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Salma Hayek in Fair Game (1995)

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Who else remembers the childhood skies of Independence day being peppered with colourful kites, each one flying higher and higher? I recall standing on the top most level of our roof, cheering on my dad and cousins as their kites soared into the cloudless skies. I remember the kites that got stuck in the trees and those that dropped down from the heavens, limp and lost. The tradition of kite flying and kite-battling is age old, but in the wake of Indian independence, it finds new meaning. The kite, the glorious patang, is symbolic of freedom. Such a beautiful, weightless emblem of liberation. It can fly where the kite runner wills it and can glide where the wind takes it, but at the end, the kite has a mind of its own. It floats, effortlessly, freely. And there is nothing more precious than freedom. The cost of a kite is a curious thing, since it is not the kite that is expensive, rather the dor, the string. It is sharp and dangerous, for it is meant to cut other kites mid-flight. My grandmother once told me that in her ancestral village of Muryali in the NWFP, her cousins would make their own dor. For lack of money to buy the expensive reel, they’d break down glass to a fine power, mix it with water and flour to make a razor-edged paste and then coat a reel of ordinary thread with it. “They were the kings of kite-flying”, she’d say, her voice dripping with excitement at recalling their escapades. “They ran along the fields, holding the for, tightening and loosening it from time to time, coordinating the flight of the single soaring kite, eventually disappearing completely into the horizon.“

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A long, sensual male masturbation session with some pillow talk after.

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“I knew what I looked like. I looked like a woman in a Hopper painting … the one in Morning Sun, who sits on her bed, hair twisted into a messy bun, gazing through her window at the city beyond. A pretty morning, light washing the walls, but nonetheless something desolate about her eyes and jaw, her slim wrists crossed over her legs. I often sat just like that, adrift in rumpled sheets, trying not to feel, trying simply to take consecutive breaths.” –Olivia Laing, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone

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A sudden noise woke me up, the guards were bickering outside. I looked at the clock on the wall, 7 am. I looked beside me, Amma was still asleep. It was November and back then, November would bring with it the winter chill. I put on my chadar to go out and see what all the commotion was, careful not to wake Amma up. But still half asleep, she held my wrist. “Akele nahi”, she said, “not alone, never alone.” Slowly, she too rose and covered her head. I was already waiting by the door and barely awake, she followed me. When we got to the garden, we saw a small man being pushed around by the guards. His skin was dark and he was wearing those…I’ve seen men in India wearing them, oh yes, a dhoti. He was wearing a dhoti. “Kahan se aaye ho”, Amma asked him, but he was silent. “Where have you come from”, she tried again but got no answer. The guards had been manning both the front and back of the house and had not seen him jump over gate. After discussing it amongst themselves, they offered us a strange and extraordinary explanation for the events of that morning. The man had come from above, they deduced, looking up to the heavens. Fallen from the sky, smack into their compound in the heart of Jalandhar. “Oopar se aya, he had fallen from the sky.” 

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I knew it!

Would you rather watch porn to get off or look at our submissions?

Submissions, 100%, not even close. 

In addition to porn (hotness) it also strokes my…ego. 

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“I am living now in the unhappiest happiness imaginable.” - Akutagawa Ryunosuke, 20 June 1927, The Life of a Stupid Man 

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There is nothing better than a strong embrace. The rush you feel Being pulled against the body You’ve been dying to feel against yours.

Mrs. Endy (via wordsnquotes)

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“Both.” It’s okay to be soft, Pink, lilacs and doves. It’s okay to be rough, Jagged edges, mud and dirt. Life is a beautiful blend of both If you only know where to look.

(a small piece from my new collection, out this December unless I feel it is ready sooner)

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Pray

Don’t forget to say your prayers tonight I’ll be calling upon your sinful desires dreams filled with caramel eyes that peer into your soul while my voice whispers all the beautiful violent things that I’m going to do into your neck and collarbone before emptying all that I am so deep inside of you

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A woman standing by a window, kissing a small bird perched on her finger, 1890s .

Photo by George B. Brainerd/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images 

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only time will tell instagram

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I remember when you were mine.

Six Sexy Words (via an-experienced-gentleman)