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…
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
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...
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…
Monday, April 30, 2007
All about office affairs
I did not see Sexy Butt after that and since I had no idea who he was or what floor he was on, there was no way of finding out. So while I kept a lookout for him, I concentrated on the people that were around me. Strangely, the Anonymous Caller had started leaving jokes on the voice mail at my extension. The same nice voice and jokes, all delivered in a deadpan tone but with solid punch lines. One day, as I laughed at the latest joke, Anonymous Caller, well, called.
"You look really nice when you throw your head back and laugh…it's worth sending you those jokes, just to see you laugh," said he and hung up, as usual. Though I was really intrigued as to who the Anonymous Caller could be – he had a very sexy voice – I decided to wait it out. If he was taking the trouble to leave jokes but was not bothered about meeting… well, two could play the game.
I had always thought that office environments were very serious. I had seen my Father go for his government job at a particular hour and return home at a specified time. Socialising was with your colony people or family, and definitely not with your colleagues. Coming to Delhi and joining the media house I was working for changed my perspective about the working environment for sure. Most people walked in at whatever time they were supposed to… and left at strange hours. Often, I saw many just lounging in the canteen or the Smoking Area, even after their work was over. I used to wonder earlier why people never seemed in a hurry to go back home. And then I realised… they were having much more fun away from home!
The first week, I made three friends: Moona Microphone, Robby the Player and Uncleji. Moona – I figured within five minutes of her talking – was the office gossip, the one person who had the most boring life and therefore needed to talk about everyone else. I knew she would be important if I had to get a hang of the place before the place got a hang of me. Robby was the guy who hit on every other girl, without success. He had potential and since he had been very sweet to me, I had decided to teach him stuff… in my free time. And of course Uncleji, he was the admin guy who was supposed to help us out with everything. My first mission with him was finding Sexy Butt.
To be continued…Every Tuesday
(Published in Metro Now, New Delhi, May 1, 2007)
"You look really nice when you throw your head back and laugh…it's worth sending you those jokes, just to see you laugh," said he and hung up, as usual. Though I was really intrigued as to who the Anonymous Caller could be – he had a very sexy voice – I decided to wait it out. If he was taking the trouble to leave jokes but was not bothered about meeting… well, two could play the game.
I had always thought that office environments were very serious. I had seen my Father go for his government job at a particular hour and return home at a specified time. Socialising was with your colony people or family, and definitely not with your colleagues. Coming to Delhi and joining the media house I was working for changed my perspective about the working environment for sure. Most people walked in at whatever time they were supposed to… and left at strange hours. Often, I saw many just lounging in the canteen or the Smoking Area, even after their work was over. I used to wonder earlier why people never seemed in a hurry to go back home. And then I realised… they were having much more fun away from home!
The first week, I made three friends: Moona Microphone, Robby the Player and Uncleji. Moona – I figured within five minutes of her talking – was the office gossip, the one person who had the most boring life and therefore needed to talk about everyone else. I knew she would be important if I had to get a hang of the place before the place got a hang of me. Robby was the guy who hit on every other girl, without success. He had potential and since he had been very sweet to me, I had decided to teach him stuff… in my free time. And of course Uncleji, he was the admin guy who was supposed to help us out with everything. My first mission with him was finding Sexy Butt.
To be continued…Every Tuesday
(Published in Metro Now, New Delhi, May 1, 2007)
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
This is work, butt seriously
My job involves meeting a lot of people, from almost all walks of life. I am the liaising point between my colleagues and those who might be interested in working with us. From important phone calls, to material that comes in through post, to who's using the office phone to do personal talk and who's sleeping with whom, I know it all.
The first day I was not sure what to wear, so I wore the safest option when in doubt: tight, blue, faded jeans and a collared, white, fitted shirt. I prefer button-down shirts to tee shirts when coming to work. You can look professional and yet sexy at the same time. So the first day I had men coming down from various floors in the building just to check me out. It is quite obvious when men do that: they have a habit of checking out women in groups. Then when I walked into the canteen for my first meal, everyone just stopped ordering food and gaped at me. Where there are men giving attention to one woman, there are going to be women who are jealous of that woman. That's what happened at office too. Even without doing a thing myself, the women at work were giving me strange vibes. I can't help if I am sexy and they are not, ya?
