Aloof

I guess we just have to realize the control (or lack thereof) we have over people or things.

I guess what naturally happens then is that slowly but surely you start getting out of fucks. The sentiment that it stems from is that if the things you do for someone is never really going to be enough, you might as well stop. Take a step back, try seeing it from an objective point of view.

And what happens when the objective point of view doesn't make sense to you?

I guess you start getting aloof.

Boobs.

He was obsessed with my boobs. He was one of my first few consequential sexual experiences in life and he just couldn’t get enough. He’d grab them as he pleased, he’d put his head on them and sleep in on rainy afternoons and he’d suck them till they hurt sometimes. I was in the 10th grade and if I’d leave my top button unbuttoned of this particular yellow shirt, it’d make him crazy.

I remember the first time he touched my boobs. It was my first real kiss and I’ll forever be indebted to him for making it as amazing as he did. I still feel tingly when I think about it - which admittedly, is often enough. There we were - I was pinned against the wall in a dark room and he kissed me like he’d loved me forever. His hand slowly slid inside my shirt and I think I was way too young to feel what I felt.

Like I said: tingly.

Years after we broke up, we reconnected and conveniently fell into a pattern of hyper-sexual behavior. We stopped making love, but we’d fuck all the time. He was still obsessed with my boobs. He’d suck me off in the backseat of his car and ask me for pictures when I moved to a new city. He’d pinch and he’d bite and I’ve seen him jerk off once to me just stroking my nipples softly.

We were really good in bed together, but I guess when you’re young and doped out, you need more loving than you need love. He was still obsessed with my boobs. I remember I’d met him once with someone else’s marks on my chest and he wasn’t impressed at all. He didn’t look at me when he came that day.

It’s almost poetic then that it was he who found the lumps in my breasts.

Same Time Tomorrow?

It usually happens to me a few moments before I sleep last night. You know, that time of the day when you're just contemplating your split ends, analyzing the weather, thinking about the one that got away, wondering if your parents will ever be able to be happy again, making up your mind about lunch tomorrow... that's when it happens to me. I think about writing and how I've spent another day without it. But as anyone who's ever known me would tell you, I'm good at convincing people of ideas that may not be their own originally and sometimes I see no harm in using the same tactics on myself. Why the hell not, right?

So I tell myself it's okay.

"No one reads your blog anymore. You scribbled some notes in your diary the other day. That surely counts, doesn't it? You do have a writing job, how are you possibly going to churn out any more words? Your thoughts aren't that important anymore. Maybe you only could write when you were in love with someone - and no, being in love with yourself doesn't count. You don't have a man to document; yup, no muse... that's the problem."

It usually happens to me a few moments before I sleep last night. You know, that time of the day when you're just contemplating your split ends, analyzing the weather...

On Most Days.

T and I have been friends for close to a decade now. Actually, cross that - We've known each other close to a decade now and that's really not the same thing. Especially, if you're like me and have known a lot of people over the years. 

When did we become friends exactly? I don't know. What made us identify each other as best friends exactly? I don't know. Why are we still friends exactly? I don't know. 

But I do know that she's feels like home (on most days, anyway). 

I realized it after living with her for about 6 months that we've actually been on a super long sleepover. Late night conversations, morning selfies, weight loss plans, pasta making, way too much alcohol and one too many cigarettes. Nothing has seemingly changed except now we can actually light up in our bedrooms, as opposed to sneakily smoking in her bathroom because her parents are in the house. 

It feels like we've grown up together. Just the other day when I was reading some stuff she wrote back in 2012, I realized just how much the both of us have changed. Is it commendable then that we still are what we are, despite the changes?

We don't like the same kind of people, food or activities. Hell, our go-to alcohol isn't the same anymore either! But, like she put it so beautifully - We may hate on each other all day and she may not approve of most of my life choices, but she tells me if anyone else does the same, she's going to break his face. And I believe her, mostly because she did kill a snake once. True story. 

Would I be friends with her if I met her now? I don't know. But I'm glad I am friends with her.

Because I do know that she feels like home (on most days, anyway).

∞

I will remember that date for a long time. 

Or so I think right now. I say that because doesn't it often happen that at a given time, the moment seems so significant yet as we go along the way into our futures, the moment ceases to remain 'the moment' and just becomes a moment? A moment that is vague and of which you can't recollect too many details; at least not correctly. And sometimes, however subconsciously, you probably even make up a few details here and there just to make the story fall into place more beautifully. In your head. 

But I think you always remember how that moment made you feel. 

But I digress.

I will remember that date for a long time. 

Let's call him 'Sky'. 

Sky had got his father's black sedan car for the date. A Honda City, if I'm not wrong. I have always liked that car. It was the car I had sex for the first time in. It was the car that was owned by a friend's father I had a crush on. It was the car my father never liked enough to buy for himself notwithstanding his general love for cars. It was the car that just generally made me happy. So now when I think about it more, maybe in Sky's case I want the black sedan to be a Honda City; just to make the story fall into place more beautifully.
In my head.
It was really the most fun I had had on a date without any alcohol and with my clothes on.

In that fancy car, Sky and I got really stoned on some brilliant stash Sky had got from his trip to the North East. Then I took Sky to this cafe in Delhi that is a little secluded from the general humdrum. We smoked cigarettes and ate some crappy sandwiches and talked. I had dressed up for Sky that afternoon. I had the readily displayed passion for him that, on looking back, can only be the forte of a woman like me. I am not flattering myself, no. But I was too stoned to really follow what he was saying and yet, I don't think he was able to see through my feigned interest. I put my hand in front of my face and just observed it and kept thinking of pictures with bokeh effect because everything that stood behind my hand was really a blur.

Or maybe, he was rather stoned himself. 

We got back in 'our black Honda City' as it was time for him to drop me back home. Yes, I am that feminist who will talk about 'promiscuity being as much a right of women as it is of men as we are all equal' one moment and crib the next moment if I don't have one of my men pick me up from the airport. Back in the car, I don't remember too much of what we were doing or saying. It was a pretty conventional ride back home. Except, on the way, the station on the radio decided to play Rockstar by Nickelback.
It's not even about the song or the band, but somehow we both sang out loud to our heart's content; word for word, tune for tune. We head-banged and air-guitared through the song too. It really was magical!
The song ended, we were out of breath like we had had to hastily make out against a stranger of a wall.
We gave each other a look for a second that the back benchers of high school give each other before pulling a prank, we cussed a lot because we were just that overwhelmed without much cause and not even a quick kiss was shared, which really didn't change anything.
And in that moment, I could swear, we were infinite.


I will remember that date for a long time.



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I am not a reader. I have probably read about 5 books in my lifetime of a little over two decades. Most of these 5 books I had to read by virtue of having graduated in English Literature. But I read The Perks of Being A Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky last week and I would highly recommend it to everyone.
I should thank Current Lover and the Teacher who is one of the very very few I have ever liked, for making me read it.
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I have been thinking of 'She' for a while now. If you're reading this, I hope you're doing good.
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This post is my attempt to get back to blogging, irrespective of who reads it.
Or well, doesn't.