found on a cold night
in lieu of darkness
over a hexagonal glass of whiskey.
I took off a boot
we discussed Faisal,
fingers in the middle eastern pie
that make it the shattered mirror
of lost lives

living in this universal crowd
of masked faces
where to touch one is tantamount
to sacrilege, violating
caste purity–
how could I pick your face
from the anonymous mass
contravening this unspoken
border between each individual country.

Such craving throngs to crescendo,
the wrangle between autonomy and harmony,
hands wanting to cross boundaries
minorities within perimeters
pan-identity beyond frontiers
and the sanctity of the solitary.
You reach across your wall
to my foreign hand
on a cold night
in lieu of darkness
passports no longer needed.

First there was centuries of patriarchal religious and social subjugation of women, then they didn’t have the right to vote or curse in public or spit on the sidewalk and then there’s been all those breast cancer scares and now—this:  “persistently or recurrently deficient (or absent) sexual fantasies and desire for sexual activity” among eliteist women.”

Oh sweet lord. What to do what to do they ask hungrily.

These are women, as a “NY Times Magazine” article spells out,  who want to want…Want to want what? Women who want to want desire. And when do they want to want it? Soon. Very soon.

“At her group therapy sessions for women despairing of low sexual desire, therapist Lori Brotto likes to pass around a plastic tub of raisins. The women, usually six to a group, sit around two pushed-together beige tables in a fluorescently lighted conference room at the British Columbia Center for Sexual Medicine in Vancouver. A little potted tree is jammed randomly in one corner. Ragged holes scar one wall where a painting used to hang. The décor doesn’t speak of sensuality. That is the job of the raisin.”

Raisins? Yes. Pure Genius. This is therapy at it most sublime. Raisins. It’s so simple its beautiful “I’d like you to start by examining your raisin…Study its shape, its contours, its folds. Touch the raisin with a finger. Look into the valleys and peaks, the highlights and dark crevasses. Lift the raisin to your lips.”

Oh sweet lord I just got an erection. And over raisins for chrissakes. But the rasin of course must be intently symbolic (if these girls could just, you know, adaquately visualize the it as symbol). There’s more. Remember, with a rasin you can’t eat just one (which is a line I believe from a potato chip company).

So here they are, a room of passionless women who want to want.  Raisin-as-libido-fruit consciousness raising. Do they get the message? Do they feel now the raisin bursting. Can they feel the love. The self  love. Raisin as symbol? I wonder if the Beatles are playing in the background (if not, it’s a good gooey idea).  I Want to Hold Your Hand…I Saw Her Standing There (although in that song “she was just seventeen if you know what I mean”—and these babes I presume are older).

Here comes more symbolic intent… “ they are instructed… to place the raisins in their mouths, to ‘notice where the tongue is, notice the saliva building up in your mouth [wow it sure is doing it for me]. . . notice the trajectory of the flavor as it bursts forth [oh yeah], the flood of saliva [I'm drooling I'm droolin], how the flavor changes from your body’s chemistry.’ ”

As a guy what guilt I feel.  I just got off with merely reading this raisin part of the therpay and these hungry wanting wives of the elite or women who are the elite are still hungry, groping through the webs of mental sexual dysfunction therapy: “I want to feel horny. I want to want.” They shout it. They cry it out loud: We want to want–Desire.

Raisin therapy is merely the intro. It will not in itself produce the end result of the wanting to want syndrome. Psych doesn’t work that fast. There’s more goodies to come.  We want to feel IT… Alas, the terapist must make an attempt to go beyond raisin babble into that old standbye—yoga:

“She went through her usual yoga poses, but with ‘a cognitive reframe,’…She told herself, ‘over and over like a mantra,’ that she was an especially sexual woman, ‘capable of a high level of desire, a high level of response.’ And, she recalled, “there was a deliberate intent not only to listen to my body even more than I normally would in yoga but also to interpret the signs from my body as signs of my sexual identity. So my breathing was not just breathing…it was breathing because I was highly sexual.”

Beautifully put (it also gave me another erection).

Porn movies follow. They’re boring.

They still want to want. The women still want to want Desire.

As they work through the hierarchy of inner-self sexual self-discovery what is the key to success, the one super electrifying synaptic charge that will unfold the body like a flower? Think shudders, violent uncontrollable shaking; think  with sexual desire like the killer purr of a big cat.

