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They are usually dishevelled strangers whom I meet in washrooms and bring home for sex.
Several of the men display criminal tendencies by demanding money from me after we finish.
In bed, they are all penetrators who dislike the use of condoms. [Peanut gallery: "Further reflecting their criminal tendencies?"]
Sunil, who's a waiter, really turns me on with his lewd ways. [Peanut gallery: "Lewd? What does he do, wink suggestively at you, sir?"]
"I want to show the world that I am so virile that I can even make a man pregnant."
"You've got to be white though, for the tattoo to suit you." [Peanut gallery: this was maybe problematized in the story sort of, but god knows it would only truly be appropriate if swiftly punished with fists to the nose]
Steve and I have known each other for ages. Steve loves Indians because he hates extremities of complexion, and Indians, according to him, are just right, neither too pale skinned like the Europeans, nor too dark like the Africans.
Steve was the first man I ever came out to, and it was because he is white. Indians like myself are comfortable discussing our sexuality with the white man, because he lives far away and is unlikely to out us. He is also without morals.
"Are you a size queen? Because I'm one."
We became buddies after that. Not lovers, because we simply weren't each other's sexual type. We trusted each other completely, and soon discovered we had other passions in common, such as our preference for working men. In queer politics parlance, we became "sisters".
He became promiscuous, though fortunately he did not test positive when he took an HIV exam recently. [Peanut gallery: "Aww, did he not study?"]
None of my sexual encounters had blossomed into anything permanent, where I had someone to care for me when I was sick, or perform my last rites when I kicked the bucket.
"Daft!" I said to Steve, whose reply was that Robert was his honey, and honeys had a right to be daft.
He is such a maverick, greying at the temples, not enslaved by bureaucracy and red tape, that at one stroke he alters my impression of policemen forever. He also knows English. [Peanut gallery: "Just shag John McCain already if you want a maverick." "I hate you so much for making me think about that."]
He then confirmed my worst fears, giving me gooseflesh. My shady sexual life will be exposed. I too might be regarded as a pedophile, and lynched.
They know I'm a novice in the world of crime, and treat me like a baccha.
Apparently this short-haired Parsi lady whom I have never met [...]
"Sex, of course, isn't just intercourse." [Peanut gallery: "So educational! :)"]
This is disgusting. Proof of the fact that firangs are sick. They see sex even where it does not exist.
"I believe she has clout." "The bitch!"
He hovers his hand over my crotch. [Peanut gallery: this is never sexy; but at least a "hesitantly" would make sense ]
"Even I can be gay," he says, and bursts out laughing. It's a laughter that does not cease until late in the night, when he passes out on the sofa.
Several of the men display criminal tendencies by demanding money from me after we finish.
In bed, they are all penetrators who dislike the use of condoms. [Peanut gallery: "Further reflecting their criminal tendencies?"]
Sunil, who's a waiter, really turns me on with his lewd ways. [Peanut gallery: "Lewd? What does he do, wink suggestively at you, sir?"]
"I want to show the world that I am so virile that I can even make a man pregnant."
"You've got to be white though, for the tattoo to suit you." [Peanut gallery: this was maybe problematized in the story sort of, but god knows it would only truly be appropriate if swiftly punished with fists to the nose]
Steve and I have known each other for ages. Steve loves Indians because he hates extremities of complexion, and Indians, according to him, are just right, neither too pale skinned like the Europeans, nor too dark like the Africans.
Steve was the first man I ever came out to, and it was because he is white. Indians like myself are comfortable discussing our sexuality with the white man, because he lives far away and is unlikely to out us. He is also without morals.
"Are you a size queen? Because I'm one."
We became buddies after that. Not lovers, because we simply weren't each other's sexual type. We trusted each other completely, and soon discovered we had other passions in common, such as our preference for working men. In queer politics parlance, we became "sisters".
He became promiscuous, though fortunately he did not test positive when he took an HIV exam recently. [Peanut gallery: "Aww, did he not study?"]
None of my sexual encounters had blossomed into anything permanent, where I had someone to care for me when I was sick, or perform my last rites when I kicked the bucket.
"Daft!" I said to Steve, whose reply was that Robert was his honey, and honeys had a right to be daft.
He is such a maverick, greying at the temples, not enslaved by bureaucracy and red tape, that at one stroke he alters my impression of policemen forever. He also knows English. [Peanut gallery: "Just shag John McCain already if you want a maverick." "I hate you so much for making me think about that."]
He then confirmed my worst fears, giving me gooseflesh. My shady sexual life will be exposed. I too might be regarded as a pedophile, and lynched.
They know I'm a novice in the world of crime, and treat me like a baccha.
Apparently this short-haired Parsi lady whom I have never met [...]
"Sex, of course, isn't just intercourse." [Peanut gallery: "So educational! :)"]
This is disgusting. Proof of the fact that firangs are sick. They see sex even where it does not exist.
"I believe she has clout." "The bitch!"
He hovers his hand over my crotch. [Peanut gallery: this is never sexy; but at least a "hesitantly" would make sense ]
"Even I can be gay," he says, and bursts out laughing. It's a laughter that does not cease until late in the night, when he passes out on the sofa.
