*NEW* Recent blog entries

November 30, 2006

Missing my Big Breasts: 2

Contd from earlier post: Important: For all those who might link ALL stories on this site/ blog to me, there are stories that 'belong' to friends -- women unfortunate enough to have suffered the ultimate betrayal at the hands of men they trusted most -- these stories have been written in first person NOT because they are my stories but because writing in first person carries more impact. And perhaps gets the message across. This is a story of child abuse. Not mine...thankfully, not mine...

So, my Big Breasts were a good way of reading men. From the amount of time a man spends checking out my breasts, the way he looked at them and how often; categorising most men and how to deal with them was easy.

Like the Shifty Starer: the dude who will never look at your breasts directly, or not when you are looking at him; but more often than not, you will "catch" him looking at your breasts. These are the dudes who you can at times stare-off by staring back at them. Or the Bludger Bugger: a 'bludge' is an elbow-nudge to the breasts; often done by rather dignified men at social dos, parties and in situations you are least expecting someone to go for your mammaries. It's always a oh-am-sorry-i-bludged-you thing and the Elbows of these gentlemen will often brush against the sides of your breasts while passing a drink, pointing out something or just generally, 'by chance' when talking. Or the Jiggolo: the guy who loves to see a healthy pair of hooters, jiggling. Much like Bart Simpson, if they are big and they are moving, I am going to look at them! However, the daring of these dudes don't just stop at looking. They think that a woman with Big Breasts has to pay some sort of tax for having big ones...usually the tax being letting men bump into her or rub past her etc. Or the Gotta Be Boob guys, who don't mind the girl as long as she has Big Breasts. At one or the other point, I have dated all of the above.

Sigh. Those were the Big Breast days. Now, I have shrunk to half my size and so have them Big Breasts. There was a time when buying the right bra was difficult because there weren't many makes that made bras with the 'right support'. From that to recently realising that the god damn bra was freely moving around inside my shirt...because the breasts had bloody shrunk! Like wearing a loose shirt, it falls all over... Or for that matter realising the trauma that your best fitting top suddenly does not do what it's supposed to do. Now any idiot will tell you that women do not just BUY clothes to wear them. They buy a certain item of clothing because apart from reasons of modesty, that item of clothing also 'does' something for that girl. Like make her look slim. Or make her feel confident. Or make her feel pretty. So you can imagine the trauma when I realised that the top that was my Favourite Sexy Top because it showed just the amount of cleavage I liked (and liked to show!)... had become this strange garment that try hard as I might, I just could not get a bloody cleavage! :( It's gone!!! I mean HELL, from being Miss Busty, recently one of my friends suggested padding my bra to fit into my OWN now-extremely-loose blouse! PADDING~ Ugh. :(

They were my assets. Now I have reduced weight, am the slimmest I have ever been in my life; and looking good too. BUT there are no Big Breasts. In fact, now these aren't even boobs the way I knew them once. (sob) I know have mere Booblets. Sigh.

Post Scrap: As the Princess walked on the fresh grass and felt the soft blades curling between her naked toes, Death said, "You can have all this green grass you know, it's greener than what you have ever known," and smiled his macabre smile. And the Princess contemplated..."But isn't this grass growing on the septic tank?"

November 28, 2006

Missing my Big Breasts

Important: For all those who might link ALL stories on this site/ blog to me, there are stories that 'belong' to friends -- women unfortunate enough to have suffered the ultimate betrayal at the hands of men they trusted most -- these stories have been written in first person NOT because they are my stories but because writing in first person carries more impact. And perhaps gets the message across. This is a story of child abuse. Not mine...thankfully, not mine...

Once upon a time, I had love handles and a butt and Big Breasts. Once upon a time there was more of me to hold on to for my man. Or men. Once upon a time, filling up the First Thing You Will Notice About Me slot on social networking sites was easy too. I'd usually respond with a -- 'They stare you in the face', or 'Meet the Twins' or simply they come in twos... like eyes, feet. :) Once upon a time, if I sent a mail asking friends to enumerate what (all) they like about me — yup, secretly suffer from periodic bouts of extreme low confidence, usually around full moon, apparently the signs of a genius, yeah — one or at least two of my male pals would have responded with a, "I love your bust size".

My Big Breasts taught me a lot. Like the reason why a woman's mammary glands are called Hooters. Mine didn't honk, but they sure got the same reaction: they announced me. Once of the favourite jokes (on me of course) in my Booby Days went: "Her boobs are so big they enter a room before she does." Not very bright or original, but the words created the right image. 'Meet Darla & Dorothy, the Talking Twins. Ta Da.' Or perhaps Ta Ta? Big Ta Tas. My Big Breasts also taught me to work really hard at an existing one and particularly at a new job. I was initially unsure if I had landed the job because I was promising or because I 'looked' promising. You know, the 'it's nice to have a nice pair of jugs around' kind of mentality. So I worked really hard at proving that even if they jiggled, they didn't prevent me working.

My Big Breasts were also a great way of reading men. (to be continued...)

Post Scrap: And the Princess looked inside her dress and yelled, "Oh my god, they are gone, they are gone!" And the crowd looked and laughed and said, "What's a Princess without the Royal Assets?"

November 21, 2006

Little Dream and the Colour of Tears

"Wake up, wake up, cried Little Dream, concentrating, trying hard not to miss the sounds that It waited for. Instead, Little Dream heard everything else — the definite tick of the wall clock every 60 seconds, the urgent murmur just beyond the doors, cellophane being ripped, some thing hollow being dropped in the dustbin, the frequent scratching of pen on paper, ripping of the paper, some more scratching, some more ripping, the phone ringing somewhere, two cellphones with the same ring tone too, Little Dream's own heart beat and the sound of disturbed sleep from the body lying next to It.
"Wake up, there's no time, please wake up!" The breathing was ununeven the rhythmic rise and fall of the swollen breasts broken by unconscious sobs. There were no tears. The lack of tears worried Little Dream a little: Did everything else dry up with the tears as well? But there was no time to be lost thinking about unshed tears, there never was. The Hour was close. And then Little Dream heard it. The sounds It had been waiting for.

