Beyond The Blub

Don’t look at my moobs (man boobs = moobs you dummies). Don’t look at my hairy nipples, do you stare at Harry Potter’s nipples in the movie, the way you give me such uncivilized stares? He’s got the same chest hair as I do. Shame on you, boyfriend. Just because you’ve been blessed with a swimmer’s physique despite having never gotten into anything aquatic in your life, doesn’t mean you give me a dirty stare. These are my precious moobs. They will remain the same way they have been for the last thirty years of my life. Take ‘em, or leave me.

I’ve got curves, you see. Call them love handles or whatever. But yeah, I’m sure I’ll turn into a sleek geek soon. Low carb, high fiber, low sugar, high water. I’ll do those 8 diets a day and turn into a hot hunk soon. Plus the fitness center – the tread mill, the machines whose names I don’t know, the hot gym instructor, the sauna and the pool next door – that’s inspiration enough to turn me into one gym-rat. I’ll soon look like one of those Adonis-lookalikes in Bollywood. Remember Hrithik’s ‘Sex-line’, that V just between his navel and crotch? I’m gonna look like that. Soon, very soon, mon ami.

I wonder what will happen to my arse, if I start gymming though. Will it lose its suppleness? Will it become hard and uncomfortable when you do me? Or will it turn into a flat, concave item in my body that I can’t trace? Too many questions about my god-damn arse! I like saying it the way the Brits do, a.r.s.e. Sounds big and adorable, two luscious melons that add to my curves, yet make me complete. And yes, I am the Silk Smitha you adore, with those Thunder thighs, like Atlas mountains they bear my bum. What will you do without them? As a gym rat, I’ll be too chiseled, like a stone sculpture, Michelangelo’s David or something – too weird while even wearing drag. How can I be a pectoral-calf-bulging-biceps-filled Queen? Have you ever seen Queen Victoria or at least her statuettes, mein Schatz? She was as wide and all-encompassing as Her Highness’ Empire. But I shall ditch Her Majesty’s silhouette and turn into Her Majesty’s Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandson’s physique (wondering if that meant Charles or Henry, I’m sure I’ve burnt some twenty million calories with these thoughts alone, need to jerk off to that red-haired bugger). Sigh!

I’ll cry about this for the next couple of days and nights, cry through those horrid work-outs and body-trimming sessions. I’ll bake in the oven called ‘the gym’ and shall be carved like turkey, only a bigger one. I wonder if they made pills to shrink bones, muscle, fat and brain too? I’m probably suffering from a phenomenon called hyperventilation. Like someone infamous said, some thousand years ago, when the ruthless Hand of God brushed across the houses in Egypt, stealing the souls of the first-born, regardless of their faith – ‘this too shall pass’, amore mio.

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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.

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