THE MINX THINKS

Hello my lovelies-

I had posted something yesterday-but I have pulled it due to my own (and others!) dissatisfaction at its content/quality. Am not feeling my fab best at the moment-and was not inspired to write. I decided, regardless of hangover and vile mood, to post. Big mistake. HUGE!

Unless i ENJOY writing-nothing i post will be entertaining/thought provoking...therefore, posting rubbish is not fair to anyone. the site was/is a verbal vent session--and the last posting was anything but. it was pure unadulterated crap...a post out of obligation. and i'll be damned if i do it again.

So-apologies to those of you expecting a posting. and apologies to those of you who READ the last posting. and many thanx to my fellow minx for telling me how the last posting sucked ass...i agree and i promise not to post again just for the sake of posting. Let's hope I'm back on top of my game soon enough! Will share more later.

kissies,

the outrageousminx

INVASION OF THE CRADLE SNATCHERS

**NOTE TO READERS: THIS IS AN OLDER BLOG THAT WAS PULLED SINCE 'TWAS WRITTEN IN VILE HANGOVER MOOD. PLEASE SPARE ME!**

Have come to the conclusion that I am an irresistible sex kitten. Truly. Have always managed to turn heads of select individuals—(most of whose heads I would prefer NOT TO TURN-but never mind), but a new, and rather surprising group has come forth into the cult of cat worship: the 22 year old.

Have suspected it for quite some time, but this new phenomenon has been confirmed by MONTHS of suspicious behavior, and by most recent weekend outing.

It all started a while ago, when I went to visit a friend in Chicago. We had all gone clubbing, and this minx was on the prowl. What can I say—even outrageousminxes have needs. Anyway-I was on the point of desperation and frustration abounded. I needed to get me some, and I had decided to stock up for the lean days ahead, seeing that my parental home was hardly the ideal venue for the shagadelic orgy desired. Even in my most desperate state, however, I have my own standards. (please refer to posting on carwash kisses for further explanation of what would be sub-par). Given that I needed to get down and dirty with a skilled person, I was shit out of luck.

There was your usual assortment of people: computer geeks hanging by the bar, hungrily staring at us and unnerving us to the point of wanting to resort to purdah; drunken business-y types who don’t dance; and the packs of bitchy girls dressed in their skimpiest and whorish best, eyeing us up and down and sneering all the while. My friend had bailed earlier (having partaken a little too liberally of the libations a little too early in the evening), so I was there with unknown friends and cousin of friend. I, like my galpal, had also been hitting the bottle a little bit…but like any girl who like her drink, it was like I had downed miracle potion, Chawanprash or the like—and I was ready to jump buildings (and men!) in a single bound.

My prey of choice ended up being the hottest, young, nubile thing there—he was a ripe, young Paki hottie finishing up college…complete with requisite dreams of med school and horny desires. I hooked him, (where else?), on the dancefloor. My moves have yet to fail me! So, much to the teeth gnashing displeasure of the stick figured desi bitches, he glided up to me and started to dance. This young, nubile thing (YNT) had moves that would make a porn star blush. Man, he could work it on the dance floor (which is always promising) and we danced, grinded and basically worked ourselves into a sweaty mess before even saying a word. Eventually, I decided that I (ahem) needed a “breath of fresh air”—and he so obligingly found us a nice secluded spot outside.

Long story short, he had no idea how old I was. Or WHO he was dealing with, for that matter. We chatted a while, and young, eager puppy that he was, felt like he needed to feed me a line to get me to make out with him. Only when he started up with the, “I’ve never said this to anyone…”(and after I had stopped laughing at him), did he understand that I WASN’T like all the other girls his age.

I told him so, and also told him that I was 27, fabulous, and not wanting him to say that shit to me. He seemed most impressed with himself when I divulged this information and unsure all at the same time. He had no idea how to proceed. Like most guys his age, he was used to having to resort to fuckwit tactics to get some, and he was thrown when the tables had been turned on him. This young 22 year-old kid (and yes- I had picked his pocket and checked ID to make sure he was not going to get me arrested!) had no idea what hit him.

While trying to make small talk with me, I just grabbed him, told him to shut up, and proceeded to make out furiously with him, in between telling him that he should study hard and try his best if he really wanted to be a doctor. Was acting the part of Mrs. robinson type seductress and guidance counselor at same time.

