My Boys.

This boy I was tripping with yesterday was dreamy enough for me. I decided to meet him once again. I knew something irrational would come out of it- something to rekindle my interest in men-folk. 

I knew I was in for a surprise or a disappointment, but sometimes disappoints are surprises too. This is where this story begins -in surprises and in a heart who­se melancholy beats constantly outrun its slow paced and walled life. My story begins on a Monday morning when I should have taken that bus to office, but instead I chose to stay back at home with my pen and my paper. I chose to chew on thoughts and that’s when the bell rang. The boy had arrived on time- he carried with him a paper notebook just like I had instructed. I asked him to read out everything he had written in that notebook since yesterday. He looked a bit perplexed and then opened and started reading it. He minced on as if he was reading from memory and not from the book. I wondered if he had written at all or if he was indeed reciting from memory. I don’t know what he was saying, I paid no attention. I was already craving for him, him as a whole, and not those eyes that were not like eyes. I don’t know what’s with me and all these men who read, I always want them. I want them to read on, I want to play with them, I want them inside me and outside me, and this was one another little boy- who was reading on and on and on. His story was one of the old kings, sphinx, revenge and I don’t remember. It’s always the usual.  

A lot of time must have passed between us when his voice grey heavy and caught my attention. His eyes that were like eyes were glowing and my head felt light. I don’t know what came over to me then. I fell asleep and I must have slept for a long time. My dreams were only about him, it was as always pretty frustrating- I was hoping he would kiss me, fondle my breasts, ravage me, but all these men who read, were hardly such brutes. They were predictably nice. When was the last time I had a brute?

I must have dreamt for a while, and then I woke up. I found myself in my bed, it was well made. I looked around and the boy was nowhere to be seen. I found a notebook by my side, and there was my pen, cap open, my bed sheets stained in the Prussian blue. I would have to summon him again tomorrow, he my unfinished man, they all meet me and then they vanish away, they don’t exist in flesh- they don’t make love to me, they only make me wake up for a while and then they bore me to sleep- my men are mostly one page long, faceless, and with a reading habit.

And I am their mother.