I could’ve titled it My Personal Women’s Studies Program. Or, perhaps, romantically, The Women I Loved. Yes, here’s a more exciting one: My Secret Sex Life (ooo–la la!). You can imagine more.
(Just don’t tell my wife. Let there be some secret only between you and me. Okay?)
I settled on The Way Women Touch Me. I wanted to emphasize…er…you know…on the element of…touching (here’s an uptalk…up-talk the word touching at the end of the sentence…you know uptalking, right?). You might say, to spice it up a little…to invite my fabulous readers to imagine or un-imagine about *my* sex life, etc. (*my* in asterisks…because there are a lot of controversies surrounding it out there…I hear). That’s the emphasis. Otherwise, who’s going to read my mundane chronicling of human rights abuse in the U.S., India’s finance minister’s dubious connection with the devilish IMF, if the British would apologize for their two centuries of lynching and looting in India, or my personal post-9/11 brushes with bigotry and racism? Come on…let there be some fun! Life is too boring anyways…let’s laugh a little…and relax. Let me buy you a soft drink…maybe…a glass of champagne? Yeah?
In fact, a very attractive, sophisticated and smart friend recently suggested that I showed people that I could actually do funny. She said, make it fun, Partha, and people will read your serious social and political messages too. Didn’t I say she was brilliant?
Know what? I sorta always knew it, but then sorta didn’t do it…in the midst of this Troy Davis murder and Obama’s total, disastrous letdown and the rise of a bunch of Neo-Nazis in the U.S., and all. But now that she gave me that little, ear-pullin’ spark, I thought I should use it and even my wet match box would fire up. It has done it a number of times before…don’t believe it…just look at my photo…don’t I look fabulous? That’s serious proof…like Obama’s birth certificate…that I can laugh too!
(My Columbia Journalism School friends and some other peers often call me a wet blanket…but I really think I’m more like a soggy match box, given the size of my brain and body — ask my buddy Michael. I totally appreciate those little, magical sparks that come along from heaven once in a while. Like my ever-fleeting emotions, those few fun flowery fragrant fleetin’ frolic friends come along, touch me with their surreal magic, lighten me up, and then disappear in thin air. For the rest of my life, I remember those few, soft, sweet-sultry touches, and heave and sigh…and sigh and heave…)
But I can laugh, swear to God. In fact, any weekends, between eight and ten in the evening, you come over to our house for some out-of-the-world Indian food my wife makes (call first, please — she is busy). You’ll hear laughs even from the subway station on your walk over to ours…make no mistakes…we laugh hard…and guess what, I’m the epicenter of it (now, don’t twist the meaning — I saw your eyes twitch.).
Anyways. What was the topic of this conversation? Oh yes, women…and the way they touch me. Ooo! Let’s see (rubbing my palms together). Now, remember, you promised not to tell my wife.
In fact, I need a must-do digression, with your kind permission. The Way Women Touch Me could be the title of my next novel…I mean…my first novel. And if this blog becomes the publisher’s promo on the web, there will be serious questions, concerns and raised brows from diverse corners of my so-far well-kempt married life. In fact, some of these questioners, concerners and raised-browers are on my Facebook. And then, they have their Facebook friends and then their friends…and poor wifey and I are connected with all of them directly or indirectly…like a Venn Diagram. But now that I’ve taken this subject on, and by default, it’s kinda sexy and salacious, I think I would not mind being slobbered over by some gossiping drool. Wifey though…for her…that’s not funny at all. That’s the reason I said you better keep her out.
Or we can’t scramble and get to the bottom of it (no pun intended).
[not bored yet? come back. i will.]
Brooklyn, New York