Sticky Wicket

I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds sexy to me!  Check out my new article on firstpost.com, India’s brand-new one and only digital newsroom — part of the CNN network, and aiming to be the Huffington Post of India, the first online place to go for news analysis & commentaries on breaking issues.

Jai Hind — We Can Beat Those Wankers

… in which I propose legalizing sex toys in India … lay out a five-point programme for a nationwide Masturbate-A-Thon … and use a whole bunch of sports metaphors!

Rewriting Herstory

I have a guest post up at Racialicious.com called Rewriting Herstory Through Erotic Romance – if you want to check it out, it’s here. You can leave comments here or there. I will appreciate either :).

Fantasmagoric

I’ve had varying degrees of fantasies for as long as I can remember. I don’t remember ever feeling ashamed or embarrassed by them either, which always made me feel very alive, healthy, and evolved, especially compared to so many others I’ve known and still know to be repressed.

For this reason, porn is of little interest to me. I can literally dream up more interesting scenarios in my sleep. Role-playing, dirty talk, have a pole installed in one’s bedroom, costumes…yes, yes, it’s all very fun and intriguing.

What may be most invigorating, though, is fantasizing about someone other than your partner (that is if you have a steady). Those who say they don’t are lying, I don’t care who you are, or how committed you are. Commitment has nothing to do with who you’re jerking off to, and that’s how nature intended it, I’m sure.

I remember a conversation with some friends talking about a bachelor party that had occurred over the weekend, and these ladies feeling very proud of the fact that their husband’s found the bachelor party “too wild”, or “weren’t interested” in the stripper, or think porn is “funny”.

I found it hard to keep a straight face, as you can imagine. It should go without saying that indulging our sexual minds in this way is the highest form of commitment there is. Looking, imagining, fantasizing about someone else sexually is and should be completely harmless and widely accepted. If only more people would acknowledge this openly and honestly, ignoring the pitying looks of their friends who think their partners are content with making love to soft music in the background on a bed of roses and a bottle of champagne on the nightstand. There’s a good chance your partner wants to fuck the hottie downstairs in the building stairwell, and that should be ok with you because you want to fuck the hottie too. You know you do.

Mild Imagination

My partner is a chocolate-loving, soft-spoken intellectual whose attention I couldn’t get during the World Series if I rollerbladed naked around the living room covered in cookie dough.

In pursuit of some new fun, only one idea made sense—the baseball jersey. I paired it with red Christian Louboutin pumps. The shoes were expensive, but are too uncomfortable to actually wear outside for long. And I’m not one to let things go to waste.

What occurred to me in hatching this plan is the dichotomy of nudity versus the tease of provocative clothing. I once knew someone who preferred women under sheer clothing, preferably from head to toe (Did this somehow related to his mother’s house dress? I had no desire to “go there”). And certainly plenty of people think there’s nothing sexier than a naked woman in heels.

I personally find lingerie repugnant. I’ve never been one to pull off intricate, frilly, lacy under things. Never had the patience (or grace) for all that.

Scantily clad women cover our city. They own the night. Everyone notices. This is the motivation. Is there a difference among drunk girls in mini’s and plunging necklines, burlesque performers, and those blatantly advertising sex? Does it matter? The modesty movement champions self-restraint and discourages provocation (at least physically) and promotes celebrating one’s ”inner” wildness.

Many might find this limiting (ya think?). I don’t define myself by my sexuality, it’s just one component. But, if I’m feeling less like a mom covered in dog hair and splashed milk, and more like a hot wife on my man’s arm stomping down the street feeling leggy and glorious, you better believe I’m going to revel in it as long as possible.

Yesterday was Halloween, and the scantily clad were in full force. Yet how many outfits were “slutty” or “whorish” or “attention-seeking”. Are we really just “haters” or are we fearful? Fearful that we’re not as attractive as her, not as desired, or pleasing to the eye? Isn’t most judgement mired in insecurity? Is it judgement? Misogyny? Intellectual or religious observation? Why do we make distinctions between “classy” and “trashy” when it comes to celebrating our sexuality via clothing? Amidst the Snookie/Wonder Woman/Playboy Bunny/Lady Gaga look-alikes, how many of those women are actually “sluts”?

The answer? None of our goddamn business. Live and let live. Fully clothed or not.

Broken Vows

I enter every room like a wisp of smoke. All surrender. It’s not a question of if, or when, but how.

Scene One:

I see the steepled erection underneath your robes–your fingers twitching to touch yourself, to touch me, as I bare my breasts to the cool air. My nipples pucker and harden. I run my fingers over each one in turn, my eyes never leaving yours. I reach out to grip the solid warmth of your hard-on through the robes you’ve worked so diligently to earn. I pull you closer. My fingers twist through your hair as I bring your head down to my breast, and you suckle it eagerly. I hold back a smile. Your saintly vows are not mine. You entered the brotherhood–not I. And it is you, not I, who turned your back on what you cannot deny. Tonight, it is I who will ride you, bucking and gasping–one hand kneading my breast, the other thrumming my clit–until all sense of sin and purity is annihilated, and each flows one into the other with no demarcation. For here is what I know that the men of god will not tell you–I am the gate to the great mystery of redemption.

Scene Two:

You are married, as am I, and almost twice my age. But here, in this shadow world between yours and mine, I will have you. I will feel the weight of your breasts in my hands, roll and pull your nipples between my thumb and forefinger. I will lower my mouth to the swelling folds of your vulva and kiss you tenderly, at first. And then, when you begin to rise beneath me, I will slip my fingers, as many as you will take, between your velvet walls, and pound a rhythm deeper than Ancient into you. You will long to shatter. Because tonight, we lie cloaked . . . wandering this shadow world between yours and mine. Tomorrow, we will remember the promises we were forced to make, and return to them–peaceful, satisfied, and resurrected.

Scene Three:

I would tell you the next scene, but you already know it. It sits on its haunches in a room you keep barred. You hush, you threaten, you punish as the door rattles. And then it comes roaring to life, infinitely larger than you remembered . . . and you whimper in the face of such unharnessed force. When you raise your eyes, your gaze meets mine. And then you know. One little push, and you’re free.