Sharada Subramanian's Blog

Show me how it’s done!

I’m in the mood to write erotica.

No. Don’t fuck me. Make love to me. Just make nasty love to me so that fuck seems gentle.

No. Don’t make me feel important. I don’t care if you have to do another woman tomorrow. I don’t need the whole night with you. Just do me enough for me to remember the soft spots inside you.

No. Don’t make me feel strong. I have enough baggage of feminism and courage on my shoulders. Tell me it’s ok for my vagina to smell of loneliness and vulnerability.

No. Don’t make me feel beautiful. I have an unwanted line of people waiting to taste me. Turn my flab knobs and open up myself to me while I count the stretches on them.

No. Don’t make me feel sexy. I’m tired of horny men mastrubating to my erotica. Tell me my inner thighs are dark, black and smell like an antique clock.

No. Don’t make me feel like a woman. I have trouble coping up with uncomfortable lacy bras, short skirts, Kalamkari sarees and red bindhis. Tell me I moan like a baboon and suck like a leach.

No. Don’t bother staying until morning. I don’t like company during sunrise. Stay until the sun fucks the ocean and leave before her orgasm turns into shades of blue.

No. I don’t want to feel loved. I know what love is. Show me compassion. Flirt with me on the couch and say things that will shamelessly lead me on to the bed.

No. Don’t say a word.

Just show me how it’s done.

Pen is mightier than the sword

Pen is mightier than the sword. They say. Hmmm is that now?

The times when it became the sword to protect me from the demons inside me.
The times when it became the pepper spray to protect me from the demons outside me

The times when it served as an extra piece of sanitary pad during my heavy period days to save me from the stains that was caused inside me.

The times when it became a bandaid to cover me up from the stains that was caused by someone else outside me.

The times when it was the small folded piece of paper to support my unbalanced balcony chair. The balcony I spent the lonely evenings gazing at the sky. Balcony chair saviour.

The times when it was that one loose screw that tipped me off the stool when I was reaching the dupatta hanging in the ceiling fan.

The times when it turned into my middle finger that stood tall like a manhood to help myself in nights of loneliness.
The times when it became my middle finger to show to a man to protect my womanhood.

The times when it became the secret hideout in my big fluffy pillow.
The times when it let me become the pillow for someone else’s hideout.

The times when it became the warm soft gooey chocolate cake on days when humans gave up.
The times when it became the human I shared the warm soft gooey chocolate cake with.

The times when it let me believe in miracles when i failed to believe in myself.
The times when it let me BE the miracle for somebody else to believe in themselves.

For all the times when it stood by me.
For all the times when it stood for me.
For all the times when it stood as me.
What would I do without u my darling?
Why would I do anything without u my darling?
My pen.
My writing.
My darling.

– Sharada

Have you been in love?

Have you been in love? The kind that is so strong that you want it to break to believe it’s real.

Have you been in love? The kind that is so orderly that you want to create chaos just to see if it’ll still last.

Have you been in love? The kind that feels so close that you want to open the curtains and float to space just to see if it survives without oxygen.

Have you been in love? The kind that is so overwhelming that you want to strangle it in the neck to wake up to the real world.

Have you been in love? The kind that feels good without sex that you want to visit Redtube just to check if you’re doing it right?

Have you been in love? The kind that feels far too perfect like a fully blown balloon that you want to poke it with a needle to see if it finds way to fill air and fly or fall flat?

Have you been in love? The kind that makes you feel the reciever that you want to gift your flaws packaged with a pretty red bow?

Hey you! Have you been in love? The kind that feels like forever that you want to run away for a bit just to make sure it’s still around waiting for you?

Sharada

Sex ruined it!

I wish. Sex ruined it baby. Not me. It was sex. Not me.

Sex fucked it up.

Totally. All of it.

It could have been so much better.

It could have been so much more beautiful.

I wish.

I wish I stayed away.

I wish I didn’t ‘feel at home’ at your home.

I wish I didn’t curl up your multi coloured bedspread and smell the scent of your toes.

I wish. Damn.

I wish we didn’t do it.

Sex ruined it all. For me. It did.

It could have been amazing between us. Right?

I should have stopped with making love to your mind.

