Missed you dearly, whole of this afternoon and evening.
You have a strange way with things, assimilating people and their waywardness. And then collect it with a quietness within you that takes care of the hard times that bruise the skin and fill up the eyes.
Unlike the gaze that hurts and violates women, your watchfulness holds my bones to the skin, like stones.
Crumbling is not the way stones must die, unless they are brought down in a demolition of a building, cemented in the fineness of accuracy and binding walls of inertia.
Stones that I swallow and you too, must toss in the tubewells of our singular lungs that have chiselled enough prejudices and stiffness of living in a denied existence. And the whiskers left by your saddled eyes suggest that telling tale of how I must wrestle, by perhaps leaving a belch after swallowing one of those stones.
How whorish can I get, when I’ve not yet abandoned the obviousness of womenhood. For a whore is saddled with the burden of desire — released to depravity, unkind men and sometimes, men coming to terms with existence. Yet a whore who lives through those hungry, dry nights, drives out the stones from the empty bladders of men.
So much and so much of that cleansing that her touch is numbed with nothingness; her body supposedly maligned with “others’” touches. And a world of pity looms over her body ridden with scratches, bites, semen and spit.
What of a woman, unlike her, living in a homely world, shares a bosom of the whore, with urges rising without a price. But she must anyway pay, as men will oblige. “Lucky for her,” he says, as “she gets it when she seeks”.
But as a minority among whore-less women, she becomes a bitch. So she has faltered, fucking faltered, as she’s “ready for it with anyone and everyone”.
(Oh, I must say of men who go erect in a bus stand at anyone and everyone.)
“Don’t even touch my fingers,” he says, as my breasts have swollen to infidelity — impatient infidelity. That whores don’t know anything about relationships, loyalty and love.
Yeah, those whispers into my ears with your spit and breath, spoke of lust, where I waited for an orgasm, night after night, after hours and hours of lovemaking. As the male voyeur went about listlesslessly and with some fear that “someone may see”, curtains swayed in the hustle and bustle of the loneliness descending upon a worker’s evening.
What is this thing about lovemaking?
Clandestine acts, where a woman becomes a whore, as the vagina is sucked dry of purity. And then she is a beast, fucking beast, bereft of passion, incapable of love, faith and all that is said of ritualistic engagement with the human body and mind.
(The soul doesn’t even come into picture.)
I become a bhangi, a dalit, whose blood and sweat holds her hands as she cleans the toilets and does “stool tests” in the blood test labs in clinics.
I’m a guiltless whore who did not find a men’s brothel to visit, when my vagina hurt with arousals after arousals; the prank that estrogen can play and leave me trembling and sweating under my blanket in the city’s chilly nights.
Hospitals call it an “atypical panic disorder” and called those arousals “situational symptoms”. What a darn things to say, to women who are not yet married, with raised eyebrows, checking out about an atypical whore’s sex life…
As I take pills to take care of my phantom callings in the nights and during waking dreams on streets, in office, in the market and theatre halls, I give in to my whorish instints.
I kissed a man (who “fondly calls me a sorceress”) under a tree on a windy night. He later called me a cheat as I told him that I was also in love with his friend. The man too had a lover. But he said I was instrumental in depriving him of his “moral virginity”, as I had made him betray his male and female friend.
The other friend whom I was hmmmm….in love, asked me not to touch “even his fingers” thereafter.
But both the men characteristically pitied the whore, of her diabolic ways. While they shooed me away, they said they would be of “help” when I needed one.
haha…
I touch the pillow and poke at it, nudging the dormant bitch, who rests here, to swallow the stones and leave a belch.
