I will tell you some truths.
I like strayed Indian men who play it tough
And their ripped asses sing fuck-you-here-right-now through the wrinkled jeans.
I like you in police uniforms,
And I like you in dark, grimy tea stalls
Where you swap Centre Fresh and Rajnigandha paan masala as you smoke.
You look at me with a coy grin, your drink still virgin and I can eat your whispers
you pierce into your own mouth.
Why don’t you think it aloud?
Use Hindi. Say chootiya like you own it, let it smell sweaty. Remind me of tousled pubic curls. Public toilets.
Take me to cheap guest houses, where fans creak and dark bathrooms that have never tasted electricity.
I will scratch your back, it’s tired and it wants me. I will step over your white collar intentionally.
Your tongue preaches morality to my nipples. So you are saint, really.
Now this is another drag act- you as a holy saint with a greasy chest and me, the dancer. The tempting vamp.
Act chaste and disturbed, I am decadent and bad ass. I will trap you anyways. (Rock the bed again).
Let’s scandalize the hotel waiters and give them some joy.
When we are done, light a Ganesh beedi and help me understand:
Why do I like such strange things?
Come inside a smokey room. With a paper and pen. Incense and cigarettes, flowers and water. They all go together, too well.
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