And I retract part of an earlier posting. SOME desis have definite snogging skills…this kid was no amateur. And the body on this kid…yummmmmm. Anyway, I got what I needed, and I threw the tadpole back into the pond. It was a bizarre experience, and it was a satisfactory moment when, at the end of the night, he said to me, “You know, I really LIKE YOU. Could I get your number?” I smiled at him, kissed him, and sent him on his merry way, much to his disappointment. Some trix just AREN'T for kids...

This was incident number one, which set off a steady stream of YNTs trying to hit on me. At every one of the weddings I have been to lately, I have developed a mini fan club of YNTs, all gagging for it. I resisted the urge (and believe me-with one or two of them-I exhibited true monk-like control), and have been good pure girl for months now. Needless to say, I have been in bad shape.

One weekend, I went out with some girls (none I know too well) for a night on the town. I broke out the low-cut top and push-up bra, and set off looking my pornographic best. Now, God has blessed me with quite the pair of breasts, but put them into this bra, with a low cut top and I am totally NC-17. Guys cannot look away…it is like a Jedi mind trick-they are mesmerized and caught. Anyway, I had pulled out the heavy artillery-only to find out it was all a waste. We ended up at some seedy bar, complete with 80’s cover band. No martinis. No dancefloor. No beautiful babies to score with. I felt my boobs deflate with disappointment.

Not one to dwell, I soon started to have my own fun. Me and one other girl started to play pool. The bartender soon became friends with me, and proceeded to feed me complimentary drinks throughout the night. Soon lost track of what the hell was happening, as alcohol induced euphoria had taken over.

A pack of college boys who honed in on us came by to amuse us and chat. Nothing happened with any of them, sorry to report. Well-not so sorry, as I did not want it to…but I did end up getting a whole slew of numbers. Woke up next morning to find a whole pocketful of napkins with numbers scrawled on them. With no idea who the hell any of them were. From what I was told, I was quite the hit…now only if I could be this charming with someone my OWN age.

Don’t know what it is…how come I have, all of a sudden, become such a hot commodity on the college senior meat market? Is it because I don’t want anything from them? Is it because I can’t be fucked with? Is it because they know I eat men like them for brekky? Who knows?

I asked a friend of mine this same question, to which he sagely replied, “I dunno…it is hot to be with an older woman. Besides, you are fun…and all 22-year olds want fun.”. Does this mean that guys my own age are prematurely aging? Do I have to resort to being the gharelu (homebody) type and coo over how many kids I want? Do I have to be Sahara desert dry and act all prim and proper? If so-bring on the 22 year olds!

There is one positive result of all this. Apparently, I had exchanged numbers with my bartender pal, who called me yesterday. He is around my age (slightly younger!) and totally kool and the gang. I am not all that interested…as I am not looking for a bf or anything resembling one, but he has already invited me and the girls to come back soon and hang out. So much being a good girl, huh? Would much rather have fun...

FROM SNOG TO BLOG

Many a pending blog posting must take the backseat for the time being, because a blogging 911 has emerged. Give me a rant, STAT!!! This blogging emergency was caused by an email response to my last posting about all the wedding nonsense. Our friend, the Mollusk, felt the need to come to the defense of the poor desi man. He has responded to my posting with, “desi guys are studs too…ask the white women”.

Now, he may or may not have acquired stud status in his single bachelor days—I don’t know. He certainly is charming enough, and perhaps he is a uniquely gifted desi man, but to make such a sweeping remark about desi men being studs was just foolhardy. He should have KNOWN that I was going to rip his theory to shreds. The gauntlet has been thrown down, and I, OutrageousMinx, accept the challenge. I, on behalf of the many, many women who have suffered at the hands of inept desi men everywhere, must vehemently object to the Mollusk’s blind faith in his desi brethren’s capabilities. I stand by my original statement—I am sticking to my guns, and I will prove my point (am, after all, a trained attorney!). Now this posting is not about your cool, urban Indian who feels that the West is an extension of his own frontier, but rather about your garden variety Indian dork. An overwhelming percentage of the Microsofties and other nameless, faceless, programming sorts plogging away at software sweatshops are a good example.

