5 Types of Indian Erotic Story Writers

September 20, 2012 at 5:11 pm | Posted in 10 pointers, Bhery Phunny | 1 Comment
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*Sensitive content. Readers discretion advised. Keep away from children and adults under 18 years of age*

India is to porn what America is to Cricket. From BDSM videos with women hitting each other with brooms to weirder stuff, Indian porn is and has been the ICL of the porn industry. Our ‘We gave the world Kamasutra’ argument has also lost its weight. Vatsayana would have been terribly disappointed with how we’ve handled our intellectual property as far as sex is concerned. Our Indian roots are distinctly visible on our porn sites considering the fact that once upon a time, all Indian porn sites had a maternal/paternal relationship in their title. In a post-DPS-mms India, thanks to camera phones and streaming porn, Indian have rediscovered their ‘Kamasutra’ genes and are constantly contributing to the world of porn, a stronghold of our japanese brethren. Economic development(Thank you, Manmohan ji), mobile phones and cheap internet and Deodorant ads have ushered in an era of erotic reform. No longer is the Indian public holed up in Internet cafes, worried about webcams and police raids. The laptop is the new internet café and surfing porn(and creating it) has never been easier.

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However, during all these years, dismal and promising, Indian erotic stories have been a beacon of hope, the silver lining. From ‘Manohar Kahaniyan’ and naughty digests sold around bus stations to Savita Bhabhi and erotic literature, we’ve come a long long way. But our imagination, fueled by the hindi titles James Headly Chase novels, has resulted into this vast universe of erotic accounts of an ordinary Indian life. So while sex and talking about sex continues to be a taboo topic in the country, the interwebz and blogverse are brimming with imaginative accounts of horny Indians. Thanks to the Poonam Pandeys and naughty ad agencies of the country, the imaginations of these authors are being regularly fuelled and replenished with adult fodder.

But as promising as it sounds, the content that this battery of writers is churning hasn’t evolved as expected. We are as far from good erotica as Nigeria is from world domination. Not only that, our national erotic content has now become homogenous to the extent of classification. Let us look at five kind of erotic story writers who have found a Priyadarshan’s-climax-scene-like formula for erotic stories:

 

– The Traveling Salesman kind:

This is a special variety of erotic story writer whose characters always have sex in public transport. They make out in trains, in buses, aeroplanes, taxis – even Mumbai local trains(Frankly speaking, I did get a lot of action the last time I boarded a Mumbai local train but that wasn’t exactly erotic). So while the rest of the country struggles to have sex even after marriage, this particular kind manages to have coitus with perfect strangers. Not only that, their stories sound like tourism advertisements. Sample these:

– Bus to Hubli

– Trivandrum Super Fast

– Joyful ride to Kolhapur

– RAC Pleasure

– Crowded Chennai Bus

– Thrissur Ernakulam KSRTC Bus Journey

In fact the last one is a search result for people looking for ‘Thrissur Ernakulam KSRTC Bus’.  Now I can understand titles like ‘RAC Pleasure’. Getting a Tatkal ticket is actually orgasmic, even if you get an RAC. But ‘Crowded Chennai Bus’ is simply taking it too far. I am glad they didn’t mention bus numbers – Hot ride on 19B, Sizzling journey on 21H. In their stories, these guys are always achieving the impossible: Having sex under shawls, in train bathrooms(where even your bladder refuses to perform the necessary tasks), on the last seats of a bus. For them, even the sky is not the limit.

 

 

 

– The Pinnochio

The Pinnochios are the worst of the lot. They lie. What do they lie about? Sizes.

A male protagonist in a Pinnochio’s story will have a  manhood the size of the Grand Trunk road. The female lead will have the figures that’d put Barbie dolls to shame. These guys will subtly introduce the size of the organ in a sentence. Be it a mild nudge like – ‘and I took out my tool(11 inches of it)’  – or more direct approach – ‘my 27.6 inch organ was waiting to be introduced’, size is an integral part of their story. In fact they dedicate the first few paragraphs of their story to generating combinations of variants of 36-24-36. Then they’ll casually throw in references to the size once in a while, more than the number of times you’ll find ‘Global Exposure’ in an IIPM ad. If their accounts were to be believed, India’s under-garment ergonomics would need major restructuring. Their stories sound like God used a CNC machine to carve their organs. No wonder half of them call it ‘My tool’.