Where are we headed girls? Right here. To a truth, the, er, the simple E=MC2 formula of lust. Here it is—“desire follows arousal.” Get aroused and you got what? Desire. Ladies, write it down quick in your little notebook. And remember, it all started with a rasin. Yes, of course. Arousal. But then again these women could’ve found that out by spitting those rasins out in the early session and going outside and asking  just about anybody on the street: Pardon me a moment please, would you mind telling me what follows arousal? Certainly you poor passionless sexual knave: Desire follows arousal.

The wanting part is really wanting arousal because why? Because arousal will lead to desire. See? It’s downright mathematically logical. And to think it started with raisins.  And so we can assume now at the end of the therapy sessions they found a modicum of arousal technique. The big question is: What comes after desire? Desire requires an object.  Problem is, the object of their aroused desire may not be aroused to desire them in return.

Arousal. Desire. Object. But isn’t there a little pill for all this nowadays you can take with a glass of water, something, say the size of a rasin?

Note: I’m trying not to laugh but did you know theres a book out there called “The Other Side of Desire: Four Journeys Into the Far Realms of Lust and Longing.” Sounds like its from someone who’d write that “NY Times” article linked above.

I’m five days away from my wedding day. I’m in love with a very wonderful woman. You’d think that writing about love would be easy but sometimes it’s not.

How much of what I write is influenced by the impending celebration? What will you, the reader, draw from my work knowing I’m just about to be married? How do we separate fact from fiction?

The last thing I want to do is embarrass my fiancée by writing about our life together, even if it’s coded as fiction. Not good for the love life. However, life, or experience, is a powerful muse. Much of what I write comes from happenings around me. But there is a difference between my public life and my private life.

One of the concerns that the three of us discuss while working on this anthology is the possibility of embarrassing our families. “Would my parents blush if they read this, knowing I’ve written it?” is a common question we ask. “Should I publish under my own name?” is another. I’m not sure how to resolve these queries.

Fiction is not fact but it often has its basis in reality. Fiction depends on some kind of relationship with reality if it is to be embraced by readers. We may read to disconnect with the real world, but we still enjoy connecting with characters that we can identify with.

Whether we write about Singapore or Mars, the words do reflect some portion of the writer but the words are not us. I think it’s Neil Gaiman who notes that in his experience, humour writers are a miserable bunch while horror writers seem to be very well balanced, happy and sane individuals – not mass murderers as some would suspect.

What we write does in some way reflect the reality of our lives but not necessarily directly. You cannot expect to “know” someone from their works of fiction. There is a distinction to be made between what I write and who I am. And nothing I write is about my fiancée – except the notion of love and romance.

Joe.

In the dim and distant past, getting three people to meet regularly could be difficult. Particularly if those three people travelled around. Add in family crises, illness and minor disasters. Meetings could be such a mission. Thank goodness we have Skype.

This month I’m out of Singapore. In fact,  I’m back in NZ, attending a wedding. By great fortune (or perhaps by the great taste of a certain woman), the wedding is my own. I say fortunate not just because I’m marrying the woman I love but because the wedding coincides with the making of this anthology. Love is in the air, as the cliché goes.

Technology can play such an important role in writing. Many authors use laptops or desktops for writing and editing. There are gazillions (ok, that may not be a literary word) of applications that can help writers out, from word processing through time management and into mind mapping.

Sometimes, all this IT can swamp the vision writers have. Gadgets can be such a distraction and like most boys, I still lust after shiny things that click, buzz and whirr. I know I find it very easy when researching on the internet to lose myself, looking at “just one more page”. I’m not sure if there is a “trick” to getting around this problem, other than disciplining myself to stick to the subject or adhering to a strict time limit. Easier said than done for most of us.

Nevertheless, technology does have an important part to play in the life of a writer. It really can make the writing life simpler and faster – up to a point. It can never replace our talent, creativity or drive.

Skype has been a real boon for us in the past six weeks, allowing us to work in real time while separated by thousands of kilometres. I’d love to hear of any other applications that writers enjoy using.

Joe.

It’s been an eventful few days. Too eventful if you ask me. I feel like I finally hit a wall of sorts.

I’m standing in that place where all that pining and all that work just sort of… Bleeds to the distance. And sure, I would have felt this way irregardless of other facts.

But it’s more stark. He stands there. He doesn’t have to speak. He doesn’t have to do anything at all. Because he’s miles taller than everyone else.

