Older men are so sexy ...

So I was going to screw Mohini Ghosh's husband and ensure she learnt of it.

The next three days at work proved that Mohini Ghosh was not the only bitch around. Not just that, I also realized that you did not have to be married or frustrated to be a bitch. Most women, I have decided, have the capacity to be a bitch. And since there were many bitches around in office – most of them dating someone or the other or definitely eyeing men – there were many more men to sleep with. Now if you force a girl to prove a point, what'a girl to do, ya?

But if you ask me about my priority list and if there was anyone who I wanted to screw – and not just for point proving mind you – there was one. Or two. Sexy Butt, who's name I still don't know and who had somehow managed to evade me after that one time… And now there was Runu Malik. Older, wiser, one of the department heads at work and he has the most amazing salt and pepper hair I had ever seen. To top it all, it was said that Runu had quite the glad eye for pretty girls. And I have said before, that I am pretty. In fact I think I am growing prettier by the day. Earlier there was this very small-town-girl prettiness to me, but now it's becoming sort of a chic-prettiness. Like earlier I was just smart, now I am beginning to be street smart.

I had seen Runu notice me. Not in any obvious way – he was much senior and I was much junior – but each time he passed my desk, he always checked me out. The other day he was coming down the stairs with the CEO of the company and I happened to look up from the chat I was having online… and our eyes met. Despite the fact that it looked as if Runu was having some sort of an important discussion, he stopped long enough to look at me. This time, he pretended to answer his phone. All the while he was ostensibly trying to connect to whoever he was calling, Runu kept looking at me. He never looks at the cleavage or the legs or anywhere else. Even when I wear my belly-button showing tops, Runu always looks at my eyes.

As I looked back at him and he approached my desk, Runu suddenly stopped. He looked at me and said, "There is an office party tomorrow. Why don't you come along as well?"
To be continued...

(Suparna's story appears every Tuesday in Metro Now, New Delhi, Page 33)

Married men are trouble

As a rule, I do not involve myself with men who have girlfriends or wives. Both types – with girlfriend, with wife – always have a sob story to tell. They always cry that their wife or girlfriend was making life miserable for them, but they never leave her. That bothers me, I am not used to sharing my men, even if I the man is there for just two weeks. However, all rules, are meant to be broken. Particularly if it involves putting a bitchy woman in her place. And from the look Tall Boy’s girlfriend had given me – the “So you who the hell are you” look – she was a bitch. Only bitches are hostile to people they don’t even know, ya? I had decided, Tall Boy and me were going to have an affair, if it was only just to show Miss Uptight that you should not be rude to strangers.

But as is the case with breaking rules, you break a rule once – even though you say you will never-ever do it – there are always more reasons.. And walking up to me, first thing in the morning at work, was another reason to break my I Don’t Sleep With Attached Men rule. It was Mohini Ghosh, the senior sports correspondent, one of the few women in her times to write on sports. “In her times” is a phrase Mohini Ghosh hates. It constantly reminds her of her close to menopause age and the fact that despite her well-worked-out body, the wrinkles showed and that she was married to one of the hottest men in Indian journalism, who could fly any day. The bright, brilliant, boisterous Sanjoy Singh. He was half Bengali, half Sikh and a complete bastard. The way he could look down the table – and even though you would be wearing a sack for a kurta and a have a nine metre dupatta – his eyes would tell you what his mind (and perhaps his mouth?) were doing to your body. And it does not help your case if you have an expressive face. I have a very expressive face. My teachers called me Drama Queen all my life. And Sanjoy could see on my face what my mind (and perhaps my mouth?) would do in retaliation. So far it had only been that.

Till Mohini Ghosh decided to tell me off for sending her package to the wrong floor. What package? It was a junket she was taking money for, clandestinely. So I was going to screw her husband and ensure she learnt of it.
To be continued…

Meeting Tall Boy, the absolute dish

"He doesn't use detergent. I do. Want to smell my boxers and take a guess?" said another voice from behind us.

