of questions

Because I’m attracted to you, he said.

As I tried to make sense of what he had just said, one of his hands found its way around my waist for the briefest moment and his face came really close to mine, and it felt like my skin was on fire. I withdrew, and then realized my skin wanted to be on fire.

And what did I do? Punched him in the face. Not because he was attracted to me – I already knew that – but because his saying it aloud meant I’d have to end it with him.

That, my friend, is the kind of chemistry I had to walk away from that night. It wasn’t easy, but I have never wanted a relationship with A – I am already in one with Mister. And btw, A knew too that nothing would come of our little game. It’s not like he has been pining for me – he goes home with a different girl every night anyway. I am just someone he can’t have and therefore, wants.

Are you familiar with the exhilaration that flirtation gives you; the gentle tug of anticipation and the endless possibilities? The joys of not knowing? The guilty pleasure that only comes from knowing that someone wants you desperately?

That night, when I went to A’s club to see what he was up to, I was looking for the same thrill. I needed to remember how it felt to be desired. A’s being “in love” with me is exciting and flattering, and I needed to feel the temptation again. I sought nothing else; I did not go there to cheat on Mister, and you know that.

Why, then did I need to be reminded of my marital status?

Does marriage turn people into asexual beings who don’t (or shouldn’t) care how people react to them? 

Do you not feel some sort of self-aggrandization when you indulge in harmless flirtation? Do you not feel this magnification of self-image when someone fawns over you?

What do you do when you learn that a good looking guy in your office/gym likes you? Do you not make an effort to dress better or behave better around them?



of flirtation

You’re driving to work on a lousy winter morning. You see bikes zipping past you, and that makes you wish you were on a bike instead of going clutch-brake-clutch-brake on a busy-as-hell road. You stop at a signal, and a red car stops next to you. The left side of your face starts to become conscious of being stared at. You get that a lot, and have developed your own version of a frosty-nosed combat stare especially for times like these. You’re startled by what you see. It’s a good looking guy wearing really hot sunglasses, not a middle-aged man or a jatt/gujjar boy. Your face lights up. Visibly. Shit. He can see that I am flattered.

He smiles at you and you Continue reading of flirtation