I've got the basic right to pee Not on the wall The basic right to shag Not the neighbor's child I've got the basic right To live, not to kill
Archive for the category Fiction
Fiction stories and poems by the Gaysi to be read by all.
There’s a special feel to the morning. H gets out of bed, stretching into the limitless possibilities that the day can bring forth. A coffee and a smoke later, she gets down to business: sending endless smiles to new and old alike on her favourite Lesbian site, PS. The fact that she isn’t a member and can’t do much more than smile doesn’t deter her from researching the newbies or giving old timers another chance.
I want to be the reason behind your skyrocketing phone bills. the reason why you can’t stay awake at work. the one you think of when a particular song plays; when any song plays.
She was always my ‘Ma’. Anand and I were the only grandchildren who had the privilege to call her ‘Ma’, since we both were brought up by her in our childhood years with the joint family, away from our own biological parents. Paatti brought me to the world of ‘Mini’-Mami and her family for six, Siva and his family in the hutment opposite our house, and the owner’s family above with some noisy twins who had weird names.
She pushed her head back into her pillow as she lifted her ass up, thrusting her hips against her hand. Her fingers played with her nipple, teasing it into hardness. She could feel every line, every ridge. As she felt herself nearing her orgasm, her hand left her breast and moved to her mouth. Her lips wrapped around her thumb, her tongue moistening it. She sucked and bit her hot skin on the back of her hand, while her other hand slipped around in the wetness as she worked her clit furiously. She was almost there. Ready to come hard. She felt herself clench in expectation when the doorbell rang loudly, rudely interrupting her bliss.
The shadows in your eyes, the whispers in my touch The silent swell of your cheekbone, the clamouring creases of my palm The nervous hollow of your throat, the sure fullness of my lips
Dark as jaggery were his shoulders, luscious were the lips and the dark curls that adorned his sun-kissed face; those arms could tear apart banana stems, wield bows and arrows as good as the strings on a Veena - both acts to endeavour, in one swooned the mortal of pain instilled by the venom of his arrow-tips, in another music immortal would follow every electrical pulse in the nerves and beats of pulse across the tissues - scintillating, stunning, mesmerizing.
The rain had drenched the city, taking off its racy edge. ‘Almost like after an orgasm…’ thought Neha as laughed out loud in her head as she sipped on her glass of rose. The loban was making white swirls, the mogras she had bought from a street vendor at Turner Road spread their aphrodisiacal aroma, the wistful retro Bollywood number still running on repeat. And then ‘pop’ … the sesame crackled in the ghee in the kadhai, breaking her reverie and as she added potatoes and curry patta, there was a sharp knock on the door.
She was headed for a quick jog, listening to her favourite Bollywood singers Asha and Lata Mangeshkar seductively croon Mann Kyun Behka Re Behka Aadhi Raat Ko (why does the heart wander in the middle of the night?) and amazed at how the city she loved, changed moods and shades without warning …
“I’m going in for a shower,” Jane yelled out. Dee’s eyes flew wide open. The wheels of her imagination started turning. She could feel that warm feeling. The one that always came on right before she started getting wet and clenched, almost as if she were having a mini-orgasm. Jane, who was passing by, caught that fleeting look on Dee’s face: eyes fluttering close, a small smile playing on her slightly parted lips and her head tilted heavenwards. At that moment, Dee did look like she was in heaven. Well, at the gates of it, at least. Jane stopped and decided to play.
Such are the dreams that one conjures when a passing stranger steals your senses for a few seconds, so much so, that even though she looked through her lens to capture a scene of the wonderful valleys behind you, you in turn, end up writing an entire story on her. Bushy at least remains real.
On the pillow, On an old t-shirt, On the phone’s receiver, On an empty bottle, In unexpected corners
It’s 2.35 am. I wake up with her in my head. She has no face, for I have never seen her. But I know it’s her.
Several breaths into the brew, my body sat upright. The chemical reactions from the bean had sparked some eagerness. Around me were the lost, the preoccupied, the keyboard-clackers, the chatterboxes and the silent coffee sippers buried in their books. A dash of milk and two sugars later, she walked through the door.
She was younger, much younger, but felt much older – in the way she spoke, in her silences. We met for coffee, late one night. She ordered tea. We hadn’t seen each other until then, but neither of us was disappointed. There were no sparks, no obvious undercurrents, but we couldn’t look at each other very long.
Amma and Daddy were never at home on Saturdays. If anybody was, then it was the one who kept the house clean – vessels, clothes, fans, window-sills, sinks, bath, toilets, anything that needed to be mopped, swept or scrubbed – it was Maari with a coconut-‘kondai’ on her head, blessed with uneven, protruding teeth and the height and gait of a giantess.
When our eyes meet now, you seem to look through me and I simply look at you. We no longer look into each other as we used to, as we could.
I ask myself, When will I be able to hold your hand In public and say we are intertwined? Is a vocal declaration of my love necessary for you?
Rika slept beside her, spooned up close, her body snug against that of her beloved’s. It was the end of what had been a long week, and they were finally sleeping soundly, together.
Her wild hair fell down her back in tangles, dark brown curls unwashed and uncared for. In her long white nightgowns with her too thin arms, she looked every bit of the wraith she was fast becoming, pale from lack of sun and food. It was hard for her to think or focus on anything but her rage of cheated chance. She knew nothing of patience or endurance, but everything of survival and struggle. She was the negative print of her own self.