question

did i ruin your life too? And yours, and yours?

Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

- William Carlos Williams

The 'Literature and Life' teacher looks like Anne Bancroft, pronunces romance 'ro-maaaan-ce', and spouts Zen poetry. I am suitably impressed.

What's more, I feel like writing again.

Thank you

Elvis has left the building.

Wish, as ever.

I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .

The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.

shhh

and no one dared disturb
the sounds
of silence.

go away

i am tired. okay ?

office haikus

Sunny, banana peels.
Power trips, AC
ice cubicles melt.

two Waterfalls. golden
showers, on the rocks.
automatic flushes.

not basic, pearl?
visual see, plus,
plus smile, child.

(W)Retch

What's in a name, you might ask? A melon collie by any other name would sound as depressing. And what's with the whole 'yacketayakking screaming vomitting screaming' deal, eh? Is vomitting even spelt that way? When have you ever lived upto the name? All you are is a whiner. A smooth-talking whiner, I'll give you that, but a whiner nonetheless.

So you threw up all through last week. Vomited, with the single T. Retched. Regurgitated. Digression, if you please. Note that I didn't use 'barf', or 'puke'. I know how you hate four lettered nouns with the emphatic first syllable. They're all so uncultured, I agree. Like 'fuck'. Or 'crap'. If there's one thing we share, it's our liking for the apposite, refined word. In true Flaubert fashion .The facade of nobility, when we truly belong to Le petite bourgeoisie.

Yes, vomited. On the very day you are to meet the star? Ha. I always suspected that you lacked the stomach for it. Or just going a little down south, the testicular fortitude. What's your story, buddy? Performance anxiety? Oh, it was the noodles you had last night? I'm sure. Quite the online stud, and little else, it would seem. What's that? You're ok with being unimpressive, you sleep better? Ripping off Zach Braff a lot nowadays, aren't we?

Of course, as with every passing week, you've learnt your fair share.Life is metaphor. Eternity is a perfume by Calvin Klein, and not, as you are previously informed, Gucci. Kafka is the Czech word for Crow. On embedded systems, static memory allocation works more efficiently as compared to dynamic allocation. In dreams lie responsibilities. A lot of Beatle covers are better than the originals. Sarah McLachlan's 'Blackbird'. Joe Cocker's 'With a little help from my friends'. Dare you say Beck's 'A Day in the Life'?

And you're going to 'so totally', to borrow from the teen parlance that you so abhor, suffer from premature ejaculation. Yeah, it's a hard life, I know. Deal with it.

dirty linen

Four months pass, sometimes slowly, sometimes in a hurry. Home. Again. The concept of eternal return. Nietzche smiles. "I told you so".

Home, where the heart is? Zach Braff, Garden State, "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore.. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know."

For whatever its worth, and for the lack of a better word, home. The curtains are drawn. The actors take the stage. The make up artist has done a great job with the mother. She looks so old now. So old, it scares you. Do people really change this much in a few months?

"How could you possibly become so thin ?" The delivery, as ever, strikes exactly the right note. Just the perfect mix of worried concern and playful ribbing. And unquestionably sincere. A Dame Judi Dench in the making, you wonder.

The father sizes you up, the top-to-down all encompassing glare that is now a trademark. A grunt ensues, and the moment passes. Method acting at its finest. Think Marlon Brando, A Streetcar Named Desire, exuding raw power from every pore. And clad in a vest, to boot.

The sister, as is her wont, sleeps through the opening act. Bless Shirley Temple's soul.

***

The first weekend. The honeymoon period. The mother showcases her not inconsiderable cooking abilities. Everything's perfect with the world. Picture postcard material, even. Think The Wonder Years, with the running voiceover. That's you.

Monday, manic monday. The internship commences. Air conditioned cubicles, and super-cool bosses. Work from eight to eight, well beyond office hours, and enjoy it. Think of the potful of gold at the end. Call yourself a masochistic whore. And wonder if that's an oxymoron.

Same story, different day. The week moves like a playlist stuck on repeat.Again and Again and Again and Again. Four times, for Tuesday to Friday.

****

The second weekend. The roles are getting blurry, and the masks are slipping. Pleasantries are still exchanged. What's the good word honey, perfunctory?

The battle lines, erased in honour of the return of the prodigal son, are redrawn. The conch, in true mythological fashion, is blown. The father, Stanley Kowalski reborn, launches into the mother, a vicious, vitriolic verbal assault designed to break down and disintegrate. The mother, armchair feminist and delicate soul, duly crumbles. There are tears. Plenty of them. You, the eldest son, and the sister watch quietly. As you have all these years. Nothing ever changes. One day, perhaps all of the pent-up emotion will be released, in blind, unadulterated fury. Like in the movies.