Chairs being pushed back, files taken out, voices discussing, someone asked the time, a tray pulled out, things being put on it, footsteps heading towards where Little Dream and the Body lay...
"Wake up please, they are coming,. We have to go. Now. If there has to be a tomorrow; we have to go now..." And then suddenly, there was movement. The eyes opened — no fluttering, no hesitation — they had been shut a while, now they just opened. One hand went straight to Little Dream and caressed it, the Voice making little cooing noises that Little Dream had grown used to in the last eight weeks.
"I like that very much," Little Dream said, "But we have to go...there will be time for all this later, I promise." The hand stopped caressing...was joined by the other hand too. Both Hands rested with their palms flat on Little Dream, feeling It all over. Hesitantly, lovingly, assuredly, wonderingly, with force, pressing, caressing as if trying to believe that Little Dream was really there.
"I am here, I won't go away, I am here, but we have to go, we..."
The Hands jerked away as if scalded by Little Dream's skin; Little Dream hurt that the caressing stopped. But the urgency of the hour forbade further discussion. And then Little Dream heard the Voice speak.
"I can't, I can't..." the Hands came back to hold Little Dream, the Body rocked and the Voice whispered hoarsely, "I can't, there's nothing, no support, no cash, nothing, who will...?"

Little Dream got really scared. The Hands were pressing It down, the Voice, paranoid. This was no time for hysterics! "No, don't think like that," cajoled Little Dream, "there's Hope, there's Love, there's Us...you are strong, we will be together, I will look after you..."
"You are just a Little Dream -- there's a long way to go. They won't let you. They won't let me if I keep dreaming about you either," the Voice was small, pleading, sick with guilt. Little Dream did not like the sound of guilt, It so wished It could see the Eyes. Little Dream had never seen the eyes. Maybe never would? Little Dream could not afford to think like that.
"So I am just a Little Dream, but you made promises, you DREAMT me, you said you could take a Little Dream further, nurture it; and now you are selling me for your own freedom."
Little Dream could feel the shock through the stillness of the Hands. But there was no time for kindness. Little Dream did not relent.

"Yes, that's what you are doing. You could dream me but you cannot carry me through because you are scared. Scared at all that it would take you to see me through. So you want to sell me for your freedom, for your life. My life against yours. Accept it, you are a coward. Accept it. ACCEPT IT!"

Little Dream had been screaming, It didn't hear the doors open. But It heard the Voice begin to quaver, the breathing intensify and the Body stiffen.
"This first, the other two later," said another voice. A flap being torn, another, water being poured into a glass.

"Don't do it," whispered Little Dream. Silence. Where were the Hands? Why weren't they caressing? Where was the Voice, why was it silent?

"These choices are never easy. But it's your freedom; after all, it's your Life," said the other voice again and the door closed, footsteps gradually receded.
"Don't do it," said Little Dream, "please talk to me, what are you doing?"
Little Dream felt the Body move, heard the glass being picked up, heard the water going down the oesophagus. Little Dream realised what was happening as the Hands came and rested on It gently.

"It's done," said the Voice. It was steady. Little Dream felt the bitterness begin to seep into It's blood stream, the oxygen being flushed out slowly. It felt the lungs collapse, the brain begin to unravel its long threads, the bones slowly, slowly crunching inside. Little Dream began to feel the sleep coming, it was dark, it was stale and it stank of napthalene balls.
"You let it happen?" said Little Dream, "But why create me th..."
Little Dream disintegrated and it was all over in one big blob of blood and gore.

Post Scrap: "Give it to me," the Princess screamed, spread-eagled and chained to the floor. Even as Death laughed and bounced the Rag Doll in it's hands, the Princess cried, "What have you done?" looking aghast at the blood between her legs. "It's...its blood," she sobbed. "Don't be silly," Death replied, "It's not blood. It's just the colour of your tears; your water broke."

Having a usual conversation

Breeep. Breeep. Long ring announcing STD call. Voice on other end is already amplified having recognised the Breeep of an STD.
"Hallow...?" half-greeting, half-suspicion, the rest ready to slam the receiver.
"Hi Mamma."
"Oh, is that you....?" recognition, premonition, shock, all rolled into one.
"How many people call you Mamma?"
"So you are all right...?" Unsaid: ...because you are being cheeky.
"Just thought I'd call you."
"Everything all right? Where are you right now?" (It's 3pm on a Monday.) Unsaid: ...not at a police station, gynaecologist, bank or in love again?"
"At work, office. Cell phone is out." (Thought maybe you tried to reach me?)
"You have not paid your bills again..." Unsaid: ...if you party less, smoke less, drink less, spend on your boyfriend less and save some, you could have gone abroad and bought three phones.
(Oh, so she didn't try to reach me -- oh -- therefore? What therefore, make mental note to never give out more information than needed. Till she calls don't tell your phone ain't working!)
"Have you eaten yet...?" Unsaid: ... or are you skipping as usual?
"Yes I have eaten. But I...Mamma."
"Why is your voice sounding like THAT. "
"THAT, what? It is."
"You're smoking too much."
"You're drinking too much then."
"You're lying about the smoking..." Unsaid: ... and the drinking.
"If you think so -- why do you ask me each time?"
"Fine I won't ask again. (Pause) But that means you are lying about the drinking too."
(Hah, I knew she was thinking that)
"You need money?" Unsaid: if only you partied less, smoked less...
"No. I called to talk. Just like that."
"Don't hesitate if you don't have money, just ask. So you don't need money...?" (Worried now) Unsaid: ... not money, then what? What's the worst thing she could do now?
"Mamma, at times, I wonder why all is happening; and where do I go from here? I can't see the way ahead...or the reason."
"No point talking like that. Now what can one do if..." Unsaid: ... Oh no, not again, hope she doesn't quit her job.
"How're things at work? See if only you'd been happy being a house... But you..." Unsaid: poor thing if only she had been like other normal girls
"It's overwhelming to keep falling and rising and dusting yourself...and it's always you who is dusting yourself. Mamma..."
"Of course you should dust yourself," (alarmed) "that's why your clothes get dirty and then you spend on expensive detergent. Don't think like that. Your life is like this. It's Destiny. Live with it."