And the most interesting thing happened: someone kept calling from different extension numbers. He had a very nice voice. He first asked my name, then welcomed me on joining, then said that if I had any problems at work, I should ask him and he would sort it out for me. But he did not leave his name. However, I have an inkling as to who it might be. Either the much-married, but definitely cute, HR manager or it's one of the technical support boys I was introduced too. Somehow the tech boys always get this very glazed look in their eyes whenever they are introduced to a girl.. or maybe it's too much programming.
As I was attending to another call and sipping water from a paper cup… the cup tipped and all the water spilled on my shirt.
"Your shirt is transparent," announced a voice and as I looked up, I was staring into the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a man. "I am sorry, I was not staring at you… but you are the first person one sees on entering office," with that he walked away leaving me staring at his rather shapely butt.
To be continued…
The first day I was not sure what to wear, so I wore the safest option when in doubt: tight, blue, faded jeans and a collared, white, fitted shirt. I prefer button-down shirts to tee shirts when coming to work. You can look professional and yet sexy at the same time. So the first day I had men coming down from various floors in the building just to check me out. It is quite obvious when men do that: they have a habit of checking out women in groups. Then when I walked into the canteen for my first meal, everyone just stopped ordering food and gaped at me. Where there are men giving attention to one woman, there are going to be women who are jealous of that woman. That's what happened at office too. Even without doing a thing myself, the women at work were giving me strange vibes. I can't help if I am sexy and they are not, ya?
And the most interesting thing happened: someone kept calling from different extension numbers. He had a very nice voice. He first asked my name, then welcomed me on joining, then said that if I had any problems at work, I should ask him and he would sort it out for me. But he did not leave his name. However, I have an inkling as to who it might be. Either the much-married, but definitely cute, HR manager or it's one of the technical support boys I was introduced too. Somehow the tech boys always get this very glazed look in their eyes whenever they are introduced to a girl.. or maybe it's too much programming.
As I was attending to another call and sipping water from a paper cup… the cup tipped and all the water spilled on my shirt.
"Your shirt is transparent," announced a voice and as I looked up, I was staring into the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a man. "I am sorry, I was not staring at you… but you are the first person one sees on entering office," with that he walked away leaving me staring at his rather shapely butt.
To be continued…
Monday, April 16, 2007
Love thy neighbour!
For the last six months now, I have been taking in Delhi: the sites, sounds, shenanigans and the people. And so far, things have been promising. Despite the initial hitch in finding a house, things have worked out fine for me. Especially since Delhi likes women who are fair, pretty and busty.
I first realized Delhi's fascination with big breasts – more than that of the men in my small town – when I went house hunting. The first day I was in a tight spaghetti top and jeans and from the broker to the prospective landlords, everyone just looked at my chest while talking. However, I didn't find a room that I liked enough. And then some of the landlords were a bit too keen on renting out their space to me. Now, had they been young and good looking, I might have thought over things. But old geezers scratching their balls through their Patiala salwars is not my idea of interesting. Even the easiest of girls doesn't sleep around with every man, ya?
The next day, I wore a transparent, fitting salwar-kameez with a big dupatta. I had decided that if it was a house I really wanted, I would let the dupatta just hang as a scarf; and if it were old men I didn't like, the dupatta would remain draped like a good girl. I found the place I wanted in Lajpat Nagar. It's a third floor flat, with one small room and a small balcony that looks onto a playground. The locality is dinghy, but my neighbours are four boys. Two are studying at NIIT, one is an aspiring model and the fourth works at a call center. And all four have offered to help me with 'anything' at all.
As I was house hunting and I had come up to my current place with the broker, I saw one of the boys – I learnt he was the model later – come out on to the balcony to dry his towel on the railing. He was bare-chested and wearing boxers and had the widest chest I have ever seen. The hair on his chest was evenly distributed: some in the center, slightly spreading to the side and then tapering down into the waistband of his boxers rather tantalizingly. As I had stood there taking him in, he put the towel out and saw me looking at him. He didn't look away but instead stretched, keeping his eyes on me. His arms bulged and his chest expanded further and I knew I wanted the house. Really badly.
To be continued...
I first realized Delhi's fascination with big breasts – more than that of the men in my small town – when I went house hunting. The first day I was in a tight spaghetti top and jeans and from the broker to the prospective landlords, everyone just looked at my chest while talking. However, I didn't find a room that I liked enough. And then some of the landlords were a bit too keen on renting out their space to me. Now, had they been young and good looking, I might have thought over things. But old geezers scratching their balls through their Patiala salwars is not my idea of interesting. Even the easiest of girls doesn't sleep around with every man, ya?
