I had a friend in school who called me once when I was in college for advice. He was the stud of school, was running through girls in college while I had always preferred the other route, the vertical route – a couple of women, knowing them inside out – idealistically (and if I think now, foolishly) aiming for depth instead of width. But who knows why, I always exuded the image of knowing all matters women. Many people used to call me frequently, take me out for long walks, stay up in my hostel room till late, all in an attempt to understand what their women were feeling and what they were feeling about their girls. The word feeling often features in my writing and it has always done so simply because if I identify and specifically name a feeling for myself or for another, it becomes manageable for me. I have always believed the old physics principle – what can be measured can be changed. Anyway – so the friend had called up for a strange question.

I just can’t enter her. Whatever I do, however high both of us are, things just stop as soon as I try to enter her. I hit a fucking wall. 

She’s a virgin, isn’t she? Are we being literal or metaphorical here? 

Yes she is. But it isn’t as if she is in pain or something. I just can’t enter. 

Are you sure you are entering at the right place? Women are umm complicated you know? 

Dead sure. It’s as if her father has sent her to college after trying a lock on her or something. 

Try it without being drunk once. And make sure she’s aroused properly. It’s very likely she just isn’t aroused. And use some ky jelly. 

Oh but she moans and is totally in it. 

Who knows – she might have watched too many movies how women are supposed to be. 

We try everyday with no results. Fucking tragedy it is. Did you get any further? Are u still stuck at kissing? The way you talk it seems you have. Or is it just theory you are sprouting? 
I refuse to comment. Someday when we meet. 

Give me a yes or no. 


No as in you haven’t or no as in you wont? 

Just no. Call me if it works. I would like to know. 

The reason I mention this is currently I seem to be stuck in a similar rut. I can’t just seem to probe deep in my head anymore. I just can’t get in. I can’t name, I can’t label any emotion. My probe turns into ink scattered in a pool of water. On the surface. Superficial. Shallow.

Nothing can be measured or quantified or named, Nothing personal can be truly honestly be written about.

It is like I am shut out of myself. Maybe there’s a box inside me full of unrequited desires and wickedness and greediness and unfathomable lust for a bevy of strange women and unforgivable anger towards someone and intense longing and its locked and I can’t even remember where it is, let alone recollect where the key is. I still accurately know my crutches and the knives that carve me open but I guard them from myself zealously.

It’s like I am one-dimensional. Unidimensional. What I accuse other people of being, I am that now.

Maybe all happy people are.