It’s a joke, really. Laughable.

I spent all this time going out. Not sleeping. Looking my worst.

But then it all becomes crystal clear. Obvious.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him on Saturday. We saw art, Maybachs, a Fiat 500, and Daytona watches. But he shined brighter than any of them.

Wrapping my arm around his shoulder, tugging at his jacket, hugging goodbye.

I tried everything I could, short of a kiss. I hope he felt it.

I have my foibles. I take him for granted. Maybe I had high expectations of other people. Maybe I thought the difference was smaller.

But the difference is a huge chasm that probably could never be filled.

But my mom is right. He’s just worth it.

No, he doesn’t want all the same things I want.

No, I won’t be on a plane in three weeks headed west.

It’s time to stop seeing Jeff as a Red light opposed to things I WANT.

He’s a green light saying yes to ME.

Everything else (read, Slut Boy) is just window dressing.

In my continuing quest for companionship, I have met three very interesting individuals.

The first is a cake decorator (let’s call him “Cake Boy”), who is quite young, but he seems to have his life in order. In addition to school and a FT job, he’s also designed and created some amazing cakes. Looking at his gallery of designs, I imagine this is what people must feel like when they view my photography work for the first time. I’m in awe and searching for the right words to say to compliment him.

The second guy is navy boy. He’s a couple years older than me, which is great in my book. He’s sweet, but I’m diagnosing him with ADD. He also talks a mile-a-minute so it’s tough to get a word in edgewise. He is definitely a smooth-talker; On the phone, he addresses me as handsome and always manages to flatter me and deprecate himself. Saying things like

Why is a handsome local boy like yourself talking to an average dude like me? You must have hundreds of boys wanting you.

To which I just laugh at. What else could I do? It’s cute and the exact type of ego-stroking I need right now, but I’ll have to monitor that. It might be a sign of low self-esteem, which might prove challenging. Navy boy also has a bad memory and forgets to call/txt me back when he says he would. It’s endearing, but can get pretty annoying. I despise sitting by a phone that doesn’t ring.

The latest guy I met is a fashion-major, so I call him fashionista. He’s the youngest out of this batch, but I enjoy our discussions. He seems pretty non-committal, but easy-going. So easy-going that he could take or leave my company. If there’s one thing I hate most, it’s apathy. We’ll see if his attitude improves.

Getting to know these boys is going to be crucial to fostering anything. I’m paying careful attention to what specifically attracts me to each one, what I’m willing to put up with and what potential I see in each one.

The dating game continues…

According to statistics founded by Latrobe University, figures suggest that school is one of the most dangerous places to be same-sex attracted. Due to the amount of verbal and indeed physical abuse evident in this spectrum. This also provokes thought regarding the nature of Australian relationships and their portrayal within the wider society. Regardless of the inclusion of civil partnerships, Australian society and in particular family life is used to great effect in shaping these homophobic attitudes amongst the youth. The elements of bullying that occur to students that follow the majority is ridiculous, add the topic of sexuality to the cauldron and there are serious ramifications for homosexual or transgender youth.

This is where issue of marriage is particularly crucial. In effect, whilst civil partnerships, unions are a step in the right direction (to borrow form the phrase pool of Rudd) they are not equal to marriage. Civil unions are legally recognised for residents within the three states and territories present within Australia. In addition these unions also vary from state to state in the level of protection offered by the Government, some may receive adoption rights, whilst in another state couples may only receive property rights. Civil union may not even be portable, two may be considered ‘life partners’ in one state, and nothing legally binding in another. Marriage offers an entirety of protection, it establishes a spouse as the next-of-kin, substitute blood relatives in the eyes of the law. This title is essential for loving couples, as it provides peace of mind, knowing that your partner may have an official say in medical, property or funeral matters. Marriage is also legally recognised by all Governments across the globe, and it can be performed anywhere and still be recognised, which is more than what can be said for civil – unions. Theoretically these unions were designed to provide protection and equality for single sex relationships, whilst remaining separate from marriage. Why? – To keep the sanctity of marriage in tact, to not redefine the notion of marriage, to keep the status quo. On those points I feel it is essential to meticulously dissect each argument for the purpose of revealing the sheer paradoxical and illogical beliefs behind this lack of equality.

