of disbelief

I got the following comment yesterday from a fellow Indian sister, who seemed particularly upset with my post on masturbation.

Indian girls doesnt do mastebation. Only immoral and shameless girls like you who writes about personel things on net. you are also living with a boy without any marrige shame on you. you are dirting our name of Indian girls . you are going to hell……………………

of vanity

I decided to dress up a little for work today. Fitted white shirt with a grey knee-length skirt that rides up just enough when I sit down. Pointy stilettos that go tick-tock-tick-tock as I walk.

Most women I know don’t want to admit this, but they enjoy being treated as sexual objects. Okay, maybe not objects, but if there was ever a being that was ALWAYS aware of its sexuality, it definitely was female. 

of good neighbors

Here you are again, slouching in your chair, head bent over your laptop, trying to type at the same speed as your thoughts. A million things a minute, no less!

You stop to breathe for a while. One thing at a time, please, and you shift your focus to where it all began. You think about the man who lived across the street when you were thirteen, who would sit in his balcony and read the newspaper every day. How he looked at you from across the street on a winter afternoon and how you read his mind.

Later that evening, you slipped on the road as you brought home groceries. He was there, right behind you, to arrest your fall. You got all coy and lady-like, and meekly whispered a “thank you uncle”. At home, you thought about how his hand around your bare waist felt warm and rough and moist and electrifying at the same time.

Years later, you finally gather the strength to admit that you weren’t about to fall until you realized he was walking behind you.