Post scrap: "Look at my magic trick," cried Little Dream and took a puff. POOF! It vanished in an aromatic haze of purple smoke. "Alas the dream is lost," cried Mother. Death laughed and threw the Rag Doll down the stairs. It was usual. Like usual conversations.

Post-post scrap: Midnight call from Soul Sister,. "Are you okay? You were upset today?"
"Oh..thanks for calling me. Am ok now...how did you know?"
"Well when you're not happy you should talk to people you can talk to. But your phone isn't working. So am calling you now, this late."
"But how did you know...?"
"Your mom called. Said she was worried."

November 20, 2006

Dear God/Whoever: Let there be a happy post

Just let there be. So much happiness that you dont know what to write because you dont have the vocabulary to write a fucking happy post. Hahahaha.

If this is the heart of the matter, what about the Dick?

I have to come clean. I have been grossly unfair to all the Men I've Loved Before. Each time I get back into some past episode in my head — which is often — and wonder at the hurtful episodes, I feel guilty. Just a twinge of it mind you.

The Brain asks, "If it has been so bad, if all the MILBs hurt you, why didn't you stop loving after the first? Why do you still -- in the deepest, darkest sulci of your scared little subconscious -- think that maybe, maybe against all those predictions and promises, you might just bump into love. Maybe for a little while. Even if for a little while? Don't you wish Eve*, albeit so soundlessly that no one might hear and laugh — that there should at least be Some Pretender who could Be All you want and let you be all He wants you to be -- and then leave silently, without the hurt. Leave when you're sleeping, sleeping thinking you're world is intact. And when you get up the next morning, it's like BLIP! You don't remember the parting. Just the Love.

Haven't you wondered Eve*, what it would feel like to say anything, ask the stupidest thing -- without considering, keeping quiet or marking it for Google -- without the Other thinking you are dumb? Or thinking you are adding your "two bits"? Without having to be constantly smart/intelligent/etc or make failed attempts at political correctness. What a relief it would be to be the Biggest Duh in the world around someone and have them really think that's the most adorable thing you could be.

Or wear what the fuck you wanted to -- even the same black tank for three days, no kajal/kohl, no ear rings — and not be bothered if you look pretty, or wonder if you're breathing right to keep the Little Tummy in. Or look at your fragile skin and fine lines and sigh at all the Young Elastic Things out there. It's not about pretty anymore, strangely, closer to 30, it's just not about pretty anymore. You big liar Eve*, if all the MILBs were that bad, why do you still hope? (You can deny it as much as you want baby....)

And that's what I have to come clean about. I am hopelessly in love with all that a man can be, is and becomes into. The good, the bad and the downright ugly. Funny how, some cliches still work. I love the way men can keep their focus on some things (and off others). Yes, they have their distractions, but if there is something that a man wants, he will go after it no matter who he hurts, what he does or how he gets it. Unlike we women. The moment we meet someone who shows us a little something (call it love, security, the world, blah), we are quickly willing to reconsider whatever we are doing, our dreams, ambitions and plans to be with that someone. Idiots, us, I tell you.

I also completely appreciate the way men can just Get Over You in one day, flat. They will run after you, cajole, plead, threaten — all this while you are thinking you're taking your time/ keeping him wanting more/ some other skewed objective -- and then suddenly one day, the dude who loved you decides to Get Over You. Usually with another woman. Funnily enough, we women get over too, usually involving a lot of weeping, or big tantrums or definitely a lot of talking to/with friends. Men just go and screw: amazing!
"Why wait around when you can fuck around?" being the Dude's favourite refrain.

Or the ease with which men sort women. There's Pretty Fuckable: only pretty, therefore one-night stand, or post-drunk fuck or coke-trip-need-for-the-night. Then there's the Pretty Smart Fuckable: one-night stand with numbers exchanged, fuck buddy, theatre partner and fuck buddy. The No Other Option Therefore Fuckable: any chick who can be fucked because you dont have the type you want to fuck around you. "I would do a fat chick if she's pretty," is how the CockyTemptation explains it. And of course the I Can Marry. Unfortunately and rather stupidly, we women slot all of them men — the Serial Fuckers, the Mother Lovers, the Only Looking For Fuck, the Will Fuck Anything (closely related to OLFF), the Unmarriageables — all under one slot: We Wish We Could Marry him. Or keep him for life.

Isn't it funny how EVERY man — drunk, cripple, coke head, impotent, premature ejaculator, everyotherfuck will find a chick to screw and even carry his shitload around for life? But when it comes to women — even the ones who might be called a Good Catch — they somehow end up alone, or cribbing or with some jackass they really don't want to be with? If like men, we women too were able to segregate the Fuckables from the Marriageables or even the Long Term Keepables, we'd be living happier . Like knowing you want a guy because he is good in bed and not because just because he satisfies you, you begin thinking he's the one for you etc. He does things to your vagina (and hopefully the rest of your body too). Period. (Er, period?!)

And that's why I cannot grudge the Men I Loved Before. The poor things were good for just one purpose — and not necessarily sex — and yet I expected them to be more than that. It's not the expectations either. It's Who you are expecting what from that makes all the difference. If it's a Dick, he can only give you a Dick, so why go wishing for it to come with a brain and a heart, no?

Can't grudge you boys, nah. Shrug. And that's what we women have to remember: when treating a man as a Sex Object, have the sex and don't fall for the object. As is the case with most objects, they lose their charm after the first couple of times. Shrug.

Post Scrap: confused post, written over three days, with three different pens, under continually pissing off circumstances.

November 18, 2006

I am Just Another Story, telling just another story...

"Trust me," he said and held my hand. A promise to teach things he knew, the wisdom of years, the guidance of love and the protection of affection. He gave...and he took, what he had created.

