So here I was, reading a book at home, quite happy to be left all alone on a weeknight, when I get this sms from GanglyGuy. I first met him during the course of a threesome some months ago. He and his boyfriend were both very nice, and we lolled on the silk tasseled cushions in their South Bombay love nest, while smoking weed and playing Strip Rummy. Of course, all the clothes went off, and everyone soon won, and I left that night a very high young man. :)
Three weeks later, I hear that the couple split, and two weeks after that, one of them was already seeing someone else. Good enough, because I quite liked GanglyGuy, the part of the couple who hadn't coupled up yet. And when I bumped into him again at a GB party the other night, he was looking utterly gorgeous in his grungy jeans, t-shirt and dopey eyes, so I flirted with him and told him to buzz me sometime if he wanted to catch up.
So there, in the middle of my Michael Crichton genetic thriller, came his sms: So do u have a place tonight then?
...Something New...
Partying with friends at a trendy bar the other night, and they're crooning Y-M-C-A, much to our delight. And there was the GrandMaratha, a friend of SnowWhite's Stepmother, from distant shores, and I was flirting outrageously with him. He eats his burger hunrily, and of course I flirted with him on that. He dances like a Spanish diva, and of course I flirted with him on that. I moved and I grooved, and I was glad to note that GrandMaratha moved and grooved right back, flirting right back, hands roving over lower back and legs and ass, and Gloria Gaynor was suddenly even more electrifying than usual.
SS and Guppie came over to me, and asked in hushed tones, "Should we leave now, and why don't the two of you, well, do your thing?"
I tittered, and went back to dancing and flirting. And then, when I thought I had the right opportunity, I went over to the GrandMaratha and whispered in appropriately slutty-breathless-hushed tone, "My friends think it's a given, you and I are having sex tonight. So, shall we leave for your hotel now or later, then?"
Then, the unthinkable happened. He blushed.
Damn. :(
...Something Borrowed...
Haven't really been talking with NiceSexThing in a while. I know he's down with the flu, so we chatted briefly online, but that was it. I was supposed to go over to his place, but didn't, because I was feeling a bit too lazy after getting back from work. I would probably have gone anyway, earlier, but I sort of decided to just maintain platonic ties with him, despite the Nice Sex.
It's because he thrives on romance. Even when it's always a one-night stand for him, he thrives on romance. He's one of those guys, for whom sex is no fun without the fleeting thrill of romance and all those mushy gestures like holding hands, walks on the beach, slow dancing and the works. As for me, romance confuses me. Romance confuses me if I don't see it leading anywhere, and then I think, what's the use of all this? If it's just sex we're after, why on earth don't we cut to the chase and screw like rabbits? All the haze and the romance promises me things... which it doesn't deliver, and I don't see the point in getting confused.
Anyhow, his boyfriend is due to hit the city in about a week or so, so I guess his recuperation is guaranteed! *grin*
...Something Blue...
He was driving the car, while I was seated in the back with the client. I don't know what his name was, but I loved the way he smiled back at us in the rear view mirror, and assured us he knew the way to where we had to go. His crinkled blue shirt fitted the contours of hsi body perfectly, and I was imagining how those shoulders would feel to touch and probe. God knows, I was having wicked thoughts, and not really listening to the client rattle on beside me, because what I wanted more than anything was to clamber into the front seat, onto my driver in blue, run my hands through his delicious salt-and-pepper hair, and tear the buttons off...
He drove us around for about five hours that day, and I don't think I'll ever see him again. *sigh*
...And A Silver Sixpence In Her Shoe...
Ok, so I have a Suit Fetish. I've begged corporate guys to come to bed with their ties on. I've loved undoing their blazers and trousers and shiny black shoes, and unknotting their ties to push them against the wall... :) So here I was in the conference room, with this utterly cute investment banker and I was staring at him quite openly. I loved the way he bantered and grinned and winked and stuck his tongue out, when he made a bitchy comment about a competitor. And I loved the Arrow pink shirt, with mother-of-pearl cufflinks, teamed with his dark navy tie, shot with streaks of pink and white, and I was o-so terribly in lust.
He was Gujarati, he said, and I grinned. He had been working at the current job for about two years, he said, and I smiled again. He said he required some reports from me, and I assured him I'd deliver. :)
That's my ideal guy, I told myself, once the meeting ended. I want a tall, hunky, cute Investment Banker from Cuffe Parade or Nariman Point, who understands his numbers and reads his pink papers (no pun intended) and has a holiday home in Matheran or Alibaug. I'm hopeless at Maths and I usually begin my daily newspaper-reading with the tabloids, but I still think we'd make a match. We'd complement each other perfectly. I would help him spend his money, and he would help me decide what to buy.
Perfect.
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