Play Me
Play me like the air entwined
between the fingers prancing
on a slender flute
Play with me like feline paws spanking
a ball of wool unrolling
on a deserted floor
Play on me like vin rouge flowing
through parted lips drowning
in the warm deep inside
Play beside me like strands curling
in a genetic rhythm reforming
me in a new birth
Play without me like the mind dreaming
ecstatic in its creation wanting
something more to be complete
Play before me like flames devouring
parched wood in intense rising
heat and hungry desire
Play against me like the master teaching
an eager student firmly
disciplined with ruthless care
Play within me like ink spreading
dry from a spill absorbed
furiously in fibrous paper
Oh Play Me
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Irresistible... aka Me
Imagine Johnny Bravo saying, "I can't help it, I am just too sexy," and then imagine Daffy Duck saying the same, and then, after a pause of about 30 seconds and after drinking a gulp of cold water, imagine me! Still standing? Yes? Now that, is entirely unbelievable, for by now you should be doubling up on the floor, laughing your guts out.
There comes a time in a man's (boy's?) life ... errr... pardon me for being existentially confused about the boy/man thing. I would have said man-boy but that makes it seems like a rip-off from Kipling's description of Mowgli. Now where were we... Ah yes... There comes a time in a man's life when he must impress a woman. He must! The necessity of the matter is unquestionable. Even if the man remotely considers the option of mating, he must appear desirable to the woman. Or rather he has to make himself desirable. Or even more pitiable is the fact that he has to try.
Now for those built in the image of Adonis, with those sculpted six packs and rippling biceps, the question may be of things deeper inside. But for common folk like me - or wait - for common well-padded folk like me, the question is of things or rather layers of things on the outside. Ah but I must not jump the gun here. Let's analyze my situation with some finesse.
The body then, first. Mine evokes no desire. Simple. Unless you take my narcissistic love for myself into account, no woman (for that matter no man, either) will burn with lust the moment they set their eyes on me. They won't cringe, perhaps. But sadly, that does not count.
The body language, next. The human body can be a source of a lot of grace. Its movements speak a language so replete in enchanting richness. And then there is me. Me, who always spills, on his very visible mid-riff bulge, any food which passes between my lips. My body language does not flow, it moves in fixed quanta and revels in its inherent awkwardness. So "being smooth" is an alien concept to me.
Then comes the voice. A voice can melt hearts. My vocal chords, however, are a voice onto themselves. They temp me into believing they are producing some note, while they churn out something that is completely in another octave. The effect on the person I am trying to melt, is akin to finding salt in tea, in place of sugar. Oh and I like to sing. I believe it sounds like a hacksaw cutting through a creaking wooden plank. Yes, I like to sing.
My smile. Outlined by my chapped lips. The only quality of note it perhaps has, is that it is unassuming. Unashamed of its simplicity, it adorns my bewildered face too readily, accompanied by equally deviant gargling laughter. On top of that, I have it on good authority, that I giggle. A giggly man! What can be more sexy!
My style statement is the full stop where all statements stop. Stop abruptly, at that. A crumpled shirt will happily accompany old (not torn) jeans till they functionally cease to act like clothes. White sneakers, and a belt buckle, which is forever out of alignment would complete the picture. I feel the same comfort that paint blobs feel when randomly splashed on a canvas feel while they mishmash together at ease - the person who sees me feels the corresponding emotion of the horrified and confused, nouveau art admirer.
My game is that there is no game. I am not a player. Not by a long shot. My eyes neither look innocent and startled at exactly the right moments nor do they drip with lust when so called for in urgency. I cannot charm my way around or into anything or anybody. I'll most often speak what is on my head. That is either too shocking or not sufficiently so. In either case, by the end of the first coffee, the probability of getting that phone number is beyond redemption.
Oh and last of all, I am not a millionaire.
So, that's my sex appeal portrayed in film noir. Perhaps by now it should be clear that my chances of being sexy are rivalled only by my chances of getting laid. Don't pity me, please. Remember what they say about everything and everybody existing for a reason.
My reason is... to be me, of course! And not Casanova.
--------------
Ha! Touche!
There comes a time in a man's (boy's?) life ... errr... pardon me for being existentially confused about the boy/man thing. I would have said man-boy but that makes it seems like a rip-off from Kipling's description of Mowgli. Now where were we... Ah yes... There comes a time in a man's life when he must impress a woman. He must! The necessity of the matter is unquestionable. Even if the man remotely considers the option of mating, he must appear desirable to the woman. Or rather he has to make himself desirable. Or even more pitiable is the fact that he has to try.
Now for those built in the image of Adonis, with those sculpted six packs and rippling biceps, the question may be of things deeper inside. But for common folk like me - or wait - for common well-padded folk like me, the question is of things or rather layers of things on the outside. Ah but I must not jump the gun here. Let's analyze my situation with some finesse.
The body then, first. Mine evokes no desire. Simple. Unless you take my narcissistic love for myself into account, no woman (for that matter no man, either) will burn with lust the moment they set their eyes on me. They won't cringe, perhaps. But sadly, that does not count.
The body language, next. The human body can be a source of a lot of grace. Its movements speak a language so replete in enchanting richness. And then there is me. Me, who always spills, on his very visible mid-riff bulge, any food which passes between my lips. My body language does not flow, it moves in fixed quanta and revels in its inherent awkwardness. So "being smooth" is an alien concept to me.
