Gul

I have always wondered if men were the mirrors women needed to look into the world. All the cruelty, and kindness that one man could offer would be enough for women like me to understand how the world works. It doesn't always have to be something in our favour. In fact, it seldom is. I watched him lay me down gently on his bed. The hair on his chest glistened under the glow of the candle light. His shadow never left mine. He lowered himself onto me. I had almost forgotten I was bleeding, but he flipped me over and pressed his chin on my shoulder. "It's not going to be how I imagined. But I pray it is better," he whispered.

I wasn't sure if I had accepted his offer out of pity, or my own greed. But then, when was the last time when a man had tended to my wounds, held me so close, and guarded my modesty when I was weak and cowering? A moan escaped my lips. His fingers dig into the bare flesh of the inside of my thighs. Was it too late to get out of it? How hard will it be to second my greed for this man's kindness?

"Please..." The word rolled out without much thought. I wasn't sure if I was asking to be held together, or to be taken apart at once. His fingers grazed a comforting manoeuvre, stroking my hair when I heard the unbuckling of the belt. A shallow breath escaped my being. My lashes fluttered, lips parted and heart prayed for a salvation that I thought was too far from my calling.

My vision blurred. The one pointedness of my mind drew me closer to the one memory I always hated. His weight on my back, and the stretch between my thighs had me tearing. I silenced it all with an afterthought. This wasn't the worst that could ever happen. He was kind. He was gentle. He moved inside me. I kindled the misery growing in my heart. My scars became hyper aware. As if the raging hormones had done a fine job in recalling the saga that led to them.

The crashing plates in the hallway, and the fine China breaking down. Shards of glass carving words into my back, as I was cuffed and silenced to keep my voice down. The crusts of paint that chipped off the teapoy, while my head banged on its side. And the cruel hands that pushed me far from life with every moment. I couldn't breathe any more. My eyes did all the talking. A gentle pull at my scalp made me aware that I had long escaped the prison I dreaded.

"Gul, I want you to tell me if this is fine," he spoke wisely. If I could segregate my sadness from the pleasure he was offering, I would have been able to answer that.

"Yes," I breathed. He moved languidly. But not once in his high did he press against my scars. As if, my eyes had betrayed me and the pillow's wetness dulled the moment; he caressed them. Gentle kisses laid on my back. For one I was worried he would get blood on his lips, and secretly hoped if he did, he'd want it more.

A low grunt, and a few curses followed. He filled my walls, and moved seamlessly. Steadfast, and ambitious, as if he wasn't climbing the pinnacle of his high but dragging me to my own.

"Next time when I am inside you, you will see my face and I will kiss your tears away," he said, between his groans. His words seemed to do a number on me. My thighs quaked gently, and then I felt the familiar but forgotten clench between my legs. It gripped him hard, spasming and in that moment I became my bones and sweat.

He softened out, lying next to me. I didn't move. He didn't speak. We let what was left of the deed sink in. The softest linen I had ever laid on was drenched with the stink of our arousals. "Do you want me to leave?" I asked, but he said nothing. An arm tucked me closer and all I could think of was a dream...slow and swift, waiting to take me out.

***

Sir Derek

It was past midnight when her body heat seeped through me with a sense of discomfort. I shifted, giving her more space as she slept in peace. She looked younger like that. The moonlight played with her hair, and her chest slowly heaved up and down. Her face paled with the peace. The worry lines were etched into the mask of her face, and her bare neck was marked with my rough encounters. I watched her, and felt an epiphany unfold.

Surely, it was the first time in four years when I had been inside another woman. She didn't ask me to pull out, or complain when I thrusted a bit longer. I have grown old. But a man's lust isn't curtailed by the grey of his hair. A wild lock fell across her face and I almost tucked it back. Then realisation seeped in.

There's this thing about beautiful things that a man shouldn't overlook. They are lethal in ways one cannot fathom. I ran my fingers through the soft linen of the sheets. The room smelled like her. And what she essentially smelled like was pain, misery, and quasi calm tied to the moment. It was as dangerous a woman could be.

My self-imposed exile from women's bodies was backed by the very reason. Then again, it was very gradual. To keep one self away from the very creation that was made to bring man his doom, was a daunting task. I had cut my staff short to all men. They are all old and wrinkly, and only a handful of them had wives. The maids and the cook never entered the manor except when asked for. The food was served by George, at eight and he never brought along anyone else. The manor was a ghost's paradise on usual nights. The barking walls and howling ceilings conversed in whispers. I preferred it that way.

Solitude was home to all sentiments. I tried to draw as much art as I could from mine. But it was hard to paint ever since Gen left. Her rosy cheeks, and Auburn hair would haunt the best of my days. She was gone, and I was at fault.

The walls sometimes played tricks on me. On my worst days, when the Scotch couldn't drown her giggles, I would see her face in our old album. It made her ghost more surreal, and her presence less disturbing. When she went down the stairs, I had no remembrance of the satin mattress under her feet, or the pink bodice she had worn for me. She was too loud into the night, and I had begged her for peace. She wasn't supposed to leave. But leave was all she did. Then, all I could really remember was the blood sticking to her face and her lifeless eyes. The way her jaw tightened, and her face wore that expression of disappointment. That was another reason why I didn't bring women here.

If only I could love her the way she wanted me to, perhaps we would be making love in my bed tonight. I often pictured her ghost flying through the walls, and sitting on my lap. Her dainty fingers curled up against my throat while she sobbed and strangled me for killing her in such a pretty dress. We would fuck and kiss to bridge the gap of our sins. But how much could a man take before the devil comes for him?

I fell in love when I was young. Gen was only twenty. Two years older than me. We had married even sooner than what most of our friends would call "early". She was rowdy, boisterous, pretty and God awfully loud. I was desperate and confused. We didn't really go together, but for the life of me, she made a wonderful muse. I painted her every chance I got. Her curves were second to Aphrodite's, and between her thighs, a man was sure to find heaven. That was a given. She ran from the awful brothel her mother had established at the outskirts of the town. Of course, my mother disliked her, and my father said nothing. We had all eventually got along and pretended she was every bit, and always the title she wore to dinner parties. Madame Genevieve Gracia Derek, Wife of Sir Immanuel Derek. They crafted most of the invitations. I wonder if she had left for one of those many dinners that night, would my hands be cleaner? Or, would I still be a wretched man?

The quiet stir of her body in my bed, brought me back to my redemption. Gulshan Zahidi, a woman of nowhere, and the woman I fucked. I could already picture the disdain on Gen's face. We were both pretty bad with our anger. It cost us both her life.

Most people built their life forwards, but I knew I deserved only so much kindness. I had picked out the most vulnerable moment to find out what her pussy felt like, and now, I felt caged by how readily she had given in to me. A low curse rolled in my undertone. Crickets grew silent. The clouds didn't move. The Earth didn't turn. A thought opened its arms, and pulled me in its embrace like we were two, long lost brothers. Perhaps, I had rejoiced in the fact that Gen had died when she tripped. That the Song of the Herons was my most revered piece. And that, Gul had found a way to my bed.

I was not a noble man, and I had told her. There is no doubt I could have got an affluent woman, instead of the lost gypsy that she was. But her beauty was incomparable to their prim, proper, and polished face. She gave me a respite I was starving for.

My fingers flexed, as I painted air with them. Ihad no reason to feel bad for my actions. Gen had gone. Her ghost wouldn'tforgive and fuck my brains out. Gul, would probably stay longer if I convincedher to. The Song of the Heron would be a secret I'd carry to my grave,and maybe somewhere in between I will be a happy man, making love to a womanwho feels nothing but grateful for the same.