Editor’s Note:

This piece was originally published in The Gaysi Zine Issue 03.

I was forcing myself to write something profound on turning 28. My bestie had called me in the morning and asked me to send her pictures of my gray hair. Do you find her request funny? I don’t know, when she said it, I literally fell off my bed in an ROFL moment. Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating. But her sense of humour and I have been going at it since we were 15.

I was working on my birthday because an international artist had come down for a gig that all of twenty people would show up for. Those twenty people make up for the scenesters that I can’t stand in this city. ‘Oh you went to that gig, did you? Rad, was it? You sicken me!’ A famous “NAMASTE, I AM SO AND SO. YOGA. INDIE MUSIC. BANGLES. THIS IS MY JOURNEY.” artist and I exchanged some friendly smiles that day. To butcher Shania Twain’s words, she didn’t impress me much. Not that she needed to, she owned a house in Bandra and I was trying to get the fungus out of my underwear.

Now moving on to greener pastures, I might as well be honest, it’s been a couple of months since I’ve got some action. Having standards and no social life will do that to you. I’ve even resorted to telling my dad to set me up. My dad calls it ‘sending me leads.’ The day he doesn’t come across any interesting profiles to share, he’ll send me a morose whatsapp message, ‘No leads today. Sad smiley face.’

Anyway, I’m digressing. This is a queer magazine, so I should write about bare backing and dental dams. Speaking of which, I hope all of you indulge in safe sex. A lot of sex, but safe sex. No need to flaunt your sex life in my face though, my cob webs take offence to that.

Back to real world talk. I recently injured my knee and had to get a cast on my leg for two weeks. It’s important to note that I have no recollection of how my knee got the booboo. One day I woke up and found myself limping. DO YOU KNOW HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO EXPLAIN THAT TO PEOPLE?

Hey. You’re hurt, how did that happen?

Funny story, I don’t remember.

Liar. It’s that crazy sex life of yours.

Ha ha ha. Totes man, totes.

Fucker. I wish it were that.

But I settled on the excuse that I injured it while dancing. In hindsight, not the best excuse because everyone at work now looks at me like I’m an unfit cow. Though not all sucks in my life – I did get two weeks off of work. I flew to be in the witness protection of my parents in Delhi; they took care of me, I had free wi-fi, watched a lot of porn, jerked off a bit, all was well with the world.

And since I’m already digging myself a hole here, I might as well confess that I hate shaving my armpits. My mother has wept at this realization. Yes the ‘ye din dekhne se pehle uth kyun nahi gayee main, bhagwaaann?’ scenes have happened. I’ll save my period stain story for some other time, only so much fabulousity for one piece.

I’ve been in the country for about 5 years and I feel like the poorest NRI around. Everybody around me keeps honeymooning in New Zealand. Quick question: why is everyone vacationing in New Zealand? Mad love to the country and all, but aren’t honeymoons all about booty shorts and topless sun bathing? Or maybe that’s my version of it. I just need a reason to flash people.

And on that note: ladies, if you buy me a drink, I’ll wish you an early happy birthday with a quick sneak peak.

To end this on an entirely modest note, all you need to know about me is that I think I’m really pretty. And that my rack deserves a mention. Or two.

Kisses.

Ms K.