That Clicking Sound

Tut tut tut.
Made my heels a forgotten song.
'Tis been a season since I put some makeup on.
Stretched across a stocking or that sexy thong.
Tut tut tut.
Where did the beats go?
Drunken revelry with my friend and foe.
Sleep arrives early and the mornings so.
Tut tut tut.
Days go by without a shave.
Oversized tee and shorts to save.
Glamour forgone, once I used to crave.
Tut tut tut.
Why don't I comprehend much?
Keep reading and reading, don't sink in such.
Harder I try, keep losing the touch.
Tut tut tut.
Whatever did happen here.
Rusted engine, wheels and gear.
So much for all my political queer.
Tut tut tut.
Maybe one day I shall get up back.
Catch up with all that has so far lack.
And have this song another crack.
Tut tut tut.

28 January, 2016

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Banalities of Desi Kink Scene

I seriously don't comprehend the Delhi BDSM scene. What is this stringent adherence to the traditionally normative Dom/Sub roles? As if BDSM is only equivalent to the dynamics between masters and slaves alone. I'm sorry but I don't identify as a sub or a slave. The idea of simply submitting your autonomy for no random reason but that you're just simply expected to; is fucking boring to me. Also, submitting your identity to that of a "slave" blurs the line between dominance and degradation (at least going by Delhi male mentality). I don't find humilation erotic and I'm clear about that. And if a dom crosses that line, I like to have some agency to protest it. That's why I identify as a 'Brat' which is one of the many varied roles in masochism.

Individual Rights

It's about time we retire some redundant rhetoric about queer rights. In 2015, why are we still trying to sanitize and insist that queer rights is about "individual rights and not about sex"? What individual rights are we talking about which don't constitute the magnanimous gamut of systemic social issues revolving around sex alone?

About Respect

Time and again, over the years, many people have said this to me with an underlying emphasis, about how much they "respect" me, or "respect" who I am. Of course what they're referring to is not just my gender, or rather what my gender appears to them; but more so the fact that I am so out about it. In the early years, with all my social anxiety amplified by mustering the courage to simply wear what makes me feel alive in my skin; I never knew how to react to 'compliments' such as these. Fundamentally, I am always aware of the sweet sentiment behind saying it.

Dida

I spent this Father's Day at my grandmother's place all the way up in Rohini. We were sitting and reminiscing about my childhood days. How every summer vacations, I used to spend full two months at my grandparents' place when it used be in Dilshad Garden (This is pre metro era, and it used to take two hours to get there by a DTC bus). She reminded me of this peculiar little game I used to play as a kid, which I had absolutely forgotten about.

Scars

You know what you did, right? For every little mistake your wrath was my price to pay. As you charged towards me with those centaur legs, I would fall to the ground and crawl into that corner. Behind the sofa. She had soon figured why I did that everytime. Your unusually large feet never found regular hawaii chappals. The ones that wear out with time, and thin and soften. You went for those heavy flesh colored Bata floaters. Its thick base made of rubber reinforced with plastic. Its sole illustrated with linear zig zag patterns. The grooves deep enough to leave red and blue block prints on my skin.

For Sleepyheads Only

When I had just finished college, I wanted to take a break. Learn some new software, experiment with some of my own works, and to be honest, chill for a bit. Dad gave me an ultimatum, that I couldn't sit jobless and have to contribute to the household bills. Ad agency was the easiest job to get because my art college groomed us for the advertising industry. I got in as a trainee. And I didn't like it. I eventually made friends and acquaintances with some cool people. But initially it was horrid. By the end of the first week I was sitting behind my desk crying. It was stressful right at the get go. I was doing 12-18 hour shifts already.

Grape

How potent must be this wine, undiscovered and untouched, eternally fermented in the lonely sorrows of infinite longing. How delirious must be its intoxication, flooding your mind and drowning every desire; as I swim deep into its ocean of darkness, to that lost cemetery where you buried all this desolate pain; I soak it all up within my porous heart, and let you squeeze it till the last drop, slowly out of my infatuate soul. How magnificent would it be to drink from this forbidden chalice, polished to glisten, by an endless onslaught of hate and regret; as you question the very notion of love, and discover it once again, in my unkempt garden of dreams; I dare you, to take a sip.

