Illustrations by Alia Sinha
1. Art meets lust.
let them beg
let them go on their knees
let them watch
watch as you fuck misogyny and bigotry, together. Now, that’s a responsible threesome!
let him jerk
let her finger
jerk off his mediocrities
finger her half baked pseudo feminism
let it be yours
yours that you fantasize between narrations and retakes
yours that you hold close during cancelations and delays
yours that you come back home after fighting another day at the art factory where you are trying hard to make mannequins talk
don’t share for darling that’s how you come in silence.
2. Enough, let’s fuck.
Does it feel right? She asked running her fingers between his mind and legs.
You don’t regret it, do you? She asked humming to the songs of vaali behind his ear lobe.
Do you like what I’m doing? She asked tickling his finger tips and thumb sucking them as she remembers her teething days.
Do you want me to go gentle? She asked as she ran her fingers through his curly hair.
Will you remember me tomorrow morning? She asked, kissing the tip of his upper lips.
Do you want this one more time? She asked as she held his neck with her right hand.
In between all the sucking, licking, kissing, hugging, breathing, she let him inside her mind. She let him inside her safe spot. Most importantly, she let herself BE.
This ain’t love. No. The one that comes with terms and conditions apply.
This ain’t love. No. The one that comes with certainties and cover-ups.
This ain’t love. No. The one that comes with desires and needs.
This ain’t lust. No. The one that starts between the legs and ends in the flush.
This ain’t lust. No. The one that stays awake only during nights.
This ain’t lust. No. The one that seeds the idea of greed and wrath.
What is this? This Is Us.
Without shackles of social construct.
Well enough of poetry. Let’s fuck. Shall we?
You hear that sound? When two stars fight with one another and burst into a thousand more? That’s my uterus right now.
Think of my legs as freshly cut melons from your backyard. Now, spread them. Slowly. You see the colour inside? The ones that are in shades of orange, amber and red. You see them running through my inner thighs? Thighs that are as dark as the sky that’s covering the broken pieces of stars falling apart.
Now look at my face. My eyes. What do you see? Do you see the gods of Kama and Kali fighting over respite and reverence? One wants to ensure the pain to meet the pleasure and the other wants to cover the desires of the human body with a 4×4 cloth. What would you choose?
Look slightly below. You see my mouth? Gasping every time my legs are painted with a streak of red. Gasping for a brush thick enough to paint my insides.
Come closer and look down. My breasts. Fragile. In pain. Nipples that are erect and sore from the outcasted vagina. Touch them. What do they tell you? Did they pierce your nails that match the colour of my sinned gender?
Let’s get back to the melon. Did you cut them apart? Have the seeds fallen? Can you access the age from how ripe it is? Is it good enough for dinner? Use your hands to clear the mess. Is your palm wet? Do you look like a butcher who has just cut open a bird? A bird with feathers dipped in the evening sky?
Use your fingers wisely. Two maybe. Does the smell bother you? That’s the smell of my age. You see the shade of red splattered on the newly laid bedspread? That’s how you look in my dreams. All over.
Make it three. You see a tear rolling down? Wipe it. With the same hand. Look at me. Finger me looking into my eyes. They will tell you how closer to death and heaven they feel right now.
Baby, let the painting begin.
Sharada, a 37 year old abuse survivor, a fighter in letter and spirit has authored a book titled ‘Make it two’. She is known for her powerful & poignant erotica, in poetry and prose forms that have been widely spoken about.