Then comes the voice. A voice can melt hearts. My vocal chords, however, are a voice onto themselves. They temp me into believing they are producing some note, while they churn out something that is completely in another octave. The effect on the person I am trying to melt, is akin to finding salt in tea, in place of sugar. Oh and I like to sing. I believe it sounds like a hacksaw cutting through a creaking wooden plank. Yes, I like to sing.
My smile. Outlined by my chapped lips. The only quality of note it perhaps has, is that it is unassuming. Unashamed of its simplicity, it adorns my bewildered face too readily, accompanied by equally deviant gargling laughter. On top of that, I have it on good authority, that I giggle. A giggly man! What can be more sexy!
My style statement is the full stop where all statements stop. Stop abruptly, at that. A crumpled shirt will happily accompany old (not torn) jeans till they functionally cease to act like clothes. White sneakers, and a belt buckle, which is forever out of alignment would complete the picture. I feel the same comfort that paint blobs feel when randomly splashed on a canvas feel while they mishmash together at ease - the person who sees me feels the corresponding emotion of the horrified and confused, nouveau art admirer.
My game is that there is no game. I am not a player. Not by a long shot. My eyes neither look innocent and startled at exactly the right moments nor do they drip with lust when so called for in urgency. I cannot charm my way around or into anything or anybody. I'll most often speak what is on my head. That is either too shocking or not sufficiently so. In either case, by the end of the first coffee, the probability of getting that phone number is beyond redemption.
Oh and last of all, I am not a millionaire.
So, that's my sex appeal portrayed in film noir. Perhaps by now it should be clear that my chances of being sexy are rivalled only by my chances of getting laid. Don't pity me, please. Remember what they say about everything and everybody existing for a reason.
My reason is... to be me, of course! And not Casanova.
--------------
Ha! Touche!
Sunday, January 14, 2007
She knew
The dot of red sindoor on her forehead was visible behind the drunk lines of her wet hair. Red. Blazing red. Such was the wanton force manifest in that small circle, that he felt singed even from a distance. She lifted her eyes and let them rest on him.
"What? What are you looking at like that?"
Her words had a mesmeric effect on his senses. Senses, which were overflowing right now.
"Me? I look like a wet puppy right now."
Right now. How did she know what he was thinking. She repeated words he wanted to say. And then she laughed. Laughter that invited and pushed away at the same time.
He kept looking at her. He wanted his gaze to scorch. To turn each drop of water on her wet skin to steam. He could see she knew what he was doing. She knew.
"Will you just look at me all night, or do you dare do something else?"
Dare he? His hands clenched into a fist, as his uncut nails cut into his own skin. She knew. His mind was running in a thousand directions. Trying to find a way to everywhere else, except her.
The amber light from the flickering candle danced with the shadows across her curves, beckoning. Yet the red dot arrested his gaze with such intensity, that it heeded no call. Transfixed, he was paralyzed.
He felt a rising anger in himself. At himself. Desire wrenched strongly at the restraining chains. Had he ever wanted someone more. She knew.
His mute lips quivered with words trying to force their way out, and giving up in disdain.
"If you don't do anything, I'll go and put my time to better use. You are not the only lover I have, you know..."
He knew. He knew what will happen next. He had known it all his life. He had never been one to play the game. The game, however, had never ceased to play him.
Just like she played him right now. All the right strings, twanged to life at the precise pulls of the opera. Every string moved a part of him. Parts, which he could not move himself. She knew.
"What? What are you looking at like that?"
Her words had a mesmeric effect on his senses. Senses, which were overflowing right now.
"Me? I look like a wet puppy right now."
Right now. How did she know what he was thinking. She repeated words he wanted to say. And then she laughed. Laughter that invited and pushed away at the same time.
He kept looking at her. He wanted his gaze to scorch. To turn each drop of water on her wet skin to steam. He could see she knew what he was doing. She knew.
"Will you just look at me all night, or do you dare do something else?"
Dare he? His hands clenched into a fist, as his uncut nails cut into his own skin. She knew. His mind was running in a thousand directions. Trying to find a way to everywhere else, except her.
The amber light from the flickering candle danced with the shadows across her curves, beckoning. Yet the red dot arrested his gaze with such intensity, that it heeded no call. Transfixed, he was paralyzed.
He felt a rising anger in himself. At himself. Desire wrenched strongly at the restraining chains. Had he ever wanted someone more. She knew.
His mute lips quivered with words trying to force their way out, and giving up in disdain.
"If you don't do anything, I'll go and put my time to better use. You are not the only lover I have, you know..."
He knew. He knew what will happen next. He had known it all his life. He had never been one to play the game. The game, however, had never ceased to play him.
Just like she played him right now. All the right strings, twanged to life at the precise pulls of the opera. Every string moved a part of him. Parts, which he could not move himself. She knew.
Monday, January 08, 2007
There comes a time
There comes a time in one's life when...
When the world around explodes
When the mind refuses to let go
When all the heart can feel is misery
When the only hope in life is love
When decisions are out of pain borne
When all choices to be made are hard
When everything is out of control
When memories are the only things intact
When only distances seem large
When a countdown is a life saver
When slavery is a form of respite
When a voice is the only calm
When I live from second to second
When I learn to fight my own demons
When I have fallen so far and for so long
That I no longer fear falling for you, again.
When the world around explodes
When the mind refuses to let go
When all the heart can feel is misery
When the only hope in life is love
When decisions are out of pain borne
When all choices to be made are hard
When everything is out of control
When memories are the only things intact
When only distances seem large
When a countdown is a life saver
When slavery is a form of respite
When a voice is the only calm
When I live from second to second
When I learn to fight my own demons
When I have fallen so far and for so long
That I no longer fear falling for you, again.
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