This is one of the underlying factors in the heads of Government, regarding its stance on the debate. Again I evidence the idea that 60% of the population in support of gay marriage, with figures even higher in the youth of the nation. This continued stance is an insult to the ideals of democracy as the Australian public. The country is not ruled through communism, nor through any aspect of fascism, yet it would appear that elements are applicable in this case. The fact is, that this Australian Government is deaf to the pleas of the majority of the population, which directly contravenes the right of the tax paying population to be heard by their leaders. We do not live in a fascist country, but in regards to this issue, it appears that there is a sense of democratic dictatorship in the air. This merely evidences the idea that the Government must keep a somewhat conservative stance in order to retain funding from sponsors and large business. Yet whilst the country is based on the notions of capitalism, let it not rule in the political spectrum.

————————————————————-

Presenting the curtain call for the cast of the Metropolitan Opera’s debut production of Czech composer Leoš Janáček’s last opera, From the House of the Dead, based on the novel by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Directed by the Excellent Patrice Chéreau. Music Excellently conducted by Esa-Pekka Salonen. Metropolitan Opera House Excellently managed by Peter Gelb.

The curtain call for the Metropolitan Opera's debut production of From the House of Dead. Image courtesey The Excellent People. November 28, 2009, 9:36 pm.

]]> http://jenniferfarris.wordpress.com/2009/11/28/i-need-you/ Sat, 28 Nov 2009 22:47:07 +0000 jennifer http://jenniferfarris.wordpress.com/2009/11/28/i-need-you/

Viktor & Rolf Zipper Bracelets || From Spring ‘10 Accessories

Before I begin a task I need to procrastinate, or just briefly put it off for a second, so I can do something non task related.  Today before putting in a second load of laundry and starting on (a BLEEP load of) homework, I scanned through my “SAVE SPRING” file. A folder that contains items for when spring rolls around I need to buy or D.I.Y.  At any rate, these Viktor & Rolf bracelets blew my mind;  again. LOVE!

inhaling this cold

air, wet water rain makes me

lust for something hot -

like you. you, made from

red earth Africa, all your

woman heat burning

makes me come home. heals

me deep – like ancient, like dreams,

like our history.

i scream out the names

i called you – Africa, love,

woman. i call you

Fire, for melting

me to this wet, water – this

rain, which flows from me.

In Winter wing
too high
tomorrows turn
Spring and dust
honest blooms the fate of love
and lust.

Copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

Presenting the Excellent daily recommendations from Fantastic Man, the gentleman’s style journal online.

Readers that fancy contributing to this series of daily recommendations are kindly requested to e-mail their tips to daily@fantasticman.com. Thank you.

]]> http://cleosantya.wordpress.com/2009/11/28/her-hot-wet-appetite/ Sat, 28 Nov 2009 20:09:41 +0000 Cleosantya http://cleosantya.wordpress.com/2009/11/28/her-hot-wet-appetite/

I imagine  him walking into the living room and with out a word he starts to caress one of my nipples through my shirt with one hand as he slides his other hand down my pants and straight to my clit.

As he plays with my nipples and clit I start gyrating my hips and instinctively thrusting my pelvis forward until his finger slides into my vagina.

His finger slides in deeper and his palm massages the clit driving me wild.

Soon he can’t stand it anymore he must have my bare breasts exposed and he tears of my shirt along with my bra.

When he has my my bare breasts in front of him he takes a second an stares at them with unbridled lust then grabs them and draws one of the nipples into his mouth then moves to the other nipple giving them both equal attention.

He made a comment about loving the weight of my breasts in his hands and the feeling of the tip of my nipple crossing over his tongue.

Oh and I loved the feeling of his tongue crossing over my nipple it was as though I could feel every little taste bud!

He lays me on a rug in the middle of the floor.

My head is so clouded with desire that barely notice him pull my pants and lace thong off until I feel his hands on my knees separating them.

His mouth ascends my thighs towards the lips of my vagina.

He grabs my hips then separates the lips of my vagina with his tongue and I gasp.

First he flicks his tongue on my clit then with a heavy pressure moves his tongue,I start breathing deeper getting wetter and my clit gets more and more sensitive.

Soon he looks at me with primal want,I see his huge rock hard swollen cock,Oh I wanted him in me now.

He hoists me up on to his hips then I straddle him.

Mmmm…that wonderful feeling of him sliding inside of me!

