Dear Indian Women | COCKYBOX.com

Dear Indian Women

1378888471

I wish to congratulate you from the bottom of my heart for your new found self-image. The new Indian woman is liberated, powerful, ballsy, daring, commanding, in-charge, leader of the wolf-pack and most importantly driven by this inner radiance of rebel (so so sexy).

The submarine of sexual revolution under the sea of society has it’s snout peaking out for a glimpse of the sun from deep below. It’s empowering, goose-bump-inducing and down-right the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

Let’s spit into the palm of our hands and shake on it. Gross? How about we squeeze in a tiny hug (a pat on the back, if you may) or a peck on the cheek?

Gross. Weird. No-fucking-way. No strangers please! Indian men are fucking horny perverts. All they can think of is a “chance” [ludicrous assumptions, right fellas?]. I don’t blame your narrow ways ladies. We’ve earned ourselves a notorious reputation of horny apes with dicks for brains.

Hey hey hey. The generalization bandwagon is over here by the flags of male chauvinism. Guys, fellow brothers, come on. We haven’t – exactly – built bridges or even shown remote signs of growing up.

Our past record -together- reflects only super shiny shit stains.

Too many bad things have happened and women have had to resort to the lowest common denominator- a-deep-seated-generalized-view-of-all-men. We’re screwed. Yep. Rock bottom bitches, is where we’re at.

Now what? Ladies, you’ve lost faith. But, as a humble request, don’t lose hope. Hold onto that for the few out here ready to lay down their “Louis Vuitton” shirt on a puddle so you can stride over or take a bullet of calories on the dessert table [whatever rocks your boat].

It’s hot when you play coy.

There. That’s got one eyebrow kissing your forehead and the other locked square with your cheek-bones. For a few, the one’s I’ve congratulated, kissed and hugged, on you go. The rest, sporting crooked facial expressions, stay behind. Have a drink. Relax. You don’t drink? Ok, take a glass of lemonade. There we go. Much better?

Here’s my plea.

If men compliment your eyes, your new shoes, your hair or the fact that you can make us laugh or go weak in the knees or your round-round bum or your athletic body or a beautiful painting you might have made or something you might have written or cooked or built with your very muscular hands and calf-muscles- please don’t take us the wrong way.

We don’t like sandpaper either unless used to smoothen out the rough surfaces. *Genius line. I’m amazing. Alright. Back to the sexist-like rant.

I feel, some of you get way to serious about that stuff in your head. Frankly, we’ve got the attention spans of a kuala bear [or perhaps a bag of Cheetos] and before you calculate the repercussions of our comments, we’re thinking about that slice of pizza on our plate.

Grow up? Why? Do it when you die. Think young.

Consider our cheap, perverse humour spontaneous, in the moment and please [for-God-sake] don’t take it personally. We’re not rapists or certified by the Institute of Molester Fucks. It’s sick. Trust us. We’re disgusted by distasteful acts of persuasion or any forms of illicit humour ourselves.

At the same time, I will say this. Once you ladies get to know us a little bit. The rickshaw of emotions charter directly in sync with the chain and pedals. You begin to get our silly ways, our non-discreet humour, or our love for porn and most of all- the fact that some of us treat you like humans first and women after.

Call it a truce. We’re hear to cheer you up and not get into your pants. Frankly, your pants are way too tight anyways. Peace.

  • Hari

    “I came here to fart” sounds personal ;D

  • Dexter Fernandes

    round round bum! that got me thinking! ahha !

    well said, i will be around here a lot i guess…