Ask the white women, he says…well, I have known many a white women who have had the misfortune of dating a desi brother or two…and I am sad to say that we as a people did not come off too well. They are hardly the talented studs that the Mollusk claims them to be. Sure-if you need your computer debugged or taxes done, no one can beat a desi man-but humping and pumping sure is not the typical desi import’s forte. Not to say that a desi guy can even get to that hump and pump stage—they pretty much blow it from the get-go with abysmal snogging skills. Carwash-like kisses (if they can even be called that) that leave your face sopping…tongue depresser/jackhammer tongue gagging you…”JAWS’ like open mouth coming at you-while you, fearful that kiss will not leave nose intact, try to open mouth as wide so will not get swallowed whole. And the worst, ugh, the “toothbrush” kiss, where he runs his tongue along your teeth, as if trying to extricate errant particles of food stuck in between your teeth. YUCK-EE!!! Not even remotely a turn-on, in fact, thoroughly UN-SEXY!!! All of these are, sadly, too familiar scenarios for the veteran dater of desi men.

I think if desi brothers were to receive some basic training, a sexual boot camp, if you will, before being sent on their merry ways to the corrupting West, they would fare better. I mean, these business programs now train them to use deodorant and drink wine and stuff, why not TEACH the lost little puppies how to GET IT ON? I, for one, would be sure to donate heavily to any program that would educate our folk in this regard. And many a woman would be eternally grateful. Is a poor showing, for the land of Kama Sutra to have sunk so low...is a matter of national pride and tradition, goddamit! Preserve our culture and our good name…

And, while on the topic, why ask only WHITE women? Are they the connoisseurs of snogs? Are they the eastern European judge of the sexual Olympics (aka-the toughest judge to please)? I know many a hot desi babe-and it is unfortunate for our lot that the desi man is a crying shame. I, for one, know I have skills. I can tie the stem of a cherry into a knot with my tongue…a stupid human trick, but still, makes for interesting nights in. And many a desi minx are hot enough to melt the polar ice caps. Even the world knows it—we have our own cottage industry of producing beauty queens now. So DON’T be giving me that “ask white women” shit—ask ANY woman, and they will all uniformly tell you how bad desi guys are. End of story. If anything, it is a desi woman who will put up with that shit-and take the time to train and housebreak her little puppy. So there.

I can’t blame those poor desi lads though…when they first arrive, they are like kids in a candy store. The poor lambs have been so undersexed for so long, that having unfettered access to the opposite sex just becomes too much for them. A sexual overload of sorts. They lose their minds. Maybe they think someone is going to snatch away all the women or that the only shot they have will be lost if they don’t try something then and there—I just don’t know. What I do know is that the whole process of meeting someone goes out the window. They come up to you, ask you your name, and then immediately press up against you trying to hump you on the dancefloor. They sort of gloss over the 8 steps in between—I’m not sure why, but maybe the arranged marriage clock is ticking or they just don’t know any better. It has happened, does happen, and probably is happening as we speak (or read).

However, what our menfolk may lack in kissing skills, perhaps they make up for in the bedroom. After all, land of a billion and counting (much like McDonalds—we are proud of how many have been served)…we have to be doing something right. But then…how to explain the Chinese… hmmmm….


(ps-Sorry to my swinging tomcats for the posting…but the truth must be told. Am a daring, brave, whistleblower for exposing problem. And have suffered much-and I cannot let my fellow minxes and I suffer anymore!)

HOW TO GET MARRIED

A warm hello to my all my fellow outrageous minxes!

Many apologies for the backlog in postings—but this weekend, I went to my sixth wedding this season. I kid you not, my friends.

Since March, I have been to, count ‘em, SIX weddings; and sad to report, it won’t be the last one. The next one is the wedding of a close family friend, so I can pretty much count my weekends bye-bye for the next few weeks, as I have been informed that my services will be required for pulling the fiasco together.

Why is it that weddings of others are used as torture devices for others? I am not a hater-don’t get me wrong-I love weddings. Love going to them, drinking at them, dancing at them. But when did a wedding require a consultant and intricate planning by teams of people, complete with Uncles equipped with walkie-talkies? And when did it become de rigeur to have undeveloped teenage pop-tart wannabes gyrate sluttily (and, sadly, usually badly!) to some cheesy Bollywood song as “entertainment” for the guests? Why is it that in every other facet of their lives-they are supposed to be modest-but in front of roughly 500 people they call Uncle and Auntie, they are allowed to basically simulate sex scenes as entertainment? All of this allowed under the guise of “culture” since it is, after all, a DESI song. We are a sick people, lemme tell you. But, I digress. Though the little sluts DO bother me, the rant must be reserved for what it was intended. And that is the madness that weddings have become.

