I wish to congratulate you from the bottom of my heart for your new found self-image. The new Indian woman is liberated, powerful, ballsy, daring, commanding, in-charge, leader of the wolf-pack and most importantly driven by this inner radiance of rebel (so so sexy).

The submarine of sexual revolution under the sea of society has it’s snout peaking out for a glimpse of the sun from deep below. It’s empowering, goose-bump-inducing and down-right the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

Let’s spit into the palm of our hands and shake on it. Gross? How about we squeeze in a tiny hug (a pat on the back, if you may) or a peck on the cheek?

Gross. Weird. No-fucking-way. No strangers please! Indian men are fucking horny perverts. All they can think of is a “chance” [ludicrous assumptions, right fellas?]. I don’t blame your narrow ways ladies. We’ve earned ourselves a notorious reputation of horny apes with dicks for brains.

Hey hey hey. The generalization bandwagon is over here by the flags of male chauvinism. Guys, fellow brothers, come on. We haven’t – exactly – built bridges or even shown remote signs of growing up.

Our past record -together- reflects only super shiny shit stains.

Too many bad things have happened and women have had to resort to the lowest common denominator- a-deep-seated-generalized-view-of-all-men. We’re screwed. Yep. Rock bottom bitches, is where we’re at.

Now what? Ladies, you’ve lost faith. But, as a humble request, don’t lose hope. Hold onto that for the few out here ready to lay down their “Louis Vuitton” shirt on a puddle so you can stride over or take a bullet of calories on the dessert table [whatever rocks your boat].

It’s hot when you play coy.

There. That’s got one eyebrow kissing your forehead and the other locked square with your cheek-bones. For a few, the one’s I’ve congratulated, kissed and hugged, on you go. The rest, sporting crooked facial expressions, stay behind. Have a drink. Relax. You don’t drink? Ok, take a glass of lemonade. There we go. Much better?

Here’s my plea.

If men compliment your eyes, your new shoes, your hair or the fact that you can make us laugh or go weak in the knees or your round-round bum or your athletic body or a beautiful painting you might have made or something you might have written or cooked or built with your very muscular hands and calf-muscles- please don’t take us the wrong way.

We don’t like sandpaper either unless used to smoothen out the rough surfaces. *Genius line. I’m amazing. Alright. Back to the sexist-like rant.

I feel, some of you get way to serious about that stuff in your head. Frankly, we’ve got the attention spans of a kuala bear [or perhaps a bag of Cheetos] and before you calculate the repercussions of our comments, we’re thinking about that slice of pizza on our plate.

Grow up? Why? Do it when you die. Think young.

Consider our cheap, perverse humour spontaneous, in the moment and please [for-God-sake] don’t take it personally. We’re not rapists or certified by the Institute of Molester Fucks. It’s sick. Trust us. We’re disgusted by distasteful acts of persuasion or any forms of illicit humour ourselves.

At the same time, I will say this. Once you ladies get to know us a little bit. The rickshaw of emotions charter directly in sync with the chain and pedals. You begin to get our silly ways, our non-discreet humour, or our love for porn and most of all- the fact that some of us treat you like humans first and women after.

Call it a truce. We’re hear to cheer you up and not get into your pants. Frankly, your pants are way too tight anyways. Peace.

Drop your stinking preachy socks in the laundry, walk the bitch of society in a park of could-care-less [no leashes, please.], sip on a hot cup of calm-the-fuck-down and drop the burden of the bubble-wrap-world off your shoulders.

In other words, free your mind of any preconceived animations of what “are” and “could” be ten-on-ten relationships. No one is perfect. No relationship is perfect.

“Imperfections are the pieces of art you want hanging on the wall of life.”

[The judgemental ship of anal-retentive diaspora sailed and sunk. Gold fishes. No connection. Focus only on your breathing. Watch out for a possible step in the pavement if walking and reading is your swag.]

Perhaps, deep-down-there, we’re looking for bordering romanticism. A companion for life’s free-fall. Is it because we’re afraid of sagging alone, wrinkled in a bedroom of loneliness?