"Trust me," she said and caressed her womb. Dreams of years, knowledge of past lives and a future ahead — all but a little seed. A promise to deliver, to nurture, to protect as her own flesh. She did... and lay silently even as dreams of years, forgotten past lives and every sense of security rested on a drawstring.

"Trust me," she said and winked conspiratorially. A promise to communicate, share and bond. She did...till temptation led her away.

"Trust me," he said and looked at the Fire. Promises to love, respect and create together, forever. And he lied...and led to a Lie that took the soul.

"Trust me," she said and whispered in my ear. A promise of sweat, toil and hard-earned glory. She betrayed... tearing sanity and the left sense of humanity to shreds.

"Trust me," he said and laughed at the Wind. A promise to soar, to learn, to feel again and to be together in loneliness. He jested... and took with him the little bit that was the Last Essence of someone called me.

Post Scrap: And as Death counted the money that her blood had sold for, the Little Dream thought, "If God loved me enough, would he have let me die?"

November 17, 2006

Here's my Soul Mate

Ah, interestingly it was an evening with Friend that got me re-reading a former Chapter that interestingly - among other things - enumerates the things I want(ed) in the Soul Mate...and was definitely sure I didn't want to compromise on. Hmm, did the reminding help?
"And the whole idea of a Soul Mate is someone who has no flaws. Perfection? Of course not, because my vision is flawed. But perfection is wanting all the flaws I want." Why is it so difficult to find The man or even A man who can thinks/has/gives all that I want?

. He has to absolutely love every inch of me, inside out — from who I am and can be, what I wear and could still develop affinity for, my idiosyncrasies, my meanness, my need for affection.

. He should touch me a lot — a gentle hug, just standing behind me holding me close, a soft whisper felt on the nape, a gentle nibble on my jaw, a nuzzle in my ear...

. He should appreciate it when I look good — a glance, a word, a squeeze, an arm around the waist, frequent looks in the rear view, glances that delve deep, linger on the lips.

. He should love to kiss. Not the let's-fuck-now kind of desperate kiss; but the kind that talks. I like your after-brush freshness kiss, I like the way you dance when listening to music while cooking kiss, the I want to hold you really close kiss, I just want to feel you next to me kiss...

. He should be taller than me: I like looking up to my man (being small helps). I don't want to be thought less of, but I dont mind him being in charge.
. He should know the above point and not misuse it.
. He should have a healthy bunch of buddy friends who like too and vice versa.
. He should consider himself lucky that I am with him and me luckier still that I have him.

. He should love and appreciate the same things as me (and teach me stuff I don't know) -- massages, good food, trying new stuff, wanting to learn something, chilling together, chilling with friends, a lazy stroll in a park you dont know, plants and gardening, pets and looking after them, colours and paints, music and dance, photography, decorating a place, making things from scratch, expensive buys, teaching...

. He should be spontaneous yet sane. He should be able to truly, pleasantly surprise me -- should believe in candle lit dinners, bhajia chai on rainy noons and hot soups in winter evenings.
. He should love his skin and mine as well.

. He should have enough hair, but should not be hairy.
. He should have a good body, a little bit of flab is okay.

. He should have intelligent, confident women as his friends and should be besotted with me, should love all us us equally as intelligent people and should love me insane as a woman, his woman.

.He should be possesive. Refuse to share me with anyone and demand the same.
.He should make crazy love to me, with me. He should crave it, take it, relish it, force it, cherish it...
. He should not be scared by the intensity of Me.
. He should love me tenderly, he should love me firmly.
. He should be able to handle me.

Post Scrap: "And I swear on everything I hold true, I will be his every dream come true," said the Princess as she looked beyond the horizons at the Love War she was destined to lose.

November 15, 2006

Where's My Man?

If you want a lover,
I'll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I'll wear a mask for you
If you want a partner, Take my hand
Or if you want to strike me down in anger
Here I stand

I'm your man

If you want a boxer
I will step into the ring for you
And if you want a doctor
I'll examine every inch of you
If you want a driver
Climb inside
Or if you want to take me for a ride
You know you can

I'm your man

Ah, the moon's too bright
The chain's too tight
The beast won't go to sleep
I've been running through these promises to you
That I made and I could not keep

Ah but a man never got a woman back
Not by begging on his knees
Or I'd crawl to you baby
And I'd fall at your feet
And I'd howl at your beauty
Like a dog in heat

And I'd claw at your heart
And I'd tear at your sheet
I'd say please, please
I'm your man

And if you've got to sleep
A moment on the road
I will steer for you
And if you want to work the street alone
I'll disappear for you
If you want a father for your child
Or only want to walk with me a while
Across the sand
I'm your man

If you want a lover
I'll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I'll wear a mask for you

— Leonard Cohen, I'm Your Man

Post Scrap: learn this song dudes. even if you guys dont mean jack shit of it, singing it would score points. siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh. be my man.....

November 13, 2006

Busty Teen's First Time: Part 3

For all those who might link ALL stories on this site/ blog to me, there are stories that 'belong' to friends -- women unfortunate enough to have suffered the ultimate betrayal at the hands of men they trusted most -- these stories have been written in first person NOT because they are my stories but because writing in first person carries more impact. And perhaps gets the message across. However, henceforth, perhaps I will not write in first person anymore. There's about that much acid that one person alone can face.

He came. I was waiting, wearing what I thought made me look grown up: Mummy's dressing gown and some lipstick. I wondered if he would kiss me again and if he would ask me to open my mouth.

He came. He kissed me. He asked me to open my mouth. I pushed him away, said he had to tell me why. He groaned and said, "Don't pretend..."
I said, "Don't pretend what?"
He kissed me while I was still talking. Suddenly his tongue was in my mouth, moving around. It was funny. I had never had a tongue move around in my mouth before. Confusing too -- where was my tongue, which was already in my mouth, supposed to go or supposed to do? I copied him, pushed back with my tongue. He went crazy and bit me. I pushed him angrily -- it stung, my eyes were watering -- so I pushed. He got crazier still. He squeezed my right boob. I slapped his hand. He kissed me again, the tongue was back. I struggled and he suddenly rubbed himself all over me.

