Category: SYNG

A few days ago I found myself lying down on a rather swanky chair in a dentist’s office. Nope, it wasn’t a root canal but a perspective client seeking some brand restructuring. In these, first-off meetings I like the getting-to-know-the-client-better by stepping into my nosey 12-year-old self with 21 questions routine. To your surprise, the clients quite fancy my enthusiasm.

Alright, an hour into this meeting, I have had my stats pulled up on 42’ LCD, had a sweet foot massage (by getting into one of those overtly priced sofas) and had my x-rays taken just for kicks.

Even though I dread the chair, this was quite a pleasurable experience so far with little clue of what was going to hit me next. As we were about to call it a day, the door to the cabin opened and in came, along with a blast of cool air from the AC, a gorgeous bombshell with long black hair, sharp features, and boy was she tall (6ft give or take), sporting a business suit, juggling a handbag and some files in one hand with the other on the knob.

I hid my boner like a man and climbed off the chair and grabbed my laptop bag. She exchanged words with the doctor. Apparently, she was a consulting dentist as well as (I’m guessing a part-time Penthouse centerfold) but I wouldn’t take the later too seriously for now.

While I stood there with my jaw hanging, boner intact (hid carefully behind my bag) the doctor was kind enough to introduce us both. Although I had undressed her to a black bikini, she looked no less in a suit.

We shook hands and all I could I think off was being spanked like a naughty boy on the swanky lemon green chair behind me. She oozed power and loads of sex. Or maybe thats testosterone talking or my dick but I was alive. The equivalent to how I felt would be running naked in a packed stadium.

Without revealing much (or further making a fool of myself), I walked out the door leaving the two behind. I had only walked a few yards and my phone rang. I so wanted to pause with an excuse and this was my ticket. I paused in the hallway (in play), and it was another client. The conversation pursued while I had my eyes nailed to the doctor’s door, waiting for this lady dentist who had blown my mind to step out. I felt that behind my perverse thoughts, there was something far more beautiful, a connection.

Bang! She stepped out and caught me red-handed staring down at her from across the hall. For a moment, I had goosebumps on my back for the fact that it reminded me of my days in school when I could barely make eye contact with girls.

A three-second eye contact and I looked away (right from the players handbook), continued to walk out towards the parking lot. My car was awaiting my return but my client was still on call. I couldn’t help but pause by an SUV (it reminded me of one I had just like it) and appreciate it, while at the same time, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl one more time.

There I was, standing between my other car and this incredible SUV. I could see her walk out the main entrance and walk right up to this SUV and plonk all her stuff on the bonnet. She continued to fiddle while I was on call.

From the corner of my eye, I could sense something in the air, by looking at her nose deep into her bag. I cut the call and walked up to her and blurted the most obvious, “Is this your car?”. Turns out, it was her boyfriends and we had loads to talk about. She wanted me in the cafe (in the hospital lobby) and I didn’t want to come off as desperate weirdo.

She persisted I get a ride in her car for old time’s sake and we could exchange numbers. On this request, I couldn’t help but quietly sneak the keys of my car into my pocket and story up how my friend dropped me off and didn’t show up.

We exchanged numbers and got into the SUV. This was even way hotter than I had previously imagined. Girls behind big wheels have this uncanny ability to make some men extremely horny. While she drove at a steady pace, I couldn’t help but thinking on how wild it would be to park the car and throw yourself on each other and make wild passionate love on the massive back seat.

To that, I only looked out the window and continued to talk about how she fancied creative people. To my surprise, we had this common thirst for art (and maybe wild sex but she didn’t mention anything of it). We reached my office and we shared this awkward, should we hug or shake hands before I’m thrown out of the car moment. I behaved and threw in a handshake/high-five. She left and I sneaked back to the hospital, with a friend, to pick up my car.