The counter of “better-options” is a wise-crack huddle. Its the longer one of the two, with people waiting to find the right one and are ignorant of what lies before them.

[Refer to section:- One night stands. Masturbation and possible withdrawal symptoms. Would 25 pet camels, a giraffe, a fleet of Porsches, lifetime access to the Playboy mansion (+viagra) and a private suite on the top of Burj Khalifa help?]

*Possible connections may vary in your contract. Porn-stars are exempted.

Fundamentals of existence. Purpose. To be desired and loved. To not die alone. The burning desire of conquering fizzling into a lamp of let-me-live-happy. Agreed, all random and puzzling thoughts. But I promise the dots connect.

[Hey! Look. A giraffe.]

The obvious truth- life is short. What are you going to do? Spend every minute pondering or living? Dreaming helps. Getting married, kids and the innuendo of THAT marathon. Sigh.

What’s real then? Work is a mere part of who we are. Balancing life between those little moments of joy and utter boredom or sadness. Contemplative exile from this over-tuned-media engine reflects blips of truth.

While attention spans are… Facebook poke.

We’re looking for someone to share this incredible journey. The ability of that person in letting go, to cultivate, to raise and to not contain a partner’s passion and dreams.

Playing the role of a canon and pivot leading to empowerment. Additionally. An ocean of breathing space would be pushing your luck but perhaps a sea could be the model for a fine tight rope balance.

Letting the other person be. Loving them for who they are. No manipulation. No terms and conditions. No fine print. In case of fire grab the hose below. The bare and raw truth of your naked thoughts maturing like fine wine.

Take a sip.

[This blog’s origin is an evening of dribbling ideas with an old pal, his take on being married and why one should pursue dreams of becoming a porn-star based in SFO.]

Not so long ago, one had to book a telephone connection and wait [by the window, biscuit dipped in tea] for months before a lineman appeared for the installation.

On the day, one would organize a party serving only cheap liquor and show-off the magical device. But, no one you knew had a phone so it sat there, waiting to tinkle. Blast to today and the rules have changed.

*Operators are carefully stalking your next move.

“Sir, we were wondering if you’d like a telephone connection?”

Translation:
We’ve gone from supply unable to cope with demand based model to surplus supply annoying the demand in the ass racquet.

“No, for the last time. I can barely keep up with this one lady.”

What does that have to do with dating women?

It’s the same reason why women from a smaller town appear to be far more difficult to score versus a bigger one.

Here’s the catch.
Smaller towns have massive demands but the supply [of cute, pretty and hot girls with a PERSONALITY] is bleak. Considering the male to female ratio in India, you have loads of guys hitting on every kind of girl.

Scavenger approach.
An 8 in the arms of a 5. How the twerk did that happen. Clearly, he’s been rejected by an 8 and in his low moment, was drawn to an easier 5 [thereby jacking the 5 to believe she’s an 8 or 7]. Pity to watch men scramble for an oink.

This is score inflation. A 5 becomes a 7 and a 8 becomes a 10 [or what we have these ladies believe] by virtue of emasculated pride. What you now have is a souped up society full of women who think they are THE kid on the block.

Perspective: Imagine if you got hit on all the time by women. Would you give a flying-fish to every one?

I don’t think so.

Versus.

A larger availability of pretty, cute and intelligent women [with a personality] in bigger towns. All them vying for the alpha male. On a playing field, full of warriors, each one is trying to make her mark.

Let’s take a moment and imagine that.

Translation:
Women are far more receptive, conversation hungry and approachable. Clearly there are more 8, 9 and 10s in any room. Most of them will go the extra mile to get your attention.

Supply is in excess of demand. You can connect with what suits your budget, personality and lifestyle. Like that telephone connection.

Small town girls let their hair down in the big city: This means a small town girl appears to be different in a bigger town- like a dual personality. She no longer has to conform or is under the watchful eye of the ones she fears. The judgmental sort.

Players take the girls home.
However, one cannot expect to score by being a needy and boring little twig.