I felt something hard dig into my stomach. He was much bigger and heavier, the sudden movement, the hardness that wasn't there sometime back and the shock... I tripped, he caught me, kissed me harder, went crazier still, picked me up, I held on to his neck...put me on the bed...

Mummy's dressing gown was up till my stomach, the New Sports Bra was off. I could feel the nearly small hair on my body standing. He was touching my breasts, squeezing, pinching. I kept trying to cover them, tried to speak; each time I did, he would kiss me. Suddenly he was touching me Down There. I cried out. He stopped, holding me down, there was a funny smell.
"You want me as bad as I want you. Can you smell yourself?" That was me?
"It's not me, I had a bath..." I protested, I was particular about hygiene, I tried to pull down the dressing gown. He pinned my arms, continued kissing me. I knew his pants were off too. They were lying next to my head. I immediately shut my eyes, tight.
"Look at me," he said. I kept my eyes shut.
"Look at me, don't be scared," now his voice was soft. I kept my eyes shut. There was another weird smell, it didn't smell like the earlier one...I didn't want to find out where this smell was coming from...
"Okay, don't look," he was holding my chin, kneeling on my chest, his other hand kept running all over me. It didn't feel nice anymore.
"Don't look, just touch it once,"I could feel him shuddering, he was heavy. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to stand, wear my clothes. Kissing was nice, even though I might have to get used to the tongue-bit since it made breathing difficult, but this... this I didn't like.

I kept my eyes shut. HE kissed me again, tried the tongue, but I kept my mouth shut too. I felt his knee trying to pry my thighs apart - I had locked my legs -- I didn't remember when, I didn't even know why I had done it either... Suddenly, he stopped.
"Okay, don't be scared," he repeated. He got off my chest. I heard him pick his pants, heard the zipper go back up. He touched my face, stroked it.
"Look at my face, promise nothing else..." I opened my eyes.
"You've never done it before?" I nodded, no. "Then you can't take me in. Too big for you."
He kissed me again. Very, very gently. For five minutes, ten I don't know. He didn't even use the tongue. Just kissed my face, eyes, nose, mouth, corner of my lips, stroking my face, my hair, not touching anywhere else. I started crying, don't know why,. guess I was a little scared. He held me, pulled me into him. I kept sniffling and snuggled into him. He put his leg over me, I froze. He didn't move a muscle, stroked the hair, I snuggled deeper. He kissed me again....it lingered, continued, deepened. He didn't touch anywhere else, I let him kiss me.

The tongue was gentle when it came, tentative, almost requesting... I liked the kissing, I kissed back. The tongue went further, he pulled me closer, one hand just above my butt, cradling me into him...he kissed me deeper, pulling my head back. My head--- it was swimming. He felt warm and strong and the strange smells were gone because I could smell his nice after -shave...His hand was on my thigh,. On skin. When did it get there? It didn't feel ok, I squirmed, he said, "Shhh...." and continued the Magic Kissing... It was very relaxing, the way fingers on one hand were digging all over my skull and the way he sucked on my lower lip and the way his other hand was kneading my butt... I was very relaxed. Kneading my butt?

Realisation was sudden: both ways. His leg had moved from over my legs to between them. I hadn't noticed earlier or when exactly... Now I did. I tried to struggle and he moved suddenly. the relaxing hand on my scalp went for my left shoulder and held me, he bit into my mouth and the hand on my butt... he put two fingers inside me. Inside me!!!!! (I learnt 'thrust' much later)
I cried out. He was moving his finger inside and out and it was really hurting. I screamed out. He was hurting me, I told him.
"But you are wet! How can it hurt?" his fingers kept moving, it kept hurting. I was crying in earnest now.
"What's wrong baby...what's wrong..." the fingers kept moving. I put my hands over my face and started sobbing. It felt humiliating to lie there like that -- my legs open, his, his fingers... I asked him to go. "Please leave, this is not nice, please leave..." I still don't know why he did, but he did. He stopped. He left.

I was bleeding. And it wouldn't stop. I knew a virgin was supposed to bleed after the First Time. But how much? Now it was 6 hours I had been bleeding . Maybe you bled more if it was Fingers instead of The Thing? I cried a lot. It didn't stop even when Mummy and Papa came back. If they found out? The bleeding didn't stop even when I went to bed. What if something was cut inside? After all, it was Fingers and not The Thing... I wore a pad to bed. I continued bleeding the next day too, this time with cramps. Maybe I was so scared that my periods started? Or maybe periods start when you do it with the Fingers and not The Thing? Maybe my uterus was hurt? I kept quite. It was three days now and I was still bleeding.

That night Papa announced that Prince Charming had announced he was getting married to Coworker He Loved. He loved. He "loved". I continued with my dinner as silently as possible. I was still bleeding. I cried to sleep. The next day was Sunday. Prince Charming was in the Common Room. I went up to him. He was reading the papers, looked up, folded the paper and said, "So you heard, eh, Sam Fox?"
"But I thought... you said...you came...that day...?" I just stood there. I couldn't trust myself to talk, it hurt so much. I was still bleeding. There were some workers around...too many to see me crying. Perhaps he realised that too. He got up, came towards me, put his arm around my shoulders, turned me and began walking me towards Home.

"You have a long way to go," he said as we walked, it was the 'soft' voice again, "a lot to grow up." He ruffled my hair, "And technically, you are still a virgin. Forget this, but always remember, never trust a man, whether 7 or 70."

I came back home. Mummy was angry I was late. She had seen me talking Prince Charming, he'd walked me Home, after all.
"You're taking a little too much interest in badminton these days," Mummy said, "No more. Only studies. And what was He doing walking you home? You're growing up now. Not a kid anymore. Anyway, I won't say anything today... since it's just the first time, but henceforth..."
I walked into the loo and shut the door.

