I let the phone ring five times before snatching it up. “Helloooo”, I drawled casually, pretending that I had not been sitting with the mobile in my hands for the last two hours. “Hey...it’z me! I juzt zaw your mezzage. I had to pick up the kidz from zchool”, said my best friend Philomena in a rush. “Not a problem. Guess what? I have an idea for my next column” I said, still playing it cool.
Archive for the category Fiction
Fiction stories and poems by the Gaysi to be read by all.
As an over-the-hill, overweight, looking for love and not finding it lesbian, the next best thing to do is to discover romance, adventure, drama and lust from the lives of lesbians who have it all, real or fictional.
You steal me... from me... And all that's left is a mere shell The eyes, without their sparkle The smile... a bit drawn
3: 45 P.M. - sitting in an upmarket office in one end of south Delhi, almost the outskirts. Meeting fixed for 4 P.M. 15 minutes to kill is easy; look around, observe. When do people really work when all they do is talk to one another? Too much laughing for a serious workplace. Hey, look at that girl, nice legs. And another, her high heels make too much noise. And that one there, can’t see her face but her body language says she wants to rush out of the office. Bored.
How do you know What is really happening When you’re unconscious? How do you trust, Really trust, those around you?
Ferry boats, Long car drives, listening to the radio, watching the sunset Give me a natural high - so does lolling aimlessly in bed Au contraire, u prefer long silences, ur ipod and the subway instead And my crazy discourse on life always makes u want to bang ur head
I had another epiphany, This time it was at 11pm. This time about break ups: Do they really need to exist? Assuming the relationship Is not completely toxic. You see, my first love cut it off. Abruptly.
you and your emotions are no more light, hug me tight, in this scary night...
I had an epiphany at 4am While I was thinking about that special soul Wondering what they would tell me to do Imagining their response - To my dilemma
Are you willing girl to be my poeme tonight? To flow from my limbs onto paper?
Strawberries half eaten some juiced over me re-creates your aftertaste… In my bed In my head In my mouth
Freshly laundered white cotton sheets. They weren’t high thread count. They weren’t Egyptian cotton. They were just clean and cool. My naked skin delighted in how soft they felt. It was around 10 pm and the room was dark. The fan above gently whirred circulating cold air. It was humid and muggy outside – A summer night.
I ask myself, When will I be able to be proud And introduce you as my better half? Is a tag of what you mean to me needed to define you?
They frequented drawing classes, homework books, newspapers, hotel napkins, the foggy bathroom mirror, sacks of grains at the grocery shop, dirt tracks, shoe imprints, photographs of dangerous ghats in Bolivia that flooded his email inbox, strange buildings, mangoes, blood bank advertisements and so on. His arms were stiff; wrists, though, forever worming graciously.
Yet, you invade my dreams without my permission And I watch helplessly as these technicolour images
Did expectations meet your need Was the other side of her rainbow As picturesque as painted dreams Does fantasy converge?
These love tainted cords Finding their way Like fingers interwoven Forever locked in an embrace Nursing desire like wine
Each fold- whispers secrets untold “if these sheets could talk..” I giggle, nursing a thought She leans in - plants a kiss
that little day, maa, with your little son, i managed to entice him towards me, using my love as the binding ribbon.
The question dangled dangerously in my now-dotted-with-thunderclouds-chat window. My tease had posed it to me rhetorically. As part of a larger point she was trying to make. Yet, I was hung up on the heavily weighted simplicity of the question. My mind flew back to a conversation I’d once had with a 90 year old gentleman.