And what's a play without the concluding monologue? You just want to say you are sorry. For emanating an air of such disinterest. Perhaps, growing up as an idealistic kid in a dysfunctional family has affected you more than you can imagine. This is why you are so wary of people, and so untrusting, and so reserved. You cannot speak to anyone anymore without being acutely self-conscious, and not everyone is going to be very patient with you. You know you've got to get your game on, son, before it is too late.

Exit stage left. Curtains fall.

How Melon Collie Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life (appended)

For Teah
Here's to a lifetime of juju and goo and ish and sitch, and all the other strange words that you will doubtless inherit from mommy, and proceed to befuddle me with.

***
You will appreciate that unlike the unfortunate Kaavya, I derive my inspiration, or must I say, "unconsciously internalize", from rather more esteemed sources than an ex-Cosmopolitan editor. Not that being a Cosmo-editor is something I look down upon, of course. I fully realize that it takes more than just a little talent, and ahem, experience, to come up with a cover story on "The Full-Body Orgasm". Yeah, baby. Total head-to-toe fireworks guaranteed.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the spring semester of 2006.

If there's this one thing that I've learnt to appreciate this semester, sunscreen would be it. Trust me on this, especially in the 40 degrees (celsius) temperature and 80 percent humidity. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of this discourse has no basis other than my own meandering experience.

Read.Intellectual snobbery, if you are suitably well-qualified, is, if little else, atleast enlightening. Indulge. Read The Virgin Suicides, and convince yourself of the depravity of this age. Imagine Louisa May Alcott doing this to her Little Women.(Or her Little Men, for that matter. I'm curious about the latter though. Do the Little Men procreate with the Little Women and have Little Children ?)

Love.Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours. You'll soon see that she's not The One. Walk away before you are disposed of. And, cliched as it may be, there are plenty of fish in the sea (and honey-bees in the hive). Swim. If you don't know how to, nevermind. There's a kiss of life waiting round the corner.

Let go.Once every week. May your erstwhile unfashionable room transform into the epicenter of all bohemian activities on campus. Mine certainly did. Ask B and A.

Explore.Art-house cinema. When you can have Japanese, French, Mexican and Polish, why stay put in Hollywood? Reserve your opinion on the greatest film of all time till you see Kurasawa's 'Shinchinin no Samurai', Truffat's 'Jules et Jim', Kieselowski's 'Trois Coluers:Rouge' and Bresson's 'Au Hasard Balthazar'.If you still contend that 'Titanic rules, man', don't act too surprised when you are branded a philistine. And don't be sorry, the world needs some of those too.

Cry. No matter what they think. It's the most cathartic thing there is.

Smile.A wide, thirty-two-teeth brandishing one. Or like Aaki. All lip, and no white. Any way you do it, rest assured that it will brighten someone's life, if only for a moment. And that is perhaps more important than anything else you'll do today.

Learn. You've only got a few years before Mr.Alzheimer pays a visit. Think on your feet. Do not copy that nice Mr Ottino's work for that fluid-mixing term paper. It builds character, and a certain mental fortitude you could use.

And Live. Only for the cheap thrills, if you must look for a reason. Thank you, Anna Z, for not dying on me.

Dr. Strangelove

Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Campus-Life

The story of my semester. Due Thursday, May 4.

Starring, amongst others, (in alphabetical order) : Aaki, Anna Z, B and A , Baz Luhrmann, Bhoomi, the City of Joy, Honey-Bee, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jenna Jameson, Julio M. Ottino, Krzystof Kieselowski, Penny Lane, the Park Sheraton, and Zach Braff. And You, in some form or another.

Four exams(read catastrophes) down, three to go.

pipe dreams

Should I smoke?
If I must, then dear god, please grant me the power to smoke like a woman, elegantly, with long painted nails and manicured hands wrapped around this most phallic of man's poisons.

elegy

I couldn't take my eyes off her tonight.
She's just so much better than I am, or ever will be.

jabberwocky

Things are getting, in the words of the very trippy Alice, curiouser and curiouser.

****
The recently concluded Advanced Physics Lab, despite its natural inclination towards inducing mind-numbing lethargy, does have its redeeming features. Much of my time there this semester has been spent actively seducing the lab assistant, slowly, surely entrapping her in the web of my bedeviling charm, subjecting her to a veritable cascade of flirtatious overtures that she cannot resist. (In her defense, who can?)

She's probably about forty-five. I wonder if she's married. With that Cheshire cat smile, and those dancing eyes, she'd make a fine Mrs.Robinson. Not quite the svelte figure, but beggars can't be choosers, can they?

God bless you, please Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
hey hey hey

***
It seems that over the past week, I've become something of a celebrity on campus. (Not for no reason, I might add, but that is best kept under wraps) People have started giving me the oddest stares, the likes of which are normally reserved for monkeys fornicating on the hostel terraces unmindful of the gawking, drooling, spectators below.

Off with their heads, I say. The fawning multitudes, I mean, not the monkeys.

All Fools Day

There are, after all, 10 kinds of