My hips thrust back and forth,I feel the tip of his penis stroking the sweet spot deep inside until I notice I am clenching him fully.

I grunt,then more spasms I breath in deeper,another orgasm on its way as he releases inside of me and I fee him cum which brings on such an intense feeling then the most intense release of my own.

“Oh my fucking God,Yes,Yes,Yes” I scream out into the night.

Robert Roland Smith, Darren Deller and Salena Godden – our panellests at the Love and Lust in a Lingerie Shop event – were entertaining, enlightening, and more than a little cheeky! Check out our latest piccies and see what we got up to at Bordello on Wednesday night.

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY
Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

by

VIKRAM KARVE

There is a saying: “ If you decide to murder your husband you must never act in concert with your lover ”.

That’s why I did not tell Raj.

Or involve him in any way.

Not even the smallest hint.

I made my plans alone and with perfect care.

An “accident” so coolly and meticulously designed.

Precisely at 12:50 in the afternoon, the ghastly accident would occur.

And then my phone would ring – to convey the “bad” news.

And suddenly I would be a widow.

Free.

Liberated from shackles.

Released from bondage.

Then all I had to do was to keep cool, maintain a solemn façade, and patiently wait for Raj to return after completing his project in Singapore.
Then after the customary condolence period was over, Raj would propose to marry me – an act of chivalry, of sympathy, or even “self-sacrifice”.

First I would demur, then “reluctantly” succumb to the pressure from my friends and relatives, and accept – just for my children’s sake.

There would be nods of approval all around.

And soon Raj and I would be Husband and Wife.

The phone rang.

I panicked.

There is no fear like the fear of being found out.

I looked at the wall-clock. It was only 10.30 am.

Had something gone wrong?

I felt a tremor of trepidation.

The phone kept on ringing – it just wouldn’t stop ringing.

I picked up the receiver, and held it to my ears with bated breath.

The moment I heard Anjali’s voice I felt relieved.

“Why didn’t you come to the health club?” Anjali asked.

I’m not well,” I lied.

“Anything serious? Should I come over?” she asked.

“No!” I tried to control the anxiety in my voice. “It’s a just a slight headache. I’ll take a tablet and sleep it off,” I said cautiously.

“I hope Manish and you are coming over in the evening,” Anjali asked.

“Of course,” I said and put down the phone.

I smiled to myself.

That was one party Manish was going to miss. Probably they would cancel it and would be right here offering their condolences and sympathy.

I would have to be careful indeed.

And to hell with the health club and the painful weight loss program. I didn’t need it any more.

Raj accepts me as I am – nice and plump and on the “healthier” side, as he calls me lovingly.

Not like Manish who is always finding fault with me.

I know I can always depend on Raj.

He really loves me from the bottom of his heart.

I looked at my husband Manish’s framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

Soon it would be garlanded.

My marriage to Manish had been a miserable mistake, but soon it would be over and I would be free to live the life I always wanted.

I wish I didn’t have to kill Manish, but there was no way out – Manish would never give me a divorce, and if he came to know about me and Raj, he would destroy both of us, ruin our lives; for he was a rich and powerful man.

Also, I prefer to be a pitied widow rather than a stigmatized divorcee.

The plan was simple.

I had programmed a Robot to do the job.

The huge giant welding robot in Manish’s factory.

At exactly 12:45, when the lunch-break started, Manish would enter his pen drive into the robot control computer to carry out a maintenance troubleshooting check.

And then he would start inspecting various parts of the robot – the manipulator, end effectors and grippers – to cross-check their programmed movements.

It was a routine exercise, and I knew Manish had become quite complacent as the robot had never developed any faults so far.

But today it would be different.

Because I had surreptitiously reprogrammed the software last night.

This is what was going to happen.

At precisely 12:50 all safety interlocks would be bypassed, and suddenly the robot would activate and the welding electrode would arc 600 Amperes of electric current into Manish’s brain.

It would be a ghastly sight – his brain welded out and his body handing like a pendulum, lifeless. Death would be instantaneous.

Manish had been a fool to tell me everything and dig his own grave. A real dope – he deserved it!

It was a foolproof plan and no one would suspect since the program would erase itself immediately. I had ensured that. It would be an accident, an unfortunate accident.

Condolences, compensation, insurance – soon I would be a rich widow, with one and all showering me with sympathy and compassion.

And then I would wait for Raj to come back from Singapore.

