Surf My Couch Or Crotch

Surf my couch, or my crotch?

Leo, Singapore

“You’ve got a big dick”, said Leo as he slurped on my tool, my Salman Khan as he termed it Bollywood Ishtyle. He no longer wanted to be only a top in bed with his first ever Indian boy, but neither did he want to cuddle up and spend a warm night with me, warmer than the sweaty air outside. I thought he was crazy, to not only visit the mad city, but to travel up north to Delhi, Jaipur, Agra and finally back to Bombay, before he flew back to study Ecology and Conservation at the university in Singapore.

The heat had tired our bodies out, but not our minds. Our conversations revolved around life in India and Singapore, our origins, being queer and also the effect of globalization on travel and tourism. His penchant for the Hindi language, Bollywood and the Muslim boys peeing outside the slums or in front of the local train tracks were enticing. So were his twink-ish looks. The moonlight fell over our shoulders as we spoke, and in one unexpected moment, we were kissing each other wild and uninhibited. We each went down like the unstoppable monsoon that crashed in on Bombay the following week. I’d forgotten he was my guest; he didn’t care he was staying at an utter stranger’s pad for a while in a strange country. We broke the rules, his and mine, and yeah, so what?

Saul, Barcelona

The second time he visited me, the rains had already begun, and I was cooking some Lucknowi Biryani for him. Saul, my Latino-hottie from across the Seven Seas had come back to surf my couch, nah, stay at my pad, after a long journey across spice-plantations, sandstone-palaces  and rickshaw-filled-roads. We spent the night cuddling, making out between a few episodes of ‘Family Guy’, and talks of Barcelona. I loved the way he lisped Barcelona like a true Catalan, as if he tasted dick while pronouncing his ‘c’ and ‘s’.

Saul was unidentifiable the first time he landed near my apartment in Bombay – brown as any other Indian, a hot beard and buzz-cut, muscles and a few tattoos on them, sporty backpacker gear and an English that was nowhere European nor South-American. Born to Italian parents, settled in Venezuela, and now working for a travel website in Barca, Saul was a talkative, inquisitive, yet enticing traveler. Adi, my other hottie from Calcutta, pierced and tattooed cub connoisseur, happened to drop by that very evening. Over a beer and some queer movies, my couch witnessed fusion of multi-ethnic-porn – mouths, cocks, nipples, arms, legs, feet, butts, saliva, sweat, breath, breathlessness, cum, and cuddles. My theory stood true for the ‘n’th time – the best threesomes can never be planned, they always happen spontaneously. No?

Noel, Las Vegas

It was February marking the end of Bombay’s short, sweet winter. A blonde-haired Jewish hitchhiker from the States landed at my doorstep with a dirty, smells-of-road backpack and some worn-out shoes. After he took a wash, the next hour passed by in vivid conversation – of his hikes, rides on bikes and ricks, rip-offs and ‘awesome’ adventures across the peninsula. He took my advice and did that slum tour in Dharavi, only to jump on his next adventure to Dhobi Talao and Kamathipura, clicking pictures of every colorful, eventful person or place in the city he could.

On the second day, I could sense his horny gaze – yep, I could smell his hormones, and don’t they say that Jewish boys have a big dong? He had a better butt, and wouldn’t let go of me for a while – despite my occasional “I have to work for a while”. The first time I had sex with him was hot, but then he was a guest, and I needed my distance. Once is okay. But with an utter stranger in a strange country? This ain’t gonna be my trend with Couchsurfers, and definitely not the reason why they’d want to be hosted by me. Or maybe it really is?

About the author


Distracted as ever - by life and its vibrant hues, Srini discovered writing recently when a bushy eye-browed Muse with luscious lips tickled his senses with her couplets. Fat man grew up to be a fitness conscious cook, a gardener by grandma's inherited green thumb and an Agnostic who used to believe in myriad rituals and gods and goddesses of the Southern landscapes, landscapes where rice paddies and Gopurams made people believe in the gifts of music, culture, art and nature's miracles. With a face that's expressive enough to throw off a couple of stubborn people off their stools, and an arse that can dance to drum and base, he's constantly trying to bridge his semi-German thoughts with his roots back in the Land of the Peppers. He writes, occasionally.