper??????? Made no sense then, makes some what sense now. This is what I fervently wish happens some day with me.

She's an auto meter.

Why does every taxi or auto meter forbid anyone to touch it

I am talking about the “don’t touch me” sign that’s always loudly painted on the meter.

Why does not the meter say “come touch me” or “come do me” or “shag me”.

Why does the meter have to make such a contradictory statement when actually everyone touches the meter to get it ticking. The "touching" is essential.

Is it some sort of subdued entreat that it’s trying to make by suggesting the opposite.

The meter actually loves the touch. It yearns for the touch.

But by proclaiming it so “she” would be demeaning herself in a way.

It’s a sin don’t you know.

To be open about your carnal desires. At least for her it is.

You claim to be completely against the need or want.
Why does the “she” do so.
Well its just easier is’nt it.
It’s easier to believe and easier to make people believe in it.
If you repeat the lie assiduously it will be accepted as the truth at some point of time.
Is non-acceptance the only form of acceptance.


Every one at some point of his life feels this need.
Everyone craves it.
But it cannot be laid bare.
Cause if you do, you are bound to be judged. Right.

But I don’t judge. She doesn’t know that.

How she would want someone to grab her by her hair, arch her neck back and give away all he had. She would love it.

Too afraid to admit it. I know.

We or I am, just supposed to comply with the way she wants "it". If the she wants to be touched she will be touched and if she doesn’t, my or our, hands are off.

As you wish dear.


I know the meter will behave this way forever. “She” always has.

THE PERFECT DRUG

“I cant do the walk
I cant do the talk
I cant be your friend
Unless I pretend”
Sang some European junkie band.
Seems too true and unfeigned
For her.
Actually she is that true and unfeigned.
Not me I am everything she’s not
She talks too much.
I hide too much.
She feels s lot.
I feel too little
She means every word.
Every little word of mine lacks me.
She is true.
I m just a fake.
How do we co-exist . We don’t.
All we do is pass on what we feel.
At least that’s what I would like to believe or tell myself.
Do I actually confide in her.
Do I tell her things about me which I don’t know myself.
Or does she know too much already.
Am I just as simple as she believes I am.
Who the fuck am I?
Known differently to everybody else.
Do I feel anything for anyone but me.
And why the fuck would some one love me for being this?.
Well I know you have lot of shit in your head anyways I don’t want to add to it.
“Without you, without you everything falls apart Without you, its not as much fun to pick up the pieces”
THE PERFECT DRUG.
I know, you know what that means.
Only you would.

THE HOLY VALLEY

Men usually don’t know how to behave around cleavages. We begin to fumble, stammer, pant, feel dizzy and other malfunctions we never knew existed in our system become evident. Cleavages, in fact, represents the acid test for us testosterone overloaded species. How does one not get drawn into this creation which sucks towards itself everything in sight probably more destructive and powerful in nature than any cosmic black hole ?
Now there are two ways a person can react to a cleavage. Both the ways have the same destination point but the approach defers. The ordinary mortal will continue to gawk, stare, quiver, drool, all at the same time, at the marvel. He is too weak a creation to have the power to snub a cleavage. He just bows his head down and allows himself to be sacrificed at the gallows. However; the determined mortal will pretend to be aloof and cold of the sublime “gorge”. He will take absolutely no notice of the cleavage and go to the lengths of denying its existence. But, alas, even this façade cannot be kept on for long enough. At one time, the shield of fake fortitude will shatter and even he succumbs to the cosmic and celestial power of “ the cleavage” . Our eyes, who no longer are responding to the messages being sent to it by our now helpless brain, will ponder and land comfortably upon the creation at some point of time and continue to be there until some one tears us away from our trance.
It is the idea which the cleavages give us that lead us into committing this sin. As it is female genitalia has always fascinated us and will continue to do so for decades to come. Cleavages give us a “window” of how the entire “picture” might look like. Now don’t lead yourself into thinking that men are born with perverse minds. They are, but there are other factors that come into play apart from our sexually proactive mind. It has more to do with imagination and the meandering joy ride it takes us on after we have laid our eyes on this masterful design. Same theory applies to micro-mini skirts, noodle straps and other examples of skimpy clothing (just to add -God bless these designers who are never quite satisfied at the length of their clothes). It toys with our minds like we are some kind of serfs. They change us into bond slaves who have given themselves to their master and have lost their ability and strength to think for themselves. It makes us think about the canvas on which this picture is painted. The bigger picture. The larger picture. The picture that never seems to stop growing.
At this point there's no other alternative but to give up any kind of resilience we can offer to this “monster”. Its time we sing eulogies and songs and completely give ourselves to the all powerful CLEAVAGE.