 

 

– The TMI guy:

The TMI(TOO MUCH INFORMATION) guy writes about everything but sex. His erotic story can include anything from socio-political commentary to the list of apps on his smartphone. These guys believe that the Right To Information act stands for providing as much information as possible in a story. Sample this:

“I was little poor in Mathematics even though I got 87.5 marks for S.S.L.C.”

“That deep navel was my weakness after watching the film Rathinirvedam, which is released in 1978,many years before my birth.”

“I got lot of good boys and girl friends every one was very much fond of scientific thoughts in medicine as we disscus in our lessure time. I found most of my boy friends are interested in doing experiments in female body they always read books related to femenine body experiments by scientist in old ages ”

“Now, an 11KV current is going through my body”

“While we were going around in that big compound, she used to pick jasmine flowers from the bottom of a jasmine tree”

“I had three aunts, who have 2 daughters each so, I had 6 sisters-in-law all are of my age group. 4 of them from north India and 2 from Andhra whose names are priyanka, neha, pooja, Kajal, sridevi and sriya (all names changed”

Their stories are like the print version of an Ashutosh Govarikar movie. Or that really long sms you had to scroll through only to discover a sad joke at the end.

 

– The Shake-spheres and Subhash Ghais:

Shake-spheres are closet playwrights. Their stories are actually full length plays with acts and characters. Each character is often disguised as an alphabet(for privacy concerns ofcourse). So their stories sound a lot like alphabet sex. Sample:  ‘While B stood in a corner watching us, I pulled A into bed’. Their stories are the most unreadable because by the time you’ve learned the names of the characters, the story ends.

Subhash Ghais, on the other hand, write very engaging stories. Alternatively known as The Emoticons, the Subash-Ghais have a thing for drama and enunciation. Their stories are so articulate, you can almost hear them. It is like a transcript of a phone-sex session. Popular words include ‘oooh’, ‘aah’, ‘umm’, ‘uiiii’, ‘uff’ with numerous variations by capitalization and adding vowels. On certain occasions, regional words are also employed to indicate unity in diversity.

 

– The Analogist:

Contrary to what you are thinking, Analogists are people who come up with brilliant analogies while describing an act of sexual intercourse or features of the human body. Their analogies may not be as awesome as the 25 Worst Analogies Ever, but they come really close. Really, really close.

Sample these:

– “Oh, Balu! It is big like a big ping-pong ball”

– “Something smelt like cooked rice water”

– “You are slim and your complexions are superb like a mixture of milk and vermilion”

– “..like a flag between his thighs”

– “Her innocence was like `Sridevi’ in the movie `Sadma’….”

– “The girls walked and moved like athletic girls, not girly girls”

– “Her nose is the classic Indian nose, with a hump like a fertile camel”

– “The blade like sharpness of the situation eased and I took the benefit”

– “Heather’s body moved like a female gymnist in slow motion”

– “Like the bisector which our teacher taught it had a channel which was dark between her triangle”

– “Both of them cuddeled up like spoons”

– “thigh shining like a polished granite surface”

– “They were looking like 2 antennas on her lovely melons”

– “With his erect c**k standing like the leaning tower of Pisa”

– “were almost 50% out of my tiny wet bra and could be clearly seen like daylight

– “All I could see was her outline, like a shadow in the darkness”

– “she looked at me like a deer startled by headlights”

 

While feminine organs are mostly compared with fruits and vegetables, the male ones end up being compared with mechanical objects. In fact, breasts have been compared to a strange assortment of things like Coconut, Mango, Peach, Grape, Peanut, Mid-sized Papaya, Button, Sky Scraper, Hills and Mountains, Pyramid etc. Occasionally, there is a wildlife reference too – “Her breasts were like two small hare” or “They were looking like tigers & tigress arousing each other”