I think it is a sheer waste of money, time, effort to try to keep up with the Joneses, (or in our case, the Patels, the Kumars, or the Joshis) and try to outdo each other. Each one has a more elaborate mandap or flower arrangement than the next, and you hear about how poor Uncle Babboo had to sell his kidney to pay for it all, because darling Pinky just had to have 80 bridesmaids…(and when did Indian weddings start to have bridesmaids???)

At the end of the day, people don’t give a SHIT about any of that. We are all still the ladoo-grabbing Indians at heart. I spied many an Uncle and Auntie dozing off while people droned on and on about how good a friend Vicky was, and what a good doctor he is, blah, blah, blah…I can’t report much else, because I bolted after the second speech, and right before cousin Payal/Sejal/Monica started to hump the dancefloor. I, veteran wedding attendee that I am, showed incredible presence of mind in spending the next hour in the hotel’s bar with fun, like-minded individuals. We had a lovely time, gliding back into the reception hall just in time for dinner. No one noticed our absence either, as many had prematurely aged because of the excessive programming, and thus, were blind and deaf…or dead.

Which brings me to the next problem. The basics are being overlooked. One wedding in question had gorgeous, rainforest-like flower arrangements lining the walkway to the mandap. Fine and dandy-except that no one could see a damn thing through those! One poor guy was stupid enough to try to move it—he hasn’t been seen since. And the overprogramming. I thought the wedding WAS the program. And the dinner, booze, and dancing were our reward for sitting through that. Therefore, as a courtesy, I have decided to enlighten those of you with my list of what every wedding guest wants and needs from your wedding.

My advice:

Number one-make sure the food is GOOD. Spend the money to get someone to make it on the spot if you can. Lose a few bouquets or bridesmaids if you must. This is a deal breaker. Have consumed too many cold samosas and broken teeth on rock-hard pieces of chicken to even negotiate further.

Number two- If you must have speeches, limit it to two people at five minutes each tops. And don’t give us all that sentimental bullshit either—we don’t want to hear it. If no one believes that you would cry on any other day-no one is going to buy that shit on THAT day either. And please do not regale us with whoring adventures of the groom. If he is desi, we all know it is a lie. He is not a stud. We know. Move on.

Number three: Do not get Monica/Sweety/Priya to dance. We do not need to see Uncles getting hot and bothered over these stick figures. Keep them clothed and wait till they blossom. Then pimp them out as much as you want to.

Number four: NO—cash bar is NOT GOOD ENOUGH. End of story. Either we will make do with our flasks, or give us what we need in abundance.

Number five: Have a good DJ. People like to dance, especially if well supplied by the open bar. And leave enough time to dance. One wedding, I remember there being a Sikh DJ and he played three songs—all bad songs from the seventies. Ugh. You know it was killing him to play that shit. Take pity—let the serdy play his bhangra and get everyone pumped up.

What are weddings for, after all, but an excuse to eat, drink, be merry and celebrate? And to pimp/scope out eligible sorts for your own progeny? All of which are greatly enhanced through provisions of basics. You must feed and water your guests properly for them to come through for you.

My dream wedding you ask? It would be ghetto-fabulous beyond belief. Don’t know much about the wedding and stuff—probably would elope. But, I would probably just concentrate on ladies’ sangeet type functions more, and keep the liquor and buckets of kulfi coming. People would eat, drink, and dance the night away under a tent in my backyard, while the lady making hot, fresh, jalebis looks on. It just brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it…

FLIRT OR NOT A FLIRT...THAT IS THE QUESTION

I am a homewrecker. Or so some friends, rather unflatteringly, have taken to calling me. Recently, and let me add, UNBEKNOWNST to me, I hit on a married man. Or so he claims.

In my defense, though, I had no idea (A): that he was married, or (B): that I was even flirting to begin with. Am not as much of a floozy as I would have you all believe. Have not sunk so low as to resort to picking up married men. Though AM, I am sorry to say, sad enough to be preying on youngsters—as will be described in a later posting. Wait for the raunchy details, though will be mostly g-rated for my youngest fans. Anyway, shall I back up and explain my side of the story?

The scene was this: I was meeting up with some friends who (inexplicably) had decided to attend a dance recital. As this was completely inconsistent with the types of activities that I would normally associate with these dynamic and fun-loving sorts, I should’ve known that I was entering the Twilight Zone on that particular evening. The lovely friends arrived, with their friend, the Mollusk, in tow. Having met the Mollusk only once before, about five years prior, I hardly knew what to expect. A small part of me was resentful for having to share the lovely friends with a stranger, but the Mollusk was surprisingly as fabulous as self, and was quickly welcomed with open arms into my dysfunctional family. Encounter was an unexpected, but pleasant surprise, and I was delighted when 411 was exchanged and promises to send articles were made (by me).