The next day, I wore a transparent, fitting salwar-kameez with a big dupatta. I had decided that if it was a house I really wanted, I would let the dupatta just hang as a scarf; and if it were old men I didn't like, the dupatta would remain draped like a good girl. I found the place I wanted in Lajpat Nagar. It's a third floor flat, with one small room and a small balcony that looks onto a playground. The locality is dinghy, but my neighbours are four boys. Two are studying at NIIT, one is an aspiring model and the fourth works at a call center. And all four have offered to help me with 'anything' at all.
As I was house hunting and I had come up to my current place with the broker, I saw one of the boys – I learnt he was the model later – come out on to the balcony to dry his towel on the railing. He was bare-chested and wearing boxers and had the widest chest I have ever seen. The hair on his chest was evenly distributed: some in the center, slightly spreading to the side and then tapering down into the waistband of his boxers rather tantalizingly. As I had stood there taking him in, he put the towel out and saw me looking at him. He didn't look away but instead stretched, keeping his eyes on me. His arms bulged and his chest expanded further and I knew I wanted the house. Really badly.
To be continued...
Monday, April 9, 2007
Hear Delhi, here I come...
As I looked at Army Man checking out my lacy bra, the train gave a sudden jolt… and I was rudely awakened from my dream. There was Army Man across me, with his legs entwined in mine and fast asleep. I realized that while I had been dreaming about him, I did not like Army Man. There was just something about him that was vaguely disturbing. Usually, that would have excited me. But with the last two experiences I had had, I let this chance pass. After all, I was going to the city with capital opportunities. Both Punjabi and Jat men were known for their aggression and I hoped it was not just on the roads…
With some difficulty, I extricated my legs from between those of Army Man’s and climbed onto my upper berth, deciding not to descend for the rest of the journey. All this while, Army Man did not move a muscle. As he slept with his legs spread and stretched out on the seat, his short rose up tantalizingly. I almost remained sitting, waiting for the garment to give me a peek at what lay beneath… However, I was forced to avert my gaze as Army Man squirmed in his sleep and I was afraid he’d wake up and catch me staring at his crotch; this time for real.
The early morning coach-composure was broken by someone screaming, “Saddi Dilli aa gayi, chalo, chalo,” and whole families of people started lining up at the coach door. It never made sense why people were in a rush to get off when it was supposed to be a train’s last station: it was not going to chug away! As I got off my perch, Army Man was folding his toiletries in his towel, while his bedding lay on the seat, already neatly folded. He was wearing crisply, creased clothes and had even shaved. It was 6 am as the train rolled on to the platform and I wondered what kind of discipline could force a person to shave that early in the morning… that too when on a train. Even women would go around with shaggy eyebrows and a moustache if they had to wax or tweeze everyday, ya?
My first view of Delhi… was a lot of Sardarjis – in various shapes and sizes - on the platform. For a minute I panicked that I had gotten off at Amritsar; and then I saw the board: ‘Welcome to Hazrat Nizamuddin’, with the picture of a smiling old lady in a bun, a white cotton sari and a namaste, greeting everyone.
With some difficulty, I extricated my legs from between those of Army Man’s and climbed onto my upper berth, deciding not to descend for the rest of the journey. All this while, Army Man did not move a muscle. As he slept with his legs spread and stretched out on the seat, his short rose up tantalizingly. I almost remained sitting, waiting for the garment to give me a peek at what lay beneath… However, I was forced to avert my gaze as Army Man squirmed in his sleep and I was afraid he’d wake up and catch me staring at his crotch; this time for real.
The early morning coach-composure was broken by someone screaming, “Saddi Dilli aa gayi, chalo, chalo,” and whole families of people started lining up at the coach door. It never made sense why people were in a rush to get off when it was supposed to be a train’s last station: it was not going to chug away! As I got off my perch, Army Man was folding his toiletries in his towel, while his bedding lay on the seat, already neatly folded. He was wearing crisply, creased clothes and had even shaved. It was 6 am as the train rolled on to the platform and I wondered what kind of discipline could force a person to shave that early in the morning… that too when on a train. Even women would go around with shaggy eyebrows and a moustache if they had to wax or tweeze everyday, ya?
My first view of Delhi… was a lot of Sardarjis – in various shapes and sizes - on the platform. For a minute I panicked that I had gotten off at Amritsar; and then I saw the board: ‘Welcome to Hazrat Nizamuddin’, with the picture of a smiling old lady in a bun, a white cotton sari and a namaste, greeting everyone.
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