A Stereotypical Love Story


I love her. But she doesn’t.
Okay, fuck it. I don’t love her. I…I…feel for her. Something intense.
It’s not love. I don’t stay up nights thinking of ways to make her love me. I am just fascinated by her…endlessly. She is made of awesome. And that is why I want her. I want to know her, all of her, so deeply that I discover the cracks, the fault lines. So deeply that she seems flawed, like a human being. Not that she isn’t flawed. But her flaws are like those of worn-out antiques and second-hand books, they only increase the intrigue.

I don’t love her. No, I’m not just saying that. Saying that I do would make this so much simpler. I don’t know why I don’t love her. This should be how love works. Right? Maybe I will love her once I know her, the underlying fault lines. Or maybe I will be completely disenchanted once the mystery is solved. There is no way to know unless the curtain is lifted.

She would probably say that I do know her. We have been friends for a while now. She would probably say that I know her better than many others. But no, there’s more. There’s more underneath that enticing mix of beauty, intelligence and perfect flaws.


Have you been talking to Gaurav, again? Was he telling you that he loves me and he can’t wait to get inside me? (Inside my mind, I mean. Tut-tut.) Well, he doesn’t. No, he is not in love with me. He is infatuated. That’s it. I’m not the first one.

Let me tell you something about Gaurav. He is a babe and he sings with the voice of god, and yes, I often wonder what lies underneath all those clothes. But Gaurav’s personality is boringly simplistic. It’s pattern, I mean. Gaurav thinks he is a hottie. Well, he would be if he had a brain. And he thinks the women of the world would give their all for him. (Yes, he only likes women. Boring, I told you.) Because they do, many of them. The brainless finds his following among the brainless. Now, those that hold his interest are those that do not fall at his feet as soon as he snaps his fingers. He pursues them and when they do fall, he walks.

I have piqued his interest because I simply refuse to fall. Yes, we hang out and you could say we are friends. He sings. I write. I keep saying he is not smart, but compared to the general population, he doesn’t fare badly at all. I can talk, he can understand what I am saying. He can talk, I can see that he needs work but there is value in his ideas. That often is enough to forge a friendship. The only thing is, Gaurav isn’t used to female friends — and sometimes male too — who do not fall in love with him. He always complains about how women cannot see him as just a friend, blah blah blah. But the moment they do, it shocks him. All of a sudden, in order to affirm his own attractiveness, he will go out of his way to show them how charming and how perfect of a lover he can be. And then, they fall for him. And he comes to me complaining about how women cannot value his friendship; they are so sexist, they can only befriend other women, etc. etc.

That trick hasn’t worked with me in the last two years. So, he is getting desperate. And he construes it as love or something similar. What he is experiencing is a growing intensity to find my button. That is it and that is all.


I often come close, really close, to getting inside her. There is this song. Often at night, when we have had a drink or two, she looks at me. She looks at me in a way that she never looks at me when she is sober. She looks at me like how every other woman looks at me – the women who want me. She comes and sits on the floor next to my chair, looks up into my eyes, places her hands on my knee and pleads, “Gaurav, sing me that song, will you?” I see the yearning in her kohl-smudged eyes and when I began to sing, she quietly places her head on my knee, still looking at me. She waits till I’m done, and every time I fall prey to thinking that tonight, it will happen. Tonight, I will crack the code. Then, she calls it a night. No, it’s not about sex. I don’t want to fuck her. I wouldn’t mind but that’s not what I am looking for here. Sure, it would be the icing on the cake, but I need the cake first. I need her mind. I would fuck her mind. She always has her walls up high. Someday, I’ll sing and the walls will crumble, leaving her mind naked, vulnerable. I’ll know how she ticks.


Okay, fine. I’d never tell anyone but yes, I am attracted to him. No, not his mind. He’s not brilliant. But, god, would I fuck him. Oh yes. Especially when he sings. That song, “Bhalobeshe Sokhi Nibhrite Jotone”. He is so sexy when he sings that song.

That’s why I befriended him. We were at a mutual friend’s house. It was a party of sorts. Later, when we were all too tired but too reluctant to leave, our friend asked him to sing. And oh my, I knew I had to befriend this guy. He is so sexy when he does that.

I do make him sing now. Every time we drink and all our friends have gone home, I make him sing. It gets me so hot. But I know I can’t take him to bed. What if he wakes up the next day and thinks I love him or something? I don’t think he’d understand it’s purely sexual.

But oh, I fuck him alright. I fuck him hard. I fuck him in every way that he can be fucked. Pegging, missionary, whatever. Haha, I write. I fuck him with my pen. Every guy who gets fucked in any of my stories these days, it’s him. I so want to see him naked someday. I wish there was a way. I wish we could have sex without it being awkward or without him expecting anything out of it. I’d love his body. I’d worship his body.

That is why I leave. Every time he sings, I leave right after. I must hold it, I must write, and I must – ahem – get it out of my system.

Human relationships are so complicated.


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