Not surprisingly, Mollusk’s card was immediately sucked into the black hole that exists in all of my handbags, probably going to the parallel universe where missing socks and keys go to die. Eventually, though, it resurfaced and I sent along the promised articles. We renewed our mutual admiration society over email and I continued to delight in my newly-found friend. Wit and clever banter flowed like honey wine, and I very quickly decided that he must become my new confidante re: male fuckwit behavior. As he was as adept at flirting as I was, he struck me as a fellow life form, part of the same species, if you will, and therefore, be able to wax poetic on a variety of topics in a clever and lighthearted manner. And given that he had heard a full on gush session about JS, not to mention whoring adventures in Chi-town, I would never have thought that my feline friendliness would be mistaken for flirtation.

Now, I will say this only once to set the record straight: I WAS NOT FLIRTING WITH THE MAN. At least not deliberately. I was only being my natural irresistible, minx-like self, and he, I thought, was playing along. Alas, when he wrote to me stating, “I hope you are not flirting with me. Cause I am married and happy”, I was completely flummoxed and thrown for a loop. Yet again, someone had misread the signals.

Given that I am a naturally effusive person by nature, I don’t realize the clear line between flirtation and friendliness. But, in this case, I can honestly say that I WAS NOT FLIRTING. Perhaps someone, namely an undersexed, and Bollywood-infused teenage boy in India, would probably misinterpret my playfulness as being an unequivocal sex invite. But I thought that the cosmopolitan, swinging Mollusk GOT me, and thus, would realize that it was just ME to be this way. Unfortunately, he is not the first to make the mistake.

I wonder though, when did flirting become tantamount to adultery? I always thought that flirting was a pastime, or, as in my case, a sort of developed talent, like pottery or playing tennis. I always thought it was the sort of game everyone could play: married, single, celibate…a little harmless flirting between consenting adults never hurt anyone. Especially where BOTH parties knew it was just a game. I will say this, as well. Mollusk is a worthy adversary in the game of flirtation; he was as much responsible for my ease and comfort in conversing with him. Talented though he is, he is clearly no match for me. Minxes like me eat shellfish like him for brekky…

Also, I am usually not coy about letting people know that I like them (except in one case-where my idiotic behavior is a dead giveaway), and I will flirt mercilessly to get whomever I want. Trust me, I have an exceptional batting average, and it is one of the few things that I am truly proud of. It IS rare that I pull out all the stops, because it just isn’t fair. Poor things wouldn’t stand a prayer. Yes, I AM that good. I am the fuckin’ YODA of flirtation. A true Jedi master.

So why pursue the gentleman in question, you ask, if not for purely carnal purposes? Now, for those of you who know me, there is one thing that will always get me, be it man, woman, child, or dog: and that is good conversation. In the past, as painful as it was, I have passed up on several delish prospects (and they were truly fine specimens!) for the simple fact that I could have had better conversations with a bowl of rice krispies. If you can’t talk the talk—then you have to walk.

For me, the cherry-on-top in any friendship is to be able to talk, laugh, even cry with someone endlessly, and for the friends in question to constantly surprise you with their brilliance. All of the lovely friends are exceptionally gifted conversationalists, and are tremendously fabulous, brilliant, and kind people to boot. So, when I find worthy individuals to pull into the fold, I snatch them up like a Punjabi grabbing drumsticks at an all-you-can-eat chicken buffet. So-it is not surprising that I was thoroughly enchanted by the mollusk. In the above-mentioned capacity, he was fan-bloody-tastic. Not to mention, he thought I was DY-NO-MTE! And a girl can always use an ego boost, can’t she?

I will say this for him, though, if I were to go and hit on a married man, I probably couldn’t have done better. Mollusk is a clever, witty, adorable, geek-to-chic dynamo who does his desi best at being a scientist/artist. He was worth the Hester Prynne comparisons, the big red letter “H” I am now forced to wear, identifying me as a homewrecker, and the embarrassment that my silly ways have (yet again) caused confusion. Sigh. No harm meant, Mrs. Mollusk, I swear. And you’ve got a good piece of shellfish there, and don’t worry—I’m allergic.