A week later, I called her up on the offer but the tables had turned. I’m guessing she stumbled upon my blog (brandished on the back of my business card which I exchanged during our meeting from the parking lot) or her better half got the best of her. She no longer wanted to have that coffee or make wild-passionate-love in the backseat of an SUV or in other words, go for a drive.

I guess this was one fantasy never meant to become reality. Sigh.

Published originally on GQ.

I’ve just knocked the socks of the hottest looking female on the planet for the 100th time. We lay there, arms crossed, looking into each other’s eye with content. But, only I’m not. I’d be a douche if I said something. Truth is, I got bored. Rather quickly. Too quick for even my own good.

Looking for answers, I pick Google’s brain. Endless columns and blogs later, which by the way are in surprising abundance, ramble the same sad fart-induced ideas. Put ice in her foxy fondle, cherry her on top, lick the nutty nipples, chocolate sauce your turtle and let her tongue polish it shiny clean and so on. You get the drill right?

Yawn! Frankly, these just don’t cut it for me. Done. Done. And, done.

I think its time we set aside continental food and gave the Indian recipe’s a chance. I know how this may sound because I can see you’re brain has already gone in overdrive. Imagining daal, butter chicken, naan (bread), dosa, paav-bhaji, imli-ki-chatni, gulaab jamun and mind-blowing-bed-breaking-activities just don’t go hand in hand. Or, do they.

To be honest, the very thought originated, one late evening, by watching a woman swallow a whole “PAAN” post quaffing down a bottle of russian vodka. Till that very moment, I could’ve never put two and two together. Her lips, those drunk-dreamy-blue eyes and back-revealing saree ensemble had my blood rushing for a standing ovation.

I’d say, the next time you’re woman goes under the sink to clean the pipes, drop in the chatni or chaashni (used to sweeten gulab jamun). Top her up with idli-sambhar or if she’s from the North, butter chicken curry and use naans to wipe her clean.

The creative bunch can also introduce achaar, golas (ice candy), bhel-puri as part of the overall seduction game. Don’t be a weiner, try the tikka and see her soften-up like a tender malai-kofta.

Published originally on GQ.

There I was, a chilled beer in hand, on the edge of my seat, watching the match between India and Australia. Despite my bleak knowledge and interest for the game, the cricket fever had gotten the best of me. An adrenaline rush ensued once Yuvraj hit the ball down the boundary towards victory. It sure felt euphoric.

I settled back in my seat on hearing the phone ring. To my surprise it was a distant friend from Bangalore. I figured he’d be excited and be calling friends to congratulate them. But, before I could utter a word, he blurted, “Could you arrange some tickets?”

Even before my phone could find it’s place back on the table, another call from a relative in Rajasthan, and another from Delhi, and another from Mumbai – every one wants to watch the ball bashing action, live.

I feel like a hotshot bookie. I console and sympathise with all of them – “too difficult boss, but I will try my best”. Apparently rumours are afloat that 50% seats have been reserved by sponsors and the ICC for “delegates” and “very important people”. And who will these people be is still speculation.

Newspapers are littered with headlines of elusive tickets and how the “who’s who” have squeezed every connection high and dry. Reports claim that right down from the peon to the government “babu”, all are inundated with calls having to carry their phone chargers everywhere. A few have, in frustration, even switched off their phones completely.

However, I did notice something unusual over the past day. It all began while I was walking down the market and two random men approached me on overhearing my telephonic conversation for tickets. These men assumed I had a few lying around, to spare for random people I meet in the market. I consoled them too but they persisted and ended up taking my number.

I was witness to a unique Indian-like over-friendly – the kinds when you travel to a rare European country and see the only other Indian. This entire episode reminds me of deprived members of society running after a truck loaded with water and food grains. The rich and influential could care less; they’ve rolled out the red carpet to the terrace and VIP box with pocket change.

Frankly, I find heading to a local pub, fitted with a big screen and some chilled beers a far better deal, and it definitely doesn’t cost a month’s pay cheque.

Published originally on GQ.