The Usual Suspects

Bangalore, the beginning of winter. The days are shorter, the monsoon leaves its last spells of wet love on every roof, tree and head covered with dense hair. A chilly whiff of air reminds people of the need to pull over something warm and cosy and settle in a corner with a mug of hot chocolate with Irish Cream.  But my hormones are still saying – let’s do it !

I scan through a couple of classifieds in The Hindu to check out the ‘Health and Wellness’ classifieds. Massage-wala ads offering full relaxation by M2M. Nah, too much money wasted on too little. ”I’m not too old for paid sex”, I tell myself. Ditch the newspaper. Ditch masseurs and their knack for kneading, arousing, relaxing and providing pain-relief to tensed muscles and frayed nerves that yearn for touch.

Let’s hit the Blue Site now. Maybe check out the users in my locality or city looking for ‘sex’. No, not that. Maybe look for guys who want a ‘Date’. That way I can have conversations and some brain-tingling before and after sex. Also, most of these intellectual bastards are super hot in bed, they seem sexy when their mouths are open and shut.

I hit the ‘search’ button – the search results for the sexiest butts, hottest cocks and bodies in my area, under my age/interest/sexual role categories. I find over two dozen vivacious men, dying to die another death in my arms, when I thrust my organ into their mouths and undersides, when I rim them so much that they don’t remember to put down their arses, and let their juices flow unending as I venture into their ‘heart-underneath’, that area of pleasure that makes them touch heaven and hell at the same time, while I get to playDevil and Deity. Puppets they shall be in my arms, dancing to my rhythm and their sensory perceptions. Wait, let’s concentrate on the search results again.

I have a couple of men to choose from, I realize. There’s this twink from Manipur with lovely spiked-up hair, flat abs to die for and a cute, yet small butt. He’ll be the bottom I know. But hell yeah, I love the smooth kinds. And there’s this Goan-Catholic boy with the right amount of hair on his chest and face, a look-alike of Gael Garcia Bernal, only slightly darker and muscular. Huge dick and versatile. Then there’s my good old Bengali sailor-turned-teacher whose butts resemble footballs, ones I could bury my face in and never see the light of the day again. And a perfect chest with nipples to play with – clips, bites, nibbles, the man likes it all.

I have chosen the Goan boy for the forenoon, the Manipuri for the evening and the Bengali for supper. I message them all, finalize timings, what our Plan of Action would be and what the men should each wear. The Goan would come commando, the Manipuri would cross-dress once he comes over, and the Bengali man would wear semi-transparent underwear and a cock-ring.  I’m ready for the feast, guys!

My filter kaapi is done. A huge pot of it. So is the morning dose of fruits. A nice long shower and a thorough clean-up. Some deo, some perfume, some moisturizer. In the right places, the right amount.

There’s music playing in the background. I can’t wait to have them all in one go, but I shall wait. And I wait. My cuckoo-clock ticks noon. Hickory dickory dock, why is there nobody on my cock?

I call the D’Mello boy, but nobody picks up. I call him again. Twenty times. Send him a message. No response. Did he die? Nah, he’s probably sleeping or has forgotten. I drop a sweet message saying I’ll meet him later, I’ve got some work to do. I’ll fuck the boy next time.

A walk around the park in the colony with my camera. Click some snaps in the winter haze – crows, old people, some kids and a couple of cycles rusting and rotting in the corner. I grab a quick bite at the Dosa-stall outside. I come home, brush my teeth. Wait.

The Manipuri boy has called on my phone twice. I’d left it on my desk while going out for lunch. I try calling back but I can barely hear him. The reception is so bad, I can hear only syllables. We try calling each other again in the next two hours. Some phone tagging and some muffled conversations. I hear practically nothing. I hang up. I wait.

The boy hasn’t turned up. No text, no rings. He’s gonna get it from me next time, I tell myself. I’ll fuck him so hard, he’ll cry for his mother. Gag him, so he doesn’t cry, wring his neck once in a while. I sense I’m getting a hard on. Wait for the Bong sailor, I tell myself. Calm down. Tonight’s gonna be a good night.. I hum. And smile.

A couple of work mails keep me busy till dusk. I attend a conference call with this guy from Argentina who sounds exactly like the sailor. I fantasize, almost, but I stop myself.

9 pm he’ll be here, I make a note in my head. I wait for him. And he calls. At 10.30 pm.

He calls to say he’s been forced to join his folks for a family dinner at Bhojohori Manna near the Koramangala Club. I feel a pang of rage going up my larynx. I tell him – that’s like a 3-minute walk from my flat. He tells me, he’ll see me for dessert. I blush. I’m pacified. I know this man for the last 3 years, he’s a bomb in bed. I smirk looking at the clock, another hour, he’ll be here.

I pour myself a glass of Cognac to lighten my mood. We shall make love with all we have, hands, feet, genitals, butts, toys, whipped cream and chocolate mousse, spanks and bites. It’ll be a celebration of sex itself, in a small way.

He calls at 12.30 to say he’s too sleepy. And that he’s already home. That he’ll meet me another time when nobody’s home. He promises to make it up to me next time, at his place. After all, it’s just 20 minutes away.

I hate you. I hate you all. I hate myeself.




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.