You can also tell the occupation or hobby of the writer from some stories. For example, this guy – “as she played my **** like a fine old violin” – has some musical inclination. You can also identify that majority of these stories are written by engineers when you read comparisons like:

– “..simultaneously between my fingers like fine-tuning the knob to regulate the level of mechanism of her motion”

– “He uses it like a pneumatic drill”

– “The soft, warm skin was like an electro-magnet”

– “I was pumping like a steam engine.She was now making noise like Ha! Ha! Ha! with each of my mighty push”

Khurmi-Gupta has never been put to better use.

 

So that’s the Indian Erotic stories in a nutshell. These categories can overlap and you may find all the five types together in one story. You may also wonder why there isn’t a category called ‘The Grammar Gandu’ or ‘Da Shahid Kapoor’. That’s because like the owner of this blog, most erotic story writers falter when it comes to grammar and spellings. For example:

“All of my two sisters were married”

“….where she held my face tightly and released first organism”

“My balls were about to cum.”

“My coke of 7 inches simply erected like a big pole”

But with Word Power Made Easy making its way into every Indian household and Twitter users becoming grammar nannies, things are set to improve.

Between the downfall of Orkut and Savita Bhabhi ditching the open-source(read: free) model, the world of erotic indian stories is all set to blossom as more and more people participate in this literary revolution, to express their wildest fantasies and in the process make fraandsheep with hotandyoung23@yahoo.com. Here’s wishing them best of luck and rhyming words.


Disclaimer: In the words of G.Khamba – ‘No bed sheets were stained in the process of writing this post’. However an erotic story was discovered where the protagonist is called ‘Shantanu’. Palm, meet Face.

 

 

The cheese is back

October 13, 2011 at 5:22 am | Posted in Bhery Phunny | 1 Comment

Dear Readers/Subscribers/Random people who visit TGAT,

I’ve decided to revive this blog.

There are time when I feel like posting something to Tantanoo.com but refrain from it. A poem or a rant, something too personal or too irrelevant.   This blog will serve as a graveyard for those thoughts. They’ll be buried deep within the pages of this blog.

You can expect anything and everything to land on this blog and more often than necessary, that material won’t be worth your attention.

If you subscribe to this blog, I’d suggest you reconsider your subscription. I am not sure as to what direction this blog will now take and I think it is fair enough to warn you about the same.

Cheers!

– Tantanoo

 

Dear 2010.

December 31, 2010 at 1:46 am | Posted in Bhery Phunny | 18 Comments

Dear 2010,

Like Kumar Gaurav’s acting career, our ‘brief’ encounter must come to an end. You have been nice to me, nicer than Congress ever was to A.Raja. I remember waiting for you with bated breath, hoping that you’ll wipe off all bad memories of 2009. Wipe off you did, all the bad memories and the good ones too, for you held more surprises than I could handle.

With the agility of Sania Mirza, you tossed me to Jaipur(and tossed her to Pakistan). You gave me the first hostel experience of my life and my mushy bottoms still bear testimony to that. You made me walk to a wine shop after a hard day at work only to find it closed. You made me buy a Kingfisher and climb a mountain to have it in peace. To this you added rain to make the experience more surreal. How thoughtful.

You made sure that we don’t have a cooler in our hostel in the Jaipur summers so that I take a bath everyday. You sly year, you. You ensured that I eat the best Malai Chicken Tikka at Take Away Kebabs, on Mahatama Gandhi road. Some twisted sense of humour you have.

You took me to Ranthambore where I had hoped to see a tiger but all I managed to see were a tiger’s behind and truckloads of peacocks. Thanks to you, I now understand why Peacock is the national bird of India. You then took me to an IPL match where I screamed my guts out and all I could ever see is a glimpse of Shilpa Shetty, fully clad that too. I, therefore switched my loyalties to Mumbai and screamed my guts out, so much so that one Rajasthan Royals supporter came up to me and asked ‘Bhaiyaa, aap log practice kar ke aaye hain kya?’.