Busty Teen's First Time: Part 2

Men like Big Breasts. And the older men in my life called me Samantha Fox. That I learnt from... let's call him Prince Charming. Tall, extremely good looking, ready with a compliment for young girls, a trick for the kids, chivalry for the Seniors' Wies, time for older people, a good worker (according to Papa), 12 years older to me....and an excellent badminton player. I liked him a lot, all of us kids did, every girl did. He was Perfect: exactly what you read about in your romance books. But then he was much older and I was just a kid. But it was cool, I was still the Favoured One on the court.

So every evening, after school, Prince Charming and other Uncles would play badminton with us kids. Of course I was always his partner. :) He used to ruffle my hair when I played well. It was nice... I think things changed the day I wore my New Dress with my New Sports Bra. It was a white tee shirt with an upside down Fido Dido (character for a popular fizz brand) saying, "Normal is boring" and a pair of really short, shorts. It had yellow, green and red vertical stripes...and the tee was somewhat tight. (Mummy immediately banned me from eating any butter and said I looked like a muscular blue whale. As if she had seen one!)

Prince Charming kept looking at me weirdly that day. When I asked, all he said was: "You shouldn't have worn those shorts." Then one day he asked if I had a boyfriend. I told him about my aspirations regarding Head Boy. Prince Charming said he wished he were Head Boy. When I asked, all he said was: "So you would like me too?" I was shocked, but I did like him! I told him so. All he said was: "But do you like me the way you like Head Boy?"
"Of course not! You are an uncle and I am..."
"How old are you?"
"You're old enough then. Have you ever kissed?"
"Of course not."
"You don't know how to kiss..." he snickered. I was embarrassed.
"I know how to kiss...I've seen..."
"Show me" he said. For a moment I was confused and scared. Then I stood on tip-toes, kissed his left cheek and ran.
"That was a peck," he called out after me, "hahaha," he was laughing, "Someday soon Sam Fox..."

I was scared. I was thrilled. Suddenly, the Unthinkable was possible. Could it be true? Could Secret True Love be answered? Could "we" -- I shuddered at the word, with pleasure -- could "we" -- I said it louder -- could "we" live Happily Ever After? I was on my preparatory leaves. There was enough time to ponder over all the delicious possibilities... and I couldn't help but wonder... Will he kiss me? A real, kiss?

A few days later, we came face to face in the Common Family Room. No one was around -- it being a community, pot luck Sunday, all families were gathered outside -- and I had been ordered inside to get some soft drinks for the ladies. He followed me inside.

"It's cute how you get all grubby when you're playing around," he said taking the fizz bottle from my hand, opening it and handing me the crown -- 10 crowns and 10 bucks got you a free cassette of assorted dance numbers. As I held out my hand to take the crown and thanked him, he held my wrist and took out 9 more crowns from his pockets.
"Now you have 10. I've been working hard for you. A kiss for the good boy?" He pouted. It was heart-breakingly adorable to see a grown man pout. I giggled and said the smartest thing possible" "You're not a boy. And you're not good either."

He had a weird look in his eyes. "Yes, I am VERY bad," and he pulled me closer. Or tried. I was fast off the courts too. I twisted in his grasp and suddenly my wrist was free.
I grinned, "I am fast, hah. Wasn't that a good move?"
"No", he said, barely audible, his eyes fixed on my Big Breasts. It was a funny feeling, him looking at Them like That. Before I could do whatever, he took a step forward, took my wrist, jerked me towards him, held my head with his other hand and closed my mouth with his. I just stood.
"Open your mouth," he said. I pursed my lips further. He dug his nails in my arm.
"Open your mouth." I shook violently and refused.
He stopped kissing me and still holding me said: "Why don't you open your mouth? I want to taste you..."
I was truly scared. What tasting was he talking about? And what if Mummy or Papa walked in?
"Someone will come.." was all I managed to say. He let me go.
"I will come tomorrow at 11. I know you are home alone."

To be continued...

I am Busty Teen, writing about my First Time: Part 1

For all those who might link ALL stories on this site/ blog to me, there are stories that 'belong' to friends -- women unfortunate enough to have suffered the ultimate betrayal at the hands of men they trusted most -- these stories have been written in first person NOT because they are my stories but because writing in first person carries more impact. And perhaps gets the message across.

Men like Big Breasts. I didn't learn that from any book or from any forthcoming adults. I figured there had to be a reason why the aunties in movies wore really low tops. Or why the playing cards I found hidden in Papa's old trunk had pictures of aunties without their blouses, tops or even bras. Or why article upon article in Papa's (hidden again) stash of Debonair magazines were about various aunties and their various breast sizes. That was also the time I had forced Mummy to buy me my first sports' bra. All the girls in school wore them and I wanted one too. Mummy was angry that I was getting wrong ideas. Whatever! The other girls' Big Breasts looked nice in sports bras and I wanted mine to look nice as well. Though that was not the only reason...

My Big Breasts were a big problem. First, they made cricket very difficult. They bounced so much when I bowled. So bowling was becoming difficult because my Big Breasts would jiggle so much that they interfered with my proper arm swing and consequently, my line and length suffered. And then of course the bloody sports teacher was making things difficult for me and insisted that I was distracting the boys. Was it my fault that the boys left their cricket practice and came to watch us girls play? The bloody Old Hag said I should either, "do something about my dress" or stop playing. What dress? I was wearing the school uniform!? I even tried telling Old Hag about my New Sports Bra and how it would control the jiggles... but she just wouldn't get the point and said I was being over-smart about "showing off my goods". What goods?!

So I quit crickets and joined badminton since that came under another teacher and not the Old Hag. It was instant love. I loved badminton and was brilliant: I killed them first with my serve and if they got past that, my shots got them. There was Douglas Jardine's bodyline and there were my body shots. And I was fast on my feet. Not quite "fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee",. but I was soon the school's and then the Civilised City's 15-year-old Pigtailed Pro. The Civilised City? That meant us, the Settlers From Rest of India as against the locals of the area.

