The Brave Pedestrian

1.15 PM. February 8, 1965. A boy and a girl, unmindful of the sun, Sought some private moments on A lonely pier stretching into the Arabian Sea. An entwining of limbs, heavy breathing, a cry And millions of enterprising sperms were swimming Upstream in a mixture of viscous fluids. Some minutes or hours later, A hard-working little fellow Impregnated a singularly fortunate egg And I came into existence. From being a nothing, a nobody, I became a somebody. The rest of those millions of sperms… Each of whom could equally have become A little boy or a girl Were doomed at this exalted moment To be flushed down the drains With so much urine. So were these sacred moments or profane ones? Moments of creation or destruction? Were they beautiful or ugly? Were they sublime or smelly? Did my dad talk dirty? Did mom's cries of pleasure Disturb the sea gulls Or cause an unseen fisherman to hurry To meet his own beloved? To th...

Pressing my need into yours I gaze into your eyes Searching in their depths for an answer: a look that says, "Yes... you are deeply mine. We are One." But your eyes smile, and say instead, "This moment is ours. Journey on." And our limbs and our fingers intertwine comfortingly. Heaven is within us, palpable within the rhythm of our fluid molten flesh poised like an ocean wave about to break, waiting to descend like a thunderclap, a cry of migratory birds, a foretaste of eternal sleep. I have but to close my eyes, match my rhythm, submit to its oceanic will, let it take me, crush me into myself into itself into nothingness into allness. It is a breath waiting to be drawn. But I... I will not draw that breath. I gaze into your open eyes waiting for a fleeting affirmation of Oneness. I sense the moment slipping away from us. Your lids grow heavy, breathing quickens. A sigh, gasp, shudder. Molten flesh releases its heat. You ascend to your own private heaven. I gaze...

It is like a song that is sung in the dark. Her voice, rising, falling, rising higher Like waves, like the sea And his low voice as he urges her on. He delights in her cries, And she... She delights in herself, in free-falling Away from herself Into herself Hurtling backwards in the soft darkness Towards herself, arms and legs outspread. And she cries out in longing and the Joy of meeting And he responds to her song With his rhythm, Causing the waves in her belly, In her entire being. Waves that collapse upon themselves In a froth of pleasure And a high note through clenched teeth that trails Into silence And makes itself one with the night. Naked limbs softly twine and intertwine all night Warm brown flesh caressing luxurious cool white flesh Now in sleep, now in wakefulness... Silken smoothness pressed against creamy softness Dripping pleasure slowly like a burning candle all night Melting down but not quite going out before dawn. The song continues to play in the silence And ne...

There was a time, about 7 years ago, when my blogger nickname was Friendly Ghost or FG. And just to debunk the myth that I am always a serious-minded person, I want to repost this blog about a chat that I had with a bubbly blogger-buddy whose nickname was Saakshee. March 12, 2007: Those of you who are privileged to know the quirky Saakshee know that she's looking for e-pals now. There ain't nobody on this iLand who has a cyber-libido like her, and who has as large an appetite for cyber-flirting as she does. But here's some breaking news: until Friday, it seemed as though she was devoutly an atheist who turned up her nose at the Hallowed Spirit. But one found that she falls down most ardently before Him. Indeed, she wishes to embrace Him with a passion. How did a ghost make this startling discovery? While chatting with her of course! Read on: FG: So you don’t wanna talk serious tomorrow? Saakshee: NO FG: You wanna flirt as usual? Saakshee: YES FG: okeedokee… Sa...

I feel it’s just part of being a man that your mind is capable of sublime thoughts as well as profanity, sometimes within the space of a single second. Maybe it is because these are only imaginary classifications, distinctions that we make because of our acculturation and upbringing. I personally hold that the sacred and the profane live cheek-by-jowl, not only in our minds but even in the world… in the Supermind, if I may use that coinage. I believe that a man of depth is familiar with all dimensions of his body and mind — accepts everything, judges nothing, loves or loathes nothing. By extension, I believe that a true man of depth loves the world in its entirety, even if he engages outwardly in efforts to change some things within himself, or in the world. I don’t know if it works the same way for women. I know that there’s this widespread belief that a kiss is a kiss, arousal is arousal, a f**k is a f**k, an orgasm is an orgasm, irrespective of whether you’re a man or a wom...