And then, after a few days I knew he would propose to me, and I would ‘reluctantly’ accept and we would live happily ever after.

I looked at the wall clock. It was almost 11 O’clock.

Suddenly I began to have second thoughts. Maybe I should give Manish a last chance.

All I had to do was pick up the phone and ask Manish to rush home.

Feign a sudden illness or something.

But no! I tried to steel my nerves. I had crossed the Rubicon, and there was no going back. The tension of waiting was unbearable, but I must not lose my head.

I tried to divert my thoughts to Raj.

The first time I suspected that Raj loved me was when he didn’t attend my wedding. Then he disappeared abroad for higher studies and I almost forgot him. And one fine day, after almost fifteen years, Raj suddenly reappeared to take up a job in my husband’s factory.

And when I learnt that Raj had still not married I realized how deeply in love with me he was.

At that point of time I was so disillusioned with my marriage that my daily life was rather like sitting in a cinema and watching a film in which I was not interested.

Raj and I began spending more and more time together, and somewhere down the line emotions got entangled and physical intimacy followed.

Did Manish suspect?

I do not know.

Was that the reason he had sent Raj to Singapore?

I don’t think so.

We had kept our affair absolutely clandestine.

I looked again at the clock.

11.45 am.

One hour to go.

I began to have a feeling of dread and uneasiness, a sort of restlessness and apprehension – a queer sensation, a nameless type of fear.

So I poured myself a stiff drink of gin.

As I sipped the alcohol, my nerves calmed down.

Today was the last time I was going to have a drink, I promised myself.

Once I married Raj I would never drink – there would be no need to.

In my mind’s eye I could almost visualize my husband Manish sitting in the vacant chair opposite getting steadily drunk every evening.

Manish was an odd creature with effeminate mannerisms that became more pronounced when he was drunk.

He was always picking at an absurd little moustache, as though amazed at himself for having produced anything so virile.

How I hated the mere sight of him.

The very thought of my husband made me gulp down my drink.

I poured myself one more drink and gulped it quickly to steady my nerves. Then I had one more drink; and one more, when my cell-phone rang.

I shook out of my stupor and picked up my mobile phone. It was an unknown number. I rejected the call.

The cell phone rang again; same number. I looked at the number. 65….. – it was from Singapore.

Was it Raj? From Singapore? My heart skipped a beat. I answered urgently.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Urvashi, how are you?” it was Raj’s voice.

“Where are you speaking from? Is this your new number?” I asked.

“No. This is Rajashree’s cell-phone,” Raj said.

“Rajashree?”

“Yes, Rajashree, she wants to talk to you,” Raj said.

“Hi Urvashi,” a female voice said, “Raj has told me so much about you.”

It was strange.

Who was this Rajashree?

I knew nothing about her!

So I said, “But Raj has told me nothing about you!”

“I know,” Rajashree said, “it all happened so suddenly. Even I can’t believe it could happen so fast – Love at first sight, whirlwind romance, swift wedding.”

“Wedding?” I stammered, shocked beyond belief.

“Yes. We, Raj and I, got married yesterday and we are on our way to our honeymoon, on a cruise liner.”

“You bitch! Give the phone to Raj,” I shouted, losing control, the ground slipping beneath me.

“Hey, chill out. What’s wrong with you?” Rajashree said calmly, paused for a moment, and spoke, “Raj has gone to the embarkation booth. Hey, he’s waving to me. I’ve got to go now. Bye. We’ll see you when we come there.” And suddenly she disconnected.

I stared at my cell-phone, never so frightened, never so alone.

I felt as if I had been pole-axed.

I looked at the wall-clock.

12.55.

Oh, My God!

The deadline of 12.50 had gone.

It was too late.

My blood froze.

The telephone rang.

I picked it up, my hands trembling.

“There’s been an accident, madam,” said the voice. It was the company doctor. “We are rushing Manish Sahib to the hospital. I am sending someone to pick you up.”

“Hospital? Tell me the truth,” I shouted hysterically into the phone, “Tell me, is he dead?”
“No. He’ll survive.”

Manish did survive.

I wish he hadn’t.

For his sake. And for mine.

For till this day he is still in coma.

And I know I will have to live with a ‘vegetable’ husband all my life.

It was a small miscalculation.

600 Amperes wasn’t enough.

But then the Robot is a machine.

My real miscalculation was about Raj.

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY

Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com