The best part yet? The boys still didn't practice and Old Hag was so angry. :) I didn't bother much about the boys as I could beat most of them at either studies, or badminton or both. And I had a crush on Head Boy, who was very studious, very non-sporty and a Very Good Boy. So I was not bothered much about the boys. What I didn't know though was that it wasn't just the boys who were watching me play.

The young 'uncles' -- 21-year upwards Men Who Worked With Papa -- were also watching keenly, whenever us kids would practice on the courts near Home. And they didn't call me Pigtailed Pro either. They called me Samantha Fox.

To be continued...

November 8, 2006

Chronicling release of a different kind

Often I find myself tense. Every muscle, every toned-untoned sinew taut...with an expectation of impending doom. Of walking on a bridge made of cards, one loosely placed on the other...of a gale that constantly keeps flapping the cards, gently menacing, threatening to flip one over and send me hollering down into Whatever Lies Beneath. Life is made of constantly changing variables, they say. Life is so variable, so changing constantly everything seems like an impossible soap opera at times...most times. And the frustration that comes from this acute sense of helplessness, the frustration that feels like gnawing nausea. It's always there, you do things to fix it, but you just want to throw up. Helplessness should be combated with Hope, they say. But what is Hope without a deadline? Till the time you don't set a time by which one of the Fucking Variables change for the better, how can Hope continue/ survive?

Times when things just seem to be going so out of control that it's like being chained to the ground, sitting on a chair with your pants down or skirts htiched up, your arms shackled as well, and your arse being rogered from beneath...which you don't like at all. BUT you cannot get up and unless you want your arse taken for free, you have to smile through it too. Oh yes, you are also up on a stage for the whole world to see what a good job you do of smiling through a Free Public Anal Session. Frustration that doesn't let you cry...Because since you can't do much about the Fucking Variables, you feel stupid, crying. Frustration that turns the tears inwards, down your trachea in a huge ball of saline water that chokes you. Once you start spluttering, it gurgles right back up, shooting out through your nostrils and stinging your eyes. Tears that swell your eyes shut and crystallize on your lashes as dirty, white flakes.

Anger, so MUCH of it that you want to (s)lash out,s cream or... RUN. Just run, without a pause, over railings, traffic, sleeping dogs, kids in the parks, Mother Dairy, wheel barrows, up escalator, over building tops, , into fields... RUN...all the while screaming, howling, letting it all out in one rising crescendo... But will they let you run like that? 'Freak' they will say. why can't she seek a normal release, they will say. Show me normal, please. Need that expanse to run, to scream, to weep, to be. Perhaps then you can feel cleansed. Cleansed of tears, cleansed in tears. Pure, so pure...

November 7, 2006

Unable to live with it, or without it

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue

by Pablo Naruda

Post Scrap: and i know we will never be together.....and its strange how I can look at myself dispassionately and realise that perhaps I have lost the ability to depend on someone else. Or how I will never feel that crazy fear..the fear that you know when you think your love will go away. The fear that makes it impossible to imagine life without the Other. I dont have that fear, cant allow myself to have it.... and it's sad. It's so sad. My strongest, most faithful, most loving partner...is Me. (Looks down, feels the loneliness seeping in, logs off)

I am Bhangra Chick, thinking USA will change my luck

The typos in this post are intentional: they are keeping the phonetic sensibilities of the speaker in mind.

Do you believe in a Batter (better) Future? I do and that is why I absolutely believe that like the rest of my family -- bhaiyya, bhabhi, uncle, aunty, Tinnu, Pappi and Rummy -- I will also have a Batter Future in the UAss.

What??? There are many girls who go looking for a Better Future? Many people think that. The chances of my success are absolutely brilliant. I have just cleared my GRE and though I didn't score well, my parents have enough money and every intention (I was a good studant in school mind you) of sending me to the UAss. My aunts -- my father's sisters, all five of them -- are pretty excited. They think I should not bother about the GRE too much, take admission in whatever college, just get to the UAss, find a de-sent guy and sattle down. Life to sat ho jayegi. That's what people say. If you're an average girl, you are valued by the Indians in UAssA -- they are so bored of all the Western girls trying to be Indian and the Indian girls trying to be everyone else. And anyways, the Indian men here don't understand me.

What??? I should lose weight and tone up? No ways! I am halthy with natural big boobs -- I know how to get cleavage with those push-up bras too, like Mallika Sherawat. I also liked the black-shorts type underweer that I saw the other day. Think I'll buy a pair. Black makes you look slimmer, no? SO, I am 'sat' for life once I reach there. The other day when I gave a dance performance on stage, my aunts -- my father's sisters, all five of them -- said I could beat Aishwarya Rai. I danced on Kajra re you see.. a full performance, mind you. They made my blush so much. See, I don't understand all these English songs, especially the kind played at the Usual Watering Hole* (*its rock 'n' roll).

What??? I should learn to understand English songs to fit into the culture there? Don't be silly, everyone there is crazy about Bhangra and I am Bhangra Chick...with my Batter Future dreams.
I told this to Eve* too...put on some weight Eve*, get to the UAss or Yourope or wherever she fancies. I keep talling her, Eve*, you are modern, find some man or something to like in a man and sattle down. What is all this shag-wag? Are you a dog or what?

(as told to Eve*)

Wondering about anonymity

"Why aren't you more regular with your posts," wrote in a blog-pal. For one, dear friend, it's because I don't have a desktop or laptop at home. So it's kind of tough to sit down and first write it on paper and then type it out the next day. Or at other times I don't even want to type it out. Or read it again. But then this -- writing -- is the only sustenance and solace.

And there too, the entire anonymity-identity issue raises its head. Would absolute anonymity give me more freedom to write? Because somehow people are more comfortable reading about the masturbation frequencies of someone they don't know than reading candid words from someone they know or meet. Hmm, so would I have more freedom...Because as much as I want to write with no bloody holds barred, there are times when I censor. More to protect the identity of those involved than myself. I, after all, am an open book, or blog, for all anyone cares. And the fact that despite the censored-identity-protecting writing that I do, I've already encountered an entire evening of being called "Clit Chatting"... in a rather derogatory manner.

