Category: GQ

Here I am, a little past 2, bladdered on cheap Mexican beer. I’ve just gotten off the phone with a beautiful woman who’s triggered a pixilated argument over male sensitivity and transparency/honesty. Under these inebriate circumstances, my ability to rant swings to women or real-life in general (the life on Facebook and Twitter doesn’t count).

But, wait, I think of women twenty four seven irrespective of cheap Mexican beer or not. Who am I kidding? This one, like everything else I write, has sex all over it. In fact, I can’t fall asleep without fantasizing about beautiful women. They tickle and trigger my adolescence-like boy-with-peanut-butter sandwich mind.

I am an honest man or at the least I would like to picture it in that fashion. This, arguably underestimated, truth doesn’t go down well with the balloon people. In other words, the folks who live in, beautiful yet wee, bubbles or those who should be crowned frog princes in their perpetual wells of delusion. They find the very idea to be a canon ball full of sand and downright impenetrable.

Like the guys in movies who’ll pee in their pants at the very thought of doing something criminal. Yep, those buggers!

What if I told you women like a cocky man? The kind of man who can be found in a club with a woman perched on his lap; he usually spanks a girl’s ass in public; has made out in the backseat of a car; has the balls to kiss her in view of public; and never steps, even for a moment, in the “best friends” trap; can be often found with one hand in her panties without hyperventilated into a sweaty towel.

We, under our very skin, like the blanket of generalization because it protects us from evil boogers and ghosts that haunt our egos. Whoever wants to openly talk about sex, booze, drugs and condoms – (put the name of any lead rock band vocalist here) doesn’t count or me for that matter.

While others zip up their beliefs, I believe that the riddle i.e. fear can be solved by unzipping the mind and the pants too. I also think the world bifurcates on the river of balls.

Men from all age groups think about it all the time, they fantasize like little boys in adolescence (that reminds me, I don’t think we, men, ever grow up). We often fall short and shy of expressing our feelings towards the opposite sex.

On another important yet pointless note, leching on gorgeous women and their assets is downright perverted and disgusting. Its sick yet so exhilarating, a social evil yet heavenly, disrespectful but the light in the dark tunnel – one that’s littered with pornography-induced ideas of legendary orgasms – a ventilation for all the anxiety hidden between our legs.

As a sensible man of society, I think of sex, more sex and lots more – like breathing air. There. So? I love a firm ass. They are so sexy, however, I could never work my kink towards boobs. I find women to be so fascinating that I can’t imagine an un-horny world.

By being an expressive man, a woman sees you as a confident boy, aware of his desires and “feelings” or in other words, a guy with Superman’s balls. Sex sells. Period. Women are no longer afraid to talk about it so why should you?

Now, you can blame the media or the Mexican-beer-drinking-moustache-brandishing-pornstar for polluting the society at large or you can follow the animal that lives within – both these roads lead to sex.

Why question nature then?

Point is, women love men who love women and sex. And that, my friend with one hand occupied, is the truth. The next time you meet her, for just this once, think from your better brain.

Published originally on GQ.

You’re sitting in a café, busy munching away a blueberry donut, eyeing a gorgeous babe from across the table, daydreaming a sequence from Dil Wale Dulhania Le Jayenge where the protagonist runs slow motion in a cotton field.

Moments later, you’re awakened by the roar of a scolded African gorilla – relax, it came from a Harley. A man in leather, sporting out-of-bed looks struts in. This guy resembles Mick Jagger met Arnold in a Scandinavian cave.

On regaining focus, you notice the short affair from across the table hijacked. She’s ogling at the man in leather like a hungry wolf waiting to pounce at the prize. At this point you’re invisible. This leaves you bewildered with a 9 to 5 job, decent salary, safe and single.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? What’s this guy got? How can you become a chick magnet? Don’t sweat; you’re in good hands. Gather your donuts for a tête-à-tête by the Harley. Lets begin once you’re done salivating at the Twin-Rod. Done?

Here we go.

To begin with, you don’t have to dress like an 80’s Rockstar or own a Harley to become a chick magnate, although, the later could leverage your case. The truth is, women at large, are bored with their routine – home, work, the same old parties and guy friends, leaving little room for excitement.

So, if you want to be the man women call all the time, then, you’ll have to pull up your socks and think laterally. Women love men with a passion for life. Involve them with stories of deep-sea fishing expeditions, bungee jumping in the Canyon, trekking in the Australian outback or even the time you drank 30 bottles of beer.

The idea is to extract you from the safe bubble – the one your mom help you make – to become outward and confident. Take chances, take a different route home, and make decisions based on nothing. Most importantly, live life on the edge. In other words, before taking any decision, think what would Indiana Jones do.

Lastly, remember that women love originality and men who tickle their imagination. Start small; grab some duck tape, a flagpole, a rope tied across two buildings and a bicycle. Get the idea? Meh!

Published originally on GQ.

You’d agree if I said girls, today, jump in and out of a relationship on a whim. That said, they are certainly running the show, multi-tasking life, giving the bandwagon – cause you can no longer be in the same one – a tough time and even calling the shots on Mars.

In all this canoodling of roles, rare breeds of women have risen from the ashes, like the Phoenix, but only better looking in a two-piece bikini. Of course there’s a flipside to all this, I mean – while others gaze in despair, you can cash in on the opportunity.

Allow me to elucidate a theory.

Firstly, instead of being overwhelmed, observe the pencil heeled, dressed in a suit, with hair tied in a bun. She has the bank balance, looks that make you quaff like a cave man, a fancy car and a 36th floor apartment with a view that makes the moon look like a lamp post. Now, don’t ask me how I know that last bit.

Stay with me. You need to get yourself a Sugar Mamma. She’s a ray of hope – a mistress of excessive and indulgent fun. And, by doing so you’d be no less of a man you ever were. In fact, this will only reinforce your lost childhood confidence.

She wants to escape the corporate battalion and you need a break from stereotypical pressure – a win-win for everyone in the equation. The benefits of being with a Sugar Mamma begin on the lazy boy – chilled beer in hand, watching the game and having pizza delivered at the door – her place, bruh!

These ladies desire love and affection – not necessarily leading to marriage – from a man who’s utterly devoid of work-induced-nag. The kinds most intellectual gentlemen do in boredrooms (aka boardrooms).

The easiest way to get noticed by a Sugar Mamma is to, one, being goofy or if you’re a natural comedic – making her laugh (women love a guy a funny man), two, mastering a rare Chinese technique which can sedate a girl with just a wrist action (rubbing her feet silly) and three, a bottle of wine and some chilled beer – if you’re half as smart as you look, you’ll only drink the wine.

Published originally on GQ.