Why neck down?

I don’t belong there. Why?

I ruined it all. Didn’t I baby?

I wish you were as dumb as your peers.

I wish you didn’t have to ‘get’ me.

I wish you didn’t read me as good as a well cleaned pair of glasses.

I wish the spark that sprung when I saw you eventually gave up. Such adamantness to stay strong.

I wish.

I wish I could clone you.

I wish u only saw my naked soul and not my body.

That could have made this better. No?

Sex ruined it all baby.

All of it.

I wish.

I wish I didn’t connect to u.

I wish I didn’t like your ideologies.

I wish you flirted. That would have made it easier for me to let u go.

But u didn’t. U didn’t.

I wish this didn’t have to end.

It had not even begun.

I even planned our first year Meetversary. Sexversary. Friendversary.

I wish it didn’t have to.

You and I could have been great friends.

Friends who could have spent evenings drinking up.

Friends who could have spoken about art over a plate of apple tart.

Friends who could have been a shoulder.

Friends who could have been without going through a break up.

Friends who could have uplifted one another.

Sex ruined it all baby.

How small of me to have not thought this through.

I wish.

I wish I could start again.

I wish I could look at you again.

I wish I could say “what’s up” again.

I wish I could tell you that between you and your body, I prefer you.

Only you.

Your body isn’t mine. I don’t need it. I don’t need that normalcy.

Can we start over?

Can we start over with under baked cake and chocolate caramel on the side?

Can we be friends?

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Im sorry.

Sex ruined it.

Not me.

It was sex.

Not me

Night safari

Erotica.

The weather is warm.

As warm as my finger that is

stuck between your legs.

Another one. You instruct.

Like the PT master telling the boy

to run around the ground another time.

From one to two to three.

His rounds increased

And so did my fingers inside you.

What do you feel. You ask.

Eager to know your insides.

I try navigating. A bit to the left.

A bit to the right.

An inch closer to the centre.

You moan. With every turn my

hands take inside you.

You moan as I steer past the forest that

Will witness heavy showers shortly.

How is it? How am I? You ask.

I try and study you a bit more.

I need better vision.

I spread you more. A bit more.

The forest leaves way.

Effortlessly. Beautifully.

Fierce. Slippery. Warm. I replied.

Come closer. Aren’t u thirsty. U asked.

Cheekily.

Cheesily.

I’m. I replied as I got closer.

The treasure was closer than I imagined.

Opening up itself in all its glory.

I taste the first rain of the season

Fresh. Earthy. Wild.

What you think? You asked just to have your womanly reassurance in place.

You tasted better than any

waterfall I’ve dived in.

U kept giving. Such a giver you are.

I didn’t stop you. You held me close.

Pulled my head closer.

Just like birth. Only the other way around.

You gave it all. All of whay you’ve got.

You moaned. Wilder than the boars.

I looked at your face soon after.

You shone like the moon.

It was the best night safari I’ve done.

It poured.

Where are you?

I am here. Waiting endlessly by the window of my newly painted home.

I look out and you aren’t there.

The paint has dried.

The smell still lingers around.

Reminding me of the long nights with you.

When your fingers measured the length of your ego inside me.

Like a needle in a haystack. You lost your way.

Only for me to find mine.

The times when you evoked the smell of of my old withered flower. The one that bloomed once in a blue moon.

Thanks to my not so frequent self care.

You watered it well. She bloomed. Full and fluffy.

The whiff was pungent. Old. Bold. Gold.

Reminded me of my younger days.

Aldo reminded me that i’am getting old.

My eyes closed only to open to a world of fantasies and fireflies.

The smell. My smell.

Half baked and fully charred.

“If you’re looking for passionberry and Mango, one must go to a bodyshop. My body is not your kind of shop.” I said.

You loved it.

“It’s real. The smell. The flabs. The color. The marks. Just like the moon on a dark sky” you said.

“Now help me shed some rain” I replied.

That night. It poured.

#conversations

Abstract

Abstract erotica

I want to make love to you.

The kind that is forgotten by

the time the sun wakes up.

The kind that the moon will pry

upon to learn a trick or two to

fuck the sky .