"So how many times did you shag today, Clit chatting?"
"Why, you want me to cum on your face, friend?"and that was thankfully the end of THAT conversation. First they piss me off, then they say you're rude.
Yes, this is my blog and Clit Chatting is the monicker I've chosen. But use some brains. If I wanted everyone (read every other arsehole) to link Eve* to Me (on birth certificate)...I would either wear a placard or put my real name up. Yup, IP addresses can be tracked..and for a lot of the readers here, you don't even have to go that far. But anyway. I will see how far I can go with being known and writing how, what and the way I want to write. And once that becomes difficult... I'll find a way. :) Oh yes.

November 6, 2006

Some Females' Typical Reaction

So basically somewehre I am perhaps a little disgusted with self for being a Major Whiner. And then I get pissed off thinking -- Why the fuck cant I even whine in peace? Who the he;l; says its wrong to whine when things arent right? (Right = the way you want things to be) Is it some self-help book that looks down upon whining? Aren't you supposed to show emotions? Damn. That's when it gets dangerous -- when you begin whining, about whining.

The Serial Fucker wrote that a guy friend of his -- to get over a girl -- decided on the Typical Male Reaction: find another woman and screw the brains out of her (rather macabre). So simple. Seems that some men and (some) women are not that different after all. Like some women like women too. This one, Me, if caught in a scenario where I have to find another guy to get over a guy (psst to self: you are in a situation like that bebbee) -- would love to go in for the Some Females' Typical Reaction -- find an interesting, attractive, self-assured, discreet, not-intimated-by-me, non-clingy, unattached, non-psyhotic, doesnt-call/sms-at-weird-hours guy, who is also good in bed ..and then screw the brains out of him. The screwing bit is simple(r), it's the finding bit thats tough. So maybe women (you girl, you) are more demanding. But then how you can fuck just anything that looks good and talks smart? At times it doesnt even have to talk smart (refer to drunken sex). It (still) amazes me how (a lot of) men can screw anything. The entire cover -the-face-and-fuck-the-base theory.

Once (amongst all the once-s!), in one of my very rare About To Fall To My Lowest But Didn't moments, I was oscillating between to-do-him, or not-to-do-him with this guy I wasnt too sure I liked. At least I was sure that each time he spoke, he really pissed me off. He had a nice face, but a really stupid smile -- more like a constant smirk that I constantly wanted to thwack off his face. However, the dude was definitely panting for me. He had given me the once over more than twice, kept trying to catch my eye and do the across-the-bar-looking-into-each-others-eyes shit. And most importantly, he moved well on the dance floor.

Now any girl would tell you that when a man moves well on the dance floor, he is good in bed too.
unless he is on shrooms (he's more interested in what's happening in his head lady, and if you get your hands on some, you should be too!), gay or doesnt-get-it-on-much. So, this Good Mover With Bad Mouth was definitely giving me all the signs that he was clearly interested (dead giveaway: So how are you going back tonight?") And so I was now considering Him with his mouth taped or face covered, and I closed my eyes...when he said something that I dont even remember but that totally settled the matter for me. I shagged that night.

And despite the belligerent protests of Vag -- thats my Vagina -- to "close my eyes, think of someone else and get on with it" ...I cannot. (Yet?) Simply because when sorting and being careful you-think-you-are-being-smart can land you (and does) with a Dick that masquerades as a man...how can you fuck ANY man just because it comes with a dick?

Post Scrap: once I DO find a guy like that --- where both the Dick and the Man work for me -- and I DO screw the brains out of him...the next morning: he makes breakfast, i get it in bed, he gets my crossword, i do it with my coffee. Then he leaves for work and I never see him again. Unless I wish to. And we all lived happily ever after.

November 3, 2006

I suck, but NOT by choice

Should I write about the blow job bit first, to get those eye balls, or should I write about the Real Intent Of This Posts. And that is to unabashedly accept that I have become a Major Whiner. I can whine about everything and anything. From my no bank balance (and doesn't look like it in a while) status, to the job-that-I-have-to-leave-because-the-bastards-wont-pay-me, to the weekend fever I've been getting for four weeks now, for not having a computer and having to write my blog first and then type it out, to the current romantic situation that involves only Dude and that's no situation at all, the no desire for sex for the last three days (rather I suddenly realised I had not done anything or even thought about sex for the last two days and that is not normal for me)... and the kind of fait accompli I have for the things that are happening.

And of course the absolute frigidity towards words like hope, optimism, etc. Not because I am depressed or any shit like that, but because those words seem illogical. I mean, 2+2=4, right? Then when there is a five and a six and they don't add to four. Then how the fuck can anyone say, "Blah, blah and basically blah is not happening, but baby, BELIEVE in a better future." Of course I do, moron, I don't like getting the stick all the time either. If I want my carrots, depression wont help. But now I am left with this whining. And then they say believe in a better future. Based on what?

And then they forward sickening mails that say if-you-think-things-are-wrong-look-at-bla-bla-bla and send you pictures of starving kids, and blown up skulls and raped women and dead animals and famine and disease and old people left on the road. And they tell you NOT to feel about your own life because there are a whole lot of others in a lot of ugly situations. "So thank the Almighty for what he gave you!" Question: didn't the same Almighty give all the rape-disease-abortion-starvation to all those people as well? It's on moments when I see such emails and meet the Illogically Optimistic Fools that I really want to abuse. Like right now, and somehow "mothafucka" just doesn't cut it. Bhorsdeekay...all those suggesting positive thinking - show me the fucking facts that add up to a rosy future. Aargh. Anyway.

See what I mean? Despite me doing what I have to do to get out of the Various Shit I am in, I cant help the whining and feeling bad about myself. But here I am whining and sorting things out...Not because there is any great hope, or the Almighty or the Destiny that would suddenly turn (Sugar daddy? Ha ha)...It's just in my nature to not take things lying down and do my thing. Just that it's getting a wee bit difficult each time. And if you add the number of "each times" there have been...That's a lot of wees.