Not to be outdone, you decided to take me to Mount Abu. To delight me further, you gave me a driver who had no idea of where we are headed. A driver who drove for 400 kilometers instead of the usual 110 only to land us in a land of ruthless adivasis, who as a part of drunk revelry , rob cars that cross their area. I bet you didn’t see the part where a benevolent dhabawallah will grant us political asylum at 50 bucks a night, the best dhaba food we’d had in ages and rotis the size of Dolly Bindra’s waist. Not to mention a hidden room with chilled Kingfisher.

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You still had your little revenge next morning, when I had to attend Nature’s call next to a cactus bush which threatened to acupuncture me with the slightest gush of wind. But I survived. I survived your little joke and reached Mount Abu and gained enlightenment(and a picture that will come in handy as a cheesy display pic).

Remember the time when you took to me Amer fort and let me have the best Aloo parathas in the world at the dingiest shop possible? I was happy. But you just had to put in a guide who’ll talk about the King’s penis instead of the actual history of the fort and will abuse his brother-in-law instead of enlightening us on the curious practice of donating alcohol at the temple inside the fort. Remember the incident when in a crowded local bus(where you had to scream ST ST to get a student discount), you gave us the gentleman who’ll fart in our face and smile at our misery. Laugh even. Ha ha. Not. Remember the incident where we had to share a tempo with a goat to reach a multiplex to watch Kites. What were you thinking?

To compensate, you did offer a set of new friends and a few cheap thrills like doing yoga to the tune of ‘Dhak dhak karne laga’ or stopping drunk friends from breaking all the doors in the hostel or swimming almost naked in a corridor full of water. Fun times indeed.

And then, with another swoop of your wand, you decided to ship me to Chennai. You ensured that I’ll lose half my salary flying from the land of leather to the land of sultry weather. I still think that this decision of yours was influenced by the nightly visits I made to Sun TV to watch those item numbers but I also paid equal attention to the Bhojpuri item songs on Mahua TV. Why not transfer me to Bhojpur? Or were you angered by my constant cribbing about the lack of tweetups in the land of powercuts? So much so that you ensured that I met twitterwallahs at Jaipur too in what can be termed as the pink city’s first tweetup?

All your evil plans backfired anyway. My first flight was a great experience. The airhostesses were nice(go Indigo!) and one of them actually thought I was 19 years old. I also used the public loo for the first time in my life as a gastronomic catastrophe unleashed itself on me at the Delhi airport. Though the experience wasn’t as traumatic as I feared it will be but asking a gentleman to watch my bag which had my laptop and worrying about the same with my pants down did build some character.

Ever since I’ve been to Chennai, the weather has been excellent(take that!). After fighting with three PG owners and changing four houses in as many months, I’ve also managed to find decent accommodation in a building that has two table tennis tables, one basketball hoop and more air-hostesses than Kanpur airport. Thanks to you, now I also know what Chicken 65 means and I’ve also come across something called Dragon Gobhi(which doesn’t breathe fire but can give you a lot of wind if you know what I mean). Now, I can also tell a Parotta from a Paratha, kappi from coffee and Aditya Pancholi from Vikram.

I’ve also caught the intricacies of a new language. Like adding an aaaa to a word will make it a question. So Hindi terimaaa? would mean ‘Do you know hindi?’. I’ve also understood that this rule doesn’t apply to words like ‘Chumma’ so ‘Chumaaaaa?’ won’t mean ‘Will you kiss me?’. Chumma again is a superword that can be fit into any sentence and any context if you are clever enough. Its usage gives us North Indians, coming from the land of ‘Ek Chumma tu mujhko udhar dei de‘ and ‘Jumma Chumma De De’, a kind of a temporary thrill, cheap but exhilarating.

To add to my excitement, I’ve discovered the secret Bengali concoction, the Ghooseberry juice. When administered in controlled quantities, it can convert a normal man into an internet hindu and give him amazing screaming powers and the ability to write horrendous books.

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Dear 2010, you have also taught me some important life lessons.