I turned, half-certain, half-hoping that it was Model Boy… but it was someone I had not met before. He was clearly above six feet tall and very, very good looking. I could not talk…he was THAT good looking. A clean-shaven face, broad shoulders and very long, long, strong legs. He was wearing a full-sleeve shirt, faded jeans and had a duffel bag carelessly slung across his shoulders. The bag looked puny on his huge form. His hair was all over the place, dark brown and moppy… and constantly kept falling over his eyes. I had the craziest urge to push it back from his face and then hold his face in my hands and kiss him. I looked at him and wondered if he would pick me up, I was small and he was really tall. And I could see his chest hair peeking from his top most shirt button. It was not too much, just a hint of hair. He had the bushiest eyebrows I had seen and the brownest eyes. He just looked so good that I knew I was standing and staring and I really did not care.

"Can I have my underveer back?" asked Call Centre boy meekly, looking from me to Tall Boy. I held the ugly pieces out to him without moving my eyes off Tall Boy, who too, was staring at me. As Call Centre boy took his undergarments and turned to leave, Tall Boy turned to leave with him. I had to do something, find out his name… I had understood that he was one of the NIIT boys… but why hadn't I seen him before?
"Do you live here?" I asked, breaking all rules of First Communication With Subject of Interest. He stopped in his tracks, turned around deliberately to look at me. "I am your neighbour," he said.
"I have not seen you around," I replied.
"You have not looked hard enough," he said, half-smiling, half-smirking.
And I really, really wanted to kiss him. And tear his clothes apart. And throw him there on the terrace and ride him till late night and into the morning…. I wanted to see is his shoulders were really that wide under that shirt…
"Aren't you coming down, I've been waiting," interfered a petulant voice in my fantasy of Tall Boy. It was a woman, looking from me to Tall Boy and back.
"Meet my girlfriend," said Tall Boy, smiling.
To be continued...

Want to smell my underwear?

However, life has her own surprises and much before I could involve Uncleji with helping me finding Sexy Butt, there was landlord trouble. Now my rented apartment – one big room, a small verandah and a small kitchenette – is on the terrace of my landlord's bungalow. In Delhi, such houses are called 'barsaatis'. I had thought that living on the top most floor would not draw much attention to me and would keep the others out of my hair as well. But…

It had been two weeks that I had been staying at my current pad now. One morning, I got on to the terrace to put out my wet towel and… There were ugly, gray, blue and faded green VIP men's underwear in various stages of elastic-repair that were taking up the entire clothesline. My clothesline. And that too when I was paying for exclusive use of the terrace and the clothesline.

Since no one had bothered to ask me about the use of my clothesline, I decided to take things – in this case the underwear – in my hands. As I took the offending pieces of undergarments off my clothesline, and neatly folded them and kept on the chair on the terrace, I heard someone chuckle. I turned around – half expecting and hoping it was the model dude – and came face to… top of the head with one of the four boys' who were my neighbours. Since he was all decked up in a shirt, trousers and tie and yet looked ready to fall asleep at 8 am in the morning, I deduced it was the call center guy coming back from his night shift.

"Those are our underveer," Call Centre Boy said, his pronunciation screaming he was a typical spineless man… does not look into your eyes when talking, but has trouble keeping his eyes off your breasts. The fact that my wet hair – hanging down my left side – were dripping over my left breast, which now had an erect nipple, were making matters tougher. His visible discomfort and yet his visible effort to not be caught out while he stared at my breasts, made the whole scenario rather funny. I decided to tease him a little.

"These are your undies?" I asked, while slowly beginning to fondle the flimsy garments. His breathing visibly increased. He nodded his head."So what detergent do you use?" I asked, stopping short of sniffing the garment…"He doesn't use detergent. I do. Want to smell my boxers and take a guess?" said another voice from behind us.

To be continued…