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A Drug Called Love

The whole idea of love to me seems too predictable. You meet her through a friend, at a party, a dinner, a park or a blood donation drive. You like her first mostly, coz we guys know how to admire beauty. You make the first move, coz perversion mixed with desperation can make even Humpty Dumpty move like Usain Bolt. Then you spend time together, and she mostly talks, and you merely observe and that’s got nothing to do with what she is talking about. One thing leads to another and the very prospect of physical closure usually expressed in three simple words “I love you” seals the deal for you.

You kiss, hug and then go the extra mile, mostly in a “protective” environment. Then time starts flying faster than an F-22, and before you know it, it’s your first “when we first talked anniversary”, followed by “when we first held hands” and the likes which you completely forget. Then on a tough day you have a fight for the lack of memory potential. The very day you hit the bar at night with your compatriots, and later at night forego porn and resolve to retrospection.

You remember how she hated it when you kissed her coz you had smoked. Or the time when you hadn’t coz you don’t love her anymore. Or the times when you told her “I love you” yet never meant it or the times you did not coz you can’t lie anymore. Or the times when you asked her about her friends’ coz all men are like that or the times you hadn’t coz you aren’t interested anymore. Or the times when you made love often coz all men care about is sex or the times when you dint coz you are losing your libido, experimenting with your orientation or hitting on some other broad.

Such thoughts can even turn a blissful Noddy into a spiteful Shinchan, and men are all but ordinary humans. You meet her the first thing next day, you look into her eyes for a change, and your agony, anguish and hangover work together in bringing out the best offensive you could ever cast for the substantial damage caused to your self esteem and for manipulation of the false make-believe speculation cost of the commodity sex.

She doesn’t panic, shout or fight back, she listens. She looks right through your eyes, into your soul, until you shiver. And before you could recover, the nuclear offensive of tears are launched from the lids, they roll down like depth charges, dwindling across her cheeks. And then she looks away and tells in the cutest voice ever heard across the universe, “don’t talk to me, you are not nice.” But you are mostly in control, that is till your feet give away and take those hesitant steps, and then your arms too, like traitors, engulf the foe. You feel her against her bosom, protecting, the closest you could ever feel to being a man. A bomb explodes in your gut and the moist mushroom cloud travels in a lump through your throat. You hold her tighter and look into her eyes. A fatal dose of self guilt travels through your veins. You loathe yourself even more than you ever detested the Penguin, the Octopus or even Voldemort(mind you, he must not be named).You want to cry, you hold back, for she is your lady and you are her man, and mind you, her man does not cry.

You patch up, with a kiss maybe, followed by sex. Another year passes, blissfully but before you know it, it’s your first “when we first almost broke up anniversary”.

Ps-the author is a virgin yet a visionary nevertheless………

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