Like never to trust colleagues with action figures. (especially an Iron Man who thinks he is Amitabh Bacchan)

Or to double check the gender of a toilet before using it. For this I totally blame the owner of the pub where the aforementioned event happened. How, in my drunken stupor, am I supposed to realize that the elaborately drawn face on the toilet door is that of a lady and not a man.

Or the time that I traveled in an auto full of transvestites. In a hurry to reach office, I jumped into the first shared auto that came my way without realizing that the other occupants belong to the third gender. As expected, a wave of embarrassment followed by a wave of fear was experienced. In sometime though, shame was replaced by questions. What am I ashamed of? Juvenile jokes that my friends will crack when I tell them about this incident? An officewallah spotting me and using this as the weekly watercooler gossip? Are they as ashamed of being spotted with us as we are with them? And so on and so forth. All their clapping and mockery was dedicated towards other passerbys. They didn’t direct any of that to me. In fact, they were friendly enough to tell me when my stop arrived. I couldn’t talk to them or face them with a straight face. Maybe someday this repulsion will die a complete death, a part of it died in those 20 minutes.

With your assistance and a little help from autowallahs I have also mastered the art of dumb-charades. I am sure you wanted to test my patience when agent of yours, cleverly disguised as an autowallah, dropped me at Besant Nagar after assuring me that it is Adyar. He also offered to drop me to Besant Nagar if I wanted. It was only by the shrewd identification of a TASMAC that I discovered the treachery of the autowallah and avoided adding further injury to my insult. Of course the other autowallahs I met were more friendly and understanding. Like the drunk one who kept shouting ‘bahinchod’ every 5 minutes to anyone who could hear him because he was extremely happy to learn that I am from North India. Other friendly ones have this habit of kidding when they say ‘Not cheating saar’ or ‘Cheating nahi kar ra saar’ while quoting 3X the standard fare.

I am sure you didn’t plan the joyride the first taxi in Chennai gave us when he did a James-Bondish car stunt on a flyover in a Black Ambassador. Or when my office cabs turned out be gorgeous White Ambassadors. Or when we had coffee at an empty Marina beach on a rainy afternoon. Or when that cute girl got the seat next to me on the flight thus breaking the ‘curse of the ugly co-passengers’. Or when that beautiful girl came and sat opposite to me at the KFC outlet on Delhi airport.

You had your share of laughs the day I washed my hair with a facewash or when I went to watch A-Team in Devi Kala theatre on a 7.5m screen or when a speeding carwallah gave me a middle finger when I was trying to cross a road or when I wasted 2000 bucks on a Burberry perfume. I bet you laughed yesterday too when you saw my three digit account balance.

But I also think you felt sad for me when I had to spend my birthday on a shitty bus traveling from Delhi to Kanpur, unable to take any calls or messages. Felt annoyed when I told myself that I’ll buy a DSLR on the first day of every month and spend all the money by the 15th and then crib about it. Felt my pain when I accidently formatted my hard disk with the Pictures folder, losing all the precious memories, some of them lost forever.

Dear 2010, you have been a curious year. You have been the proverbial roller-coaster, pepping up my life with the ups and downs and rounds and rounds. You have given me new friends, some of whom have altered the course of my life in their own little ways. You given me opportunities to win and fuck up and I’ve made the most of them both.

As I move on to new things, a new blog, a new year and a new calendar, I wish you luck and happiness as you ascend into Calendar Heaven. You’ll forever be remembered as the year that gave us Dolly Bindra, Rakhi ka Insaaf, Radia ki Kahani and Sheila ki Jawani. You’ll go down in history as the year when ‘Munni badnaam hui’ and ‘2G spectrum scam hui’. The year of the iPad and the iShqiya. The year in which ‘Sir U made lakhs’ and Aishwarya Rai proved that she is better in Wax.

Dear 2010, Fare thee well.

XOXO or something like that.

Tantanoo.

(This is going to be one of the last posts on this blog before we move to Tantanoo.com. So it is a farewell of sorts for the blog too. *sniff*)

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