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I loved a woman of my age. Young, beautiful and sensitive. Who attracted me in and out, lurking through my page.
I loved a woman of my age.
Young, beautiful and sensitive.
Who attracted me in and out, lurking through my page.
I caught her vision, her voice so musical.
Telling me to write more love
And I could describe her in paragraphs, forgetting all the rage.
I didn’t know the motive of her chase,
Day and night I fell hard. Hard in romance.
I came out as a lover in which I was caressed.
The blemish of her face was kissed by my lips.
Her dorsum so curvaceous, my fingers slipped along the sweat.
We were entirely women burning with the same desires.
The breasts served me a pillow, tits so mushy, embarrassed with my touch.
I was poked with her decorated nails.
We moaned with tears of years.
There was so much of truth in our carnal pleasure. She loved me exactly that my romance talked about.
Her nails reached my sensitivity, groaning to stop.
But that didn’t stop. I could hear her heartbeat as clear as mine.
Our mutual eyes locked the physical bond.
And I pushed her hand inside me, causing me to grab her tight.
My vagina was hers. And she painted me white.
I drew circles on her back, creating sensations.
And she pressed my breasts, maybe telling me to touch her vulva.
But I teased her warm labium, already running wild and wet.
That voice was more musical than I ever thought. The notes were perfectly high and erotic.
My fingers played with the fleshy clitoris as I tasted the skin of her neck.
I spoke her beautiful words in the ear. Every time she cries for more and more love
The hunger in our body was extremely rich.
I dropped myself down to nudge into her world, a world of us. The world with no curtains. We existed in the nakedness.
All I could feel was my head held closer at the time of releasing the excitement.
I could feel her loud vagina telling me to clear the mess.
And what in life, a beautiful mess to happen.
I loved a woman of my age,
But I met her only in my poetries.
Image Source: Still from the Film Badhaai Do via Canva Pro
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Author | Demisexual | Writer | Storyteller | Philanthropist | Rebel | Kaur | Sardarni | Literature | Teacher | Student | Wooed read more...
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People have relationships without marriages. People cheat. People break up all the time. Just because two people followed some rituals does not make them more adept at tolerating each other for life.
Why is that our society defines a woman’s success by her marital status? Is it an achievement to get married or remain married? Is it anybody’s business? Are people’s lives so hollow that they need someone’s broken marriage to feel good about themselves?
A couple of months ago, I came across an article titled, “Shweta Tiwari married for the third time.” When I read through it, the article went on to clarify that the picture making news was one her one of her shows, in which she is all set to marry her co-star. She is not getting married in real life.
Fair enough. But why did the publication use such a clickbait title that was so misleading? I guess the thought of a woman marrying thrice made an exciting news for them and their potential readers who might click through.
Imposter Syndromes is experienced internally as chronic self-doubt and feelings of intellectual fraudulence. There are 6 types of Imposter Syndrome.
Do you tend to be overly critical of yourself? Don’t worry, you are not alone.
Even after writing eleven books and winning several prestigious awards, Maya Angelou doubted that she had earned her accomplishments. Albert Einstein also described himself as an involuntary swindler whose work did not deserve the attention it had received.
Feeling inadequate, unworthy, and undeserving of success, along with the fear of being exposed as a fraud, is called the imposter syndrome.