The Anal Allegory

...And then he slowly slid inside. With introductions of some unfathomable pain. "It's just the tip", he said; "Wait. Wait. Slowly unclench." As the sphincter gives in, the cock slides deeper. Slowly. Slimily. The pain does recede, but never subsides. Instead it transforms. Pleasure peculiar. Have you wondered what the other half of the cock feels from inside? This is the closest you'll come to know. And it spreads like some sluggish magma within. And then he pulls out. Suddenly you realize. With your gaping hole. Inviting some more. Oh, the pleasure peculiar! Watermelon. I didn't get the joke when my friends cracked up. Trying to explain what it feels like afterwards. But oh yes, watermelon. I don't really know how better to explain. So now you can shame me, for Boy! I have arrived. And I arrived again. Once more again. On the sheets. On his chest. Accidentally on his precious denims on the floor. But hush, he doesn't know it yet. Well, he doesn't really know a lot anyway. For all he knows is how to fuck. For he is The Man. Born with a magic wand. Swirl it thrice, anti-clockwise. And the world attains salvation. With your magic wand. And your art of fornication. But somehow, if you take it up your ass, all hell breaks loose. Defiled. Diminished. Deteriorated. The sanctimonious male pride has a fracture. For you let your honor be breached, installed inside your hole. Challenging the unquestioned almighty structure. Oh but it’s alright, if you're the one to fuck. You can fuck any hole you like as long as your own is untouched. Holes in the nation. Holes in the society. Holes in the family. Holes in your marriage. Holes in our economy. Holes in the classes. Holes in the masses. Literally any hole you can find, it's your domain. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. "Wait. Wait. Slowly unclench." [We regret any inconvenience caused by the transmission of this message] Sex is dirty. Oh so so dirty. How dare I talk about cocks and holes? Beep and beep. Because you can beep around but not talk around. We are told how to speak. We are told how to fuck. We are told how to eat. We are told how to shit. They even made fucking laws to govern it. The days go by, living everyone else's lives. And at night, Oh shush! So now that I am speaking, let me proclaim. Taking it up my ass, how I fucking love it! You can keep your pride. You can keep your shame. You can keep your laws. And you can write down my name. Because rather than be The Man you all want me to be, I'd be that godforsaken felon. Who gives a shit about respectable Love™? Because fucking watermelon!

Blink

Lost in deep retrospection, there comes one fraction of a moment when you blink. Suddenly the object of your immovable and unabsorbed stare becomes clear. Like a lens settling upon a focal point, you see everything. Everything that should be, is right there in front of you. So immotile and lifeless. Even with their immotile identity, their existence doesn't complement yours anymore. They are there. Just there. Like the whole world. The whole scenery is there. But they don't look at you. They don't even know you're here. Standing silently as if in mourning. Is that why it is so unnervingly quiet here? There has got to be some sound, right? The crickets? The white noise? My breath? The intensity of this quietude sinks to the depths like a scream that reaches beyond. A restlessness fills the air floating amidst an unaware complacence of life. An abrupt impulse surges within to destroy everything that is so helplessly immotile and lifeless. At least that will create a sound, right? Just so that I don't feel those inaudible screams in my head anymore. But now they see me. All of them. They turn their heads and notice me. Was it all it took? Just a meaningless destruction? Was it all I needed? Acknowledgement to my existence as a part of this world? And then I blink again. They don't see me because of the noise I made. It’s just a glance of pity. For they don't even see each other. I am as immotile and lifeless as they are. We all just stand here devoid of any motion. Endlessly waiting for the screaming quietude to drive some insanity towards the destruction of this paused moment. My salvation. So, I wait. Immotile and lifeless...

That Clicking Sound

28 January, 2016

Shubham Bose Roy

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Banalities of Desi Kink Scene

Shubham Bose Roy

Individual Rights

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Dreamspace

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About Respect

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Crashing Typography

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Abode

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Dida

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Scars

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For Sleepyheads Only

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Grape

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The Anal Allegory

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Blink

Shubham Bose Roy