Archive for the category Fiction

Fiction stories and poems by the Gaysi to be read by all.

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Rules [Part I]

That one summer evening in Bandstand had been filled with spurts of honest, passionate words, comfortable silences and moments which had left Dee torn between two choices; one more tempting than the other. She had come dangerously close to breaking the rule she had set for herself: never sleep with someone you’re meeting for the first time when you know you won’t be able to think of it as just a one night stand.

The Futurist

But here’s the thing- while I build sandcastles in the air Without warning, you leave me in despair Citing fundamental irreconcilable differences My incessant future planning being top of your dispute references

Powerless Night

It's that time of the year and one of those odd days, when a waxing moon's light is good enough to awaken a city drenched in darkness with its cool, lustrous fingers - for there is no light glowing, no fans or fridges on, only powersaver lamps and generators that drone the quiet of the evening - for there's been a blackout.

Aiye Lou It

Love happens. What do you mean? Means... it happens. You know? I don’t know. So at the risk of sounding irritating...what do you mean? Chhh ... I don’t know. (A Gawd Moment!)

Confessions Of A Not So Dangerous Mind

A group of girls in cheer leading outfits are seen standing against a green screen. The camera tracks in towards them, moving in closer, focusing on stomping feet and colliding hands. It’s the final shot of a 30 sec commercial for ‘Chuck Barris Shoes’. The director calls for silence on the floor.

The Vision

Aditi saw her for the first time as she cycled back home. It was the same route every day and she could do it with her eyes closed. In fact even though they remained open, nothing really registered for most of the time it was in another world that she found herself. But just as she swung her cycle into the turn leading to her house, a splash of colour crossed her way at the last minute, making her swear and swerve.

Basic Rights

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

Games People Play

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.

Is It All Too Much To Ask?

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.

Annals Of The Old (Part 4) : Paatti

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.

The Cook

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.

Unfinished Symphony

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

Sita Eliya

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.

Midnight Meandering (Part 2)

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.

Midnight Meanderings (Part 1)

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 …

The Tease

“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.

Telling A Tale

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

A Fiction That Wasn’t

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.
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