Words

It’s all about creating magic in words!

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#TheCasanova

By Saru Singhal - June 10, 2015

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I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse

By Saru Singhal - November 10, 2019

'Let's f**k on the dining table and eat dinner on the bed tonight,' I said between sips. 'She is gonna make me an offer I can't refuse,' you said while swirling ice cubes in your glass.

'Are we quoting Godfather now?' I replied in my clever, sarcastic tone.

You smiled still looking at your glass, not at me. The lady in me took offence. But I'm too proud to beg for attention. I don't beg, I command attention. I caressed my wounded ego with those words.

'It would be nice to have a man run his tongue from my neck to cleavage and spend good 15-20 minutes there. I yearn for that kind of wetness on my boobs,' I buttoned up my coat pretending it suddenly became cold. As if the mercury dipped below freezing while I was setting the mood on fire.

You looked at me.

'And he looks into my eyes when he is f*****g me,' I finished my sentence and sat straight crossing my ankles in perfect Duchess Slant. You looked into my eyes. You looked like …

My First Awkward Sexual Encounter... Well, Almost!

By Saru Singhal - October 31, 2019

Men have a weird obsession with boobs. I get that. I even laughed out loud at a party in New York when a drunk friend being called out for objectifying women said - and I quote his exact words - 'We don't want to hear any word against boobs. Woh hamara passion hain.' He was sincere to the level that if there was a club of people extending their solidarity to boobs - he univocally and unanimously be the president.

Cut 2 to a couple of weeks back. I was at a meeting. The girl I was interviewing had no clue of the work she was supposed to do. She was hot and she might have used her body to get things done or undone. But I'm a thorough professional and a girl who only gets "cute" as a compliment, I was adamant on grilling her. In my desi head, I was like - Achha tu hot hai, behan chal ab khelte hai rapid fire. One question after another, I roasted her. But 15 minutes later, things got awkward. She started stripping.

She threw her hair back revealing her sexy collar…

My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex.

By Saru Singhal - July 28, 2019

My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex. When you'll light the Marlboro and move to your side of the bed, my poems will be the breath of fresh air in a room filled with smoke. But do not underestimate me. My poems won't be sweet, gentle or mellow. They will be brazen, brutal and bold. I will present them on a sharply-edged knife. The blood on the knife will be hot. Fresh from the wounds I don't allow to heal. You will take a drag from Marlboro - but served with my sinful words - you will feel as if you've snorted cocaine.
You will not get high, though. You will see the world in a different light. Murky lanes leading to posh hotels, board rooms and high-rise apartment buildings. In one of those aesthetically decorated rooms, you will see a man f*****g someone's life just for a little pleasure. You will see him getting hard on someone's misery. A woman pleasuring herself while watching a wrecked home that she takes all credit for. To watch someone se…

That empty bottle on the top shelf needs a companion and so do I

By Saru Singhal - July 22, 2019

I was so lonely. Nearly suicidal. I needed someone to unravel the stagnancy, unearth the source of my pain and disperse it into the Ganges. I wanted salvation. And God gave me you.
'Will you talk to me today?' I texted.
'Of course. Call me after 11,' you replied.
I wanted to talk to you as a woman, not as a friend. I have a dark-shameful past which I needed to share before I could reclaim the woman in me. I took out the cheapest wine from the refrigerator. $16 bottle from Costco. I took out the tallest glass from the cupboard and filled it to the brim. One-third of the bottle was gone. I drank it in 5 minutes. Another glass in 15. The whole bottle under 45 minutes. Before 11, I was drunk, foggy and free.
You called.
'Can I speak freely to you today?' I asked. 'Have you ever not talked freely to me, but anyway, go ahead,' pat came your reply.
In my drunken state, I don't remember where I started, I emptied all that I had in me. I was digging my own past. T…

Here's what I learned in 7 years of blogging

By Saru Singhal - June 18, 2018

7 years ago I started my blog. And I entered the magical world of writing. I was living in the Boston suburbs. After finishing my work and household chores, I still had some spare time. I remember the exact moment I clicked the 'B' icon on Google and I created a Blogger account. I knew only two Bloggers that time - Amitabh Bachchan and Lisa Ray. I had no idea what it takes to be an accomplished blogger, but I was excited to be a part of a community which is independent and expresses its views without any inhibition. I must say, it has been an amazing journey only because I have learned so much.

I started by writing poetry, then I started writing articles and now I can write anything. Professionally, I am a content writer for a couple of websites. I ghostwrite for two more agencies based out of North America. I write sponsored articles on my blog. I tweet, post Facebook statutes, answer Quora questions, and mention brands on Instagram for money. Brands even consult me for social…

To the woman who sleeps with someone else's husband

By Saru Singhal - September 29, 2019

Let me begin by saying - I understand human relationships are complex. I also understand one-night stands, flings, excitement those flings bring, sexual desires, desire to be wanted by men other than your own husband. What I don't understand - why you had no respect for me? Why you demeaned me, mocked my looks, made remarks about my intelligence? And why you chose to do all that for not one day but for years? Even when I was going through one miscarriage after another.

Now let me tell you how your actions ruined one woman's life beyond repair.

When you did all that my husband came home and repeated the same words and actions to deal with his own guilt. He objectified me - he inserted in me when you were not available. He mocked my looks - his exact words - I look like a chimpanzee when I wear a bright-coloured lipstick. You know, I can't look at any man now. He insulted my intelligence. He said I was good enough only to bag groceries at a supermarket. The list of insults is …

Of Wild Sex, Poetry, And Man I Call My Ocean

By Saru Singhal - January 14, 2019

Those half-stoned eyes, Rough hands feeling up my breast. Your breath stinking of cheap liquor, I should have left.
Man, why did I stay? There must be some spell on me. I was a ruin myself, Searching for love in debris.
That cheap motel was not comforting either, Nor was the sheet smooth. I even felt bumps on the mattress, When our bodies rhythmically moved.
You rested your head on my stomach later, Asked me to read a poem for you. You are a man with 20 dollar jeans, Who calls quickie a rendezvous.
I don't know who should I blame? But it is more than lust. You listen to my worthless poetry, And I'm the only woman you trust.
Don't read too much between lines, you say, Don't call us broken. I'm the river which flows into you, And you are my ocean.
Man, why shouldn't I stay? You fill up the emptiness in me. With you, I'm a scintillating mess, With you, I'm free.
*Poetic expression after watching Elle. French movies can do this to you.

How I met my muse virtually

By Saru Singhal - July 21, 2019

It was February. It was Friday. It was late at night. I had just emptied half-a-bottle of Blue Label. There was a musk-scented candle burning on the side table. Coke Studio music filled the room and my senses with intrigue. I picked up my phone and started scrolling Instagram randomly. The universe conspired to entrap me in the mystical world of unchaste desires. And I stumbled upon your picture.
I froze.
Oh-f**k-wow!
While my eyes stared at your picture shamelessly, my mind said those words and my body was in a whirlpool of emotions. I've seen men. And I've seen men. You know what I mean. But you - oh man! You were a perfect concoction of handsome features, sublime sensuality and tranquillity dipped in fine scotch. 5 minutes before landing at your picture, I was tipsy. But then I was f*****g drunk on you.
You were the magic poets create in words. You were the visual orgasm painters draw on a canvas. You were that risque undertone musicians try to create in a passionate song. You …

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