Mind your language sweetie

Love is a much maimed word. Any medium of any note ever, whether it be a simple piece of paper in the hands of such difficult to understand poets as Shelly or whether it be lines in talkies delivered with such intense emote that I have to carry a whole box of tissues for my girlfriend everytime I go see Sweet November, this is one word that has faced the extreme hormone induced onslaught of mankind. Nobody and I mean nobody has spared it, anybody who is somebody has decided to pen down his two cents worth of trash on the subject.

But we poor hep-Indians have a unique and therefore difficult problem when it comes to the language of love. This is not a problem which we have when we are proposing to that girl, or when we are out with her and chatting her up like theres no tomorrow, or when our hands are entwinned in the calm and serenity of our living room and we are murmuring those mushy gooey lovey dovey nonsense, this is the problem that shows its evil devious medusa like head the moment we we proceed from the calm of our living rooms to the confines of our bedrooms and its now time not just for our hands but our bodies to entwine. That is when the problem of the language of love comes to bite us in our bloody ugly ass. And by Jove its it has a bad bite.

Now you all bloody well know that dirty talk is the one thing that makes good sex into fucking great sex, not size, not technique (well to some extent) but it is the talk in the sex that gives it that NOx boost. Now if you are an Indian or you have been with an Indian girl, you would know that when it comes to dirty-sex talk during the sex she would lose out to a blind dodo, lock , stock and two smoking barrels included. Have you ever wondered why?? Why does the language of love betray the Shakespeare and Scott and Keats quoting bloody hep-indian babe in that moment when it matters the most??

Its because the poor soul is freaking confused. In that moment of truth when shes turned on and is on the absolute verge of a monumental orgasmic joy-ride she opens her mouth and is about to say Fuck me hard Jhantu, fuck me like I'm your sex-slaved bitch, but unfortunately for her, her basic instincts have taken over and what insteads comes out is her freaking mother-tongue Mujhe chodo mere praan-naath, me tumhari daasi hoo. (in bengali: esho amay chodo amar praneshwar, aami tomar bandi daasi). And as soon as Jhantu hears that daasi shit images of his broom-armed voluptuous-in-all-the-wrong-places kamwaali-bai (not kaamwali bt the housemaid) from calcutta crops up in his head and he goes limp faster than a mustang can go from o-80 mph and that moment of pure orgasmic passion passes by.

But then a few days later a tad more wiser she comes up with a strategy that would solve the sex-talk problem. I am feeling horny Jhantu murmurs in her ears as he unbuckles his belt and she coos right back would you like to taste the forbidden nector that overflows in my pristine river of venus. And Jhantu stops unbuttoning his pants and looks up with a dazed look Come again. She was ready with one-liners that she had memorized over the last two nights penned down by Mills and Boons. Unfortunately for Jhantu she didnt see Jenna Jameson mouthing obsecenities in his stash of porn movies. For fucking sweet Jesus Christs' sake girl call the spade a spade and say the pussy is a pussy, thats what turns the man on not some sissy talk about flowing rivers.

But she shall not give up that easily. So she decides she shall let Jhantu lead the way. He is the pastmaster and she shall only respond to his dirty talk. Back in that bedroom, locked in a passionate all-consuming embrace with Jhantu's mouth buried deep in her supine form she hears Jhantu's stifled yet commanding voice echo from within the crevices of her body Feff me fu fant foo vee fuvved viffe va vich (Tell me you want to be fucked like a bitch-- fuckers thats the best you can do if your face is buried in a very delicious body). She cant make out what hes saying, he does like German bands, is he dirty-talking in German she wonders. Jhantu in the meanwhile is on an uphill slope of passion and growls his muffled sex-talk a tad more loudly this time and in the process making it even more incoherent. She is panic-stricken now, she needs to respond. Say something say anything her mind tells her as Jhantu's growls create a cacophony of German echoes in her ears. She tries to remember the words of atleast one of those German songs he had sent her. But her mind isnt working, and so she screams, the most high-pitched panic-laden passionate scream you've ever heard. She lets out her mating call with a vengence HEIL HITLER BABY!! And Jhantu comes up from within the crevices of her form You fucking Nazi cunt he screams right back.

And then on their next night in that now sound-proofed bedroom Jhantu tells her Today I shall teach you the French way of making love, my darling. What can that be sweetheart, she coos. Let me show you

WHAM BAM, THANK YOU MAM