Have you ever read me, all of me, my words, my creation, my poetry, my prose, all at once, everything I ever had to say, the words said as well as the thoughts left unsaid? Is it just me who does that? It seems like I’ve been a sponge all my life, absorbing the words of total strangers, pouring their lives into my soul, drinking their words like nectar. I remember being parched for your words but you never quenched my thirst, instead you shoved poems up my ass, watching your words dissolve, slowly, and seep inside my body like a saline drip. Tonight, I wish to be read like an open rose, tonight I want to be remembered for these words, the very words I will despise tomorrow for all the thoughts left unsaid.
I was watching porn last night. My old lady down under was feeling a bit neglected, so I decided to take my time browsing for just the right thing to get those juices flowing.
It must be said – for porn newbies like me, it takes a while before it hits the spot. It needs patience, it needs experience, and willingness to get your hands dirty. First, you need to set the basic premise. Are you in the mood for foreplay, or will you get down to business? Is this going to be a quickie, or will you go for second and third helpings? And what about dessert? Once this is done, you may open that incognito mode in your browser and begin.
At first glance, there are several categories you can eliminate right away. Big tits? Not my thing. Lesbian, gay, bestial, Hentai, MILF, cartoon, anime, cosplay, foot fetishes, handjob, blowjob, masturbation, trans, pregnancy, pissing – hell no. (I like to stay on top of things that don’t get me off). This part needs careful experimentation – start with a small peek like a voyeur hot on their prey, and if it’s too much to handle, get out before you’re scarred for life.
Now, don’t let your freak fetishes tie you down. Be open to exploring your options, you might find yourself pleasantly stimulated. Don’t be afraid to use the search button, no one’s going to judge you for typing in ‘schoolgirl pigtails minge’ (plus it’s incognito so fuck off). Another tip – you may think ‘mainstream explicit’ is a wonderful discovery – Salma Hayek is a total babe, look she’s taking off that white top now – and suddenly, wham – out of nowhere you’re watching a B-grade actress being groped by a moustached hunk, or watching some girl piss on a hairy chest. Point of no return, you have been warned.
Jeez. If you took all that seriously, you’re sadder than I am. I was never a porn person, but times like these really make you introspect. They tell you porn is unrealistic, that nobody has that much fun during sex, and porn stars are really gods and goddesses in disguise, messing with our heads. (Never heard that last one before? I made it up. But imagine if that were true.) But to them, I say: romcoms are not exactly pragmatic and believable either, sex is fun if you are having fun with it, and at least with porn, there are no unpleasant surprises at the end (no one dies in porn and it has something for everybody). That’s a one up for porn.
People ask me why I keep visiting Goa, over and over. I tell them there are multiple ways to see the same place. Even a mirror reflects only one angle at a time, you need to turn and twist until you see the whole picture.
Goa is a place where energies combine – sex meets spiritualism – and one feels a general sense of belonging. It got me thinking whether it’s the place that makes the people, or is it the other way round? Maybe people don’t really belong to any place, they belong unto themselves. I seem to belong everywhere and nowhere. I constantly find myself in the strange and eccentric company of musicians, poets, models, entrepreneurs, creators, and I am merely the onlooker, the dreamer, the realist, the observer, the invisible writer in a crowd of outliers.
Today I sit in one of the hippest cafès in Goa, typing away on my laptop – the only brown, rotund, tar-smoking, coffee-drinking city-dweller on the brink of death and external existential crisis, among a sea of white, fit, tan hippies smoking pot, braless, fearless, babies on one hip, dreadlocked and loose-lipped, and for a minute I experience the familiar dread of not belonging – but only for a minute. How shallow of me to pass judgment from the outside, how obtuse of me to label the aesthetic as empty shells, for I have found pearls in the most unlikely places.
And so I just relax the furrows on my brow, sink into my chair and put on a smile. At least for this morning, I am comfortable in my own skin and happy to just be me, and for now, that is enough.
My room is a mess. The mess used to feel like home earlier. Now everything feels a little alien, like I’ve taken over someone else’s body, someone else’s chaos. This is not my mess. I want someone else to claim it. Every morning I empty the pile on my chair on to my bed. Every night I put it back, but I add a bit more to it. A little bit more, just enough that it doesn’t spill over. When you forget something, you have to retrace your steps in an attempt to remember it. Even the most inconsequential things can jog your memory. Like the sock dangling over the full-length mirror, or the empty coffee cup that’s left dried stains on the desk. I’m in a loop, revisiting my life in an attempt to fill in the blanks. None of this is real. I have already lived, and now I’m just waiting, waiting for the end of the circle, the beginning.
I was sitting in my usual corner in the café, when I noticed something interesting. A woman was sitting at the table opposite mine, quite unnoticed by me until the person she was waiting for showed up. The door opened, he walked in and she flashed him a brilliant smile that shone in the semi-darkness – pearly white teeth, dimpled cheeks and wrinkles around her welcoming eyes.
I cannot remember the last time I smiled that way, or was even smiled at with such delight. I realize I greet people with curt nods and save my smiles for the moments that are truly deserving. And now those moments have simply passed me by, waiting, hoping and finally surrendering. I have amassed my own smiles, my own unabashed laughter, affection and naiveté. I realize I’ve been trading silly for sullen and smiles for scowls.
I do not remember leaving a trail back to my store of smiles. Maybe I can trade my frowns again. Maybe I shall dance in the rain again. Maybe someday I will smile for no reason and make that my moment to treasure.
It’s a long, lonely afternoon. The sun beats down with all its might and the people wither and wilt. I manage to fold my legs in the swiveling office chair and stare at the heads bent over their laptops.
This is not where I belong.
I begin at the no. It’s a nice, round ‘o’ sound that carries into the silence. I begin here, not at nothing, but at something less than nothing.
Each no I utter shoves me deeper into a stone cold pit. It’s not bad, I quite like it down here. But then those voices begin shouting my name. Then come the search parties, stumbling with flashlights through the dark undergrowth. Worried, concerned voices, searching for me in the wrong places. I remain silent. I let them yell and they get louder each night. The voices, they comfort me. I want to be sought, yet I want to remain lost to the world.
I am lost, even now, to the world that represses, the world that sits in judgment and the world that drowns out perfect harmonies.
And so I run. Wind-whipped hair and a gasp of air, hear the beat, feel the heat, run fast, lose the past, hit the wall, break the fall, take a plunge, fill your lungs, forget what you know and just let go.
Our shadows tangle
into an obscene dance
thousand caresses take flight
in half a second’s glance
I’d mistaken midnight nudity
as penchant for the perverse
but your soul sucked out
the poison in my verse
and my silhouette
bathes in the moonlight
it stands tall and pure,
yet eclipsed by the night
Is this how you see me –
just a unicorn shadow,
a darkened face in
a distant window?
But I’d rather be a silhouette
than a mere reflection
I’d rather be words
than a lilting temptation