The kind that does not happen

on the high rise bouncy bed.

But the kind that touches the

tresses of the roots that holds together the nerves of the earth and my body.

The kind that will make the wind go wild.

The kind that will make the rains salty.

Salt that drips between your legs.

The kind that will make the sand sore.

As sore as my inner thighs.

The kind that will turn tornadoes

into little tortillas.

I want to make love to you.

The kind that does not resemble Kamasutra.

But the kind Kamasutra was inspired by.

The kind that makes my shoulders go weak.

Weak from carrying your manhood all night.

The kind that makes my legs stronger.

Strong from balancing my womanhood

on your face.

I want to make love to you.

The kind that gets forgotten by the flies.

The kind that is remembered by the owls.

The kind that reeks of lust and passion.

The kind that pours like a waterfall in the middle of well built monogamous city.

The kind that fills the city up.

The kind that washes the city.

The kind that cleans the city.

The kind that polygamous dogs are proud of.

Baby, I want to make love to you.

The kind that humans aren’t used to.

Seven lives

Have we met before?

Like before this life that we are living now?

Weren’t we destined to live all seven of them?

Which one are we in?

The last? Or the first?

Seems like both.

But I remember the one where I was the hare and you, the tortoise.

U cheeky little thing you.

Also the one when I was the ocean and you the shore.

U stubborn little thing you.

The one where I was the lioness and you the deer.

U tasty little thing you.

Or the one where I was the diety and you the pundit.

U generous little thing you.

Maybe the one where I was Eve and you the forbidden apple.

U evil little thing you.

Wait, I guess it’s the one where I was the Queen and you, the stable boy.

U gorgeous little thing you.

That’s six lives.

I don’t remember the seventh one.

Oh is the one we are living now?

The one where I’m not yours and

you’re not mine?

Which life do you remember living with me?

Do you remember living with me?

Do you remember me?

Oh wait. Are we in the first one?

Maybe the last.

Oh wait. I think we’ve lived them all.

Where do we start in the after life?

How about snake and ladder?

#YouAndMe

Hello sperm, again!

Hello!

This is probably a first that a mother is talking to the yet to take a human form sperm. Well I thought let’s begin early. I want to tell you few things before I let you occupy my body. Because once you do, you sort of become my responsibility. You know the world that I live in, I’ll be called your mother. Your biological mother. The one who let you grow inside her only to unleash you to the cruel ugly world. I’m pretty sure you’re going to curse me later about that bit. You were happily swimming in your pool of life and thud, you need to make defisions between sky blue shirts and pink socks.

So here is the deal, I’m a working professional. I have crazy work schedules that fries my brain and dims my soul. I write. Most of the times. That’s all I do. During the day, i write to feed my stomach and during the night, I write to feed my heart. I’m going to be 36 and I haven’t met you yet. You must know the world is judging and mocking me already. Your sneaky grand aunts and uncles are asking if you are a healthy sperm and if I have a healthy pool to let you swim. Most of the times I ward the questions away. But sometimes it gets to me. It gets to me so much that I cringe and cry and shout. Not having a great uterus does not make me any less of a human. But hey, welcome to the real world. I’m having crazy mood swings than I used to. I like fewer people than I used to. I’m sorry but you gotta make peace with the fact that you won’t be having too many cousins to play with. Tada, may I introduce called dogs.

You should make peace with many things once you get out. Firstly with the society. You know the place I live in, there is a sect called people. A sect that you may not be aware of. These are are the people who have a laundry list of how I should be as a mother.

I must put you ahead of me. I must forego things I like to do. I must ensure that I’am around you 24×7 or at least think of you all the time. You must become the centre of my world. I need to plan my weekends based on how you want it to be. I need to compromise on sleep and sex. I need to make peace with being put into the ‘MILF’ category by a certain sect of people. These people are the ones who mock me for being fat but also stare at my big breasts. These people are the ones who will tell you what is wrong with you even before you figure out what the word wrong means.

Oh wait. Did I tell you about your father? He is a biker and a tourer. The coolest dad one could ask for. I have never seen a man who is as good hearted as him. If you turn out to be half as good as he is, I’d be glad. Did you know you have a big brother and sister? They are called Ritchie and Kalki. Unlike you, they have four legs that are full of fur and love. I may probably always put them ahead of you. I’m pretty sure they will love you more than anyone else.

I was also told that I must put all my life savings to make sure you get everything you want. If only your mother knew what savings even meant. *insert rolling eyes smiley*. I need to put you in a school which is the most competitive and makes sure children are classified based on grades. Also, do you know how bloody expensive, cheap education in India is? I wish you come with some pre paid card dude. I must also decide what graduation course you should study and pay for you to attend extra classes from grade 7 to top the school and get into the best universities. I must also make sure you are well taken care financially before you decide to start earning. And then I must tell you to marry and give me grandchildren.

But let me tell you, I ain’t all this. I’m not going to teach you any of this. What I will teach you is to differentiate jerks from the good ones. I will teach you how you should never take pride of your caste. You should understand what sexism and feminism means. You should respect people of all castes and communities. I will not raise you saying you’re a man so you can be how you want to be. I’ll teach you how to make a good morning coffee and you shall do so going forward. I’ll want to have some nights with my husband and you shall leave the room. I will have vacations to take and you will be taken care by someone trust worthy. I don’t want you to worship me. Don’t treat me like God. Don’t over do your love for me. Treat me with respect like how will treat a fellow human.

I will make sure you are comfortable. If you aren’t happy going to school, I will help you learn something else to keep you occupied. I will not tell you what to do and what not to do. I will not raise you like how I was raised. My mother’s world revolves around me and she has done nothing for hetslef. I’m not doing all that to you honey. I’ll be around you. I’ll tell you what clothes you look good in. If you like someone of the same sex, I’ll say yes. If u like someone of the opposite sex, I’ll say yes too. Your choice completely. Let’s not make one another a baggage or I must say, a dependency. Let’s live independently and happily. Let’s learn to live without one another.

I’ll be a kickass mom. Probably not the kind of mother defined by the society. But I’ll be what I need to be with you. I’ll be your mother and I’ll a be other things. It’s just another role I play in life. Just like how I love my writings, I will love you because you are my a piece of my work too. A piece that I will love, adore, cherish and let go at the right time.

Fly away son, I will not give you the wings but I will cut the branch you’re sitting on. That’s how you’ll grow and I’ll watch you grow from a distance. The distance between the waves and the shore.

I will keep rewriting this letter until I see you. I’m growing old and so are you. I may never be able to see you or maybe I will. I don’t know. But whatever the case maybe, please be known that your father and I love you.

For now, happy swimming.

Don’t fall in love with me!

Loving me is a terrible bad idea.

Don’t do it. Just don’t do it.

Nike meant that for sneakers.

Im terrible. Im messed up.

My body reeks of the scars and clots from a past that refuses to stay in the past.

The black and blue shaded blotch of skin peeping from my inner thigh is gone.

But my inner thigh still carries the weight and grunt of it .

The hair that was pulled to forced my legs to spread has grown.

But every time I comb, it mourns with a strand or two on the ground.

The legs that he spread to satiate his manhood has become thicker.

But every month I bleed between them, drop of my blood cries out in pain.

Loving me is a terrible bad idea.

Stay away. Far away.

Im fat. Im flaky.

My skin folds in places that folds don’t hold together. It falls apart. Like a pack of cards with the Queen facing down.

My face droops to my breast with skin that sulks every time I see a thin girl.

My feet that is worn out with all the years of running away from misogynists and patriarchates.

Baby please, don’t fall in love with me.

I’m earnest and passionate.

I have a heart that oozes sensuousness and a mind that spews sensibility.

I will sit half naked next to you and finger myself all night reminiscing my childhood memories.

I will bake blueberry muffins before you crawl between the sheets and I will eat them off your chest.

I will read out my favorite verses from my favorite book out loud when you are in the shower.

I will take photographs of you when you sleep and shave.

I will let you go when you want to go for baby art is all about setting it free and you are my most favorite piece of art.

I will ask you to let me go when I want to fly from our tiny kitchen window that is painted in purple.

Don’t fall in love with me sweetie.

For, I’ll love you in a way that you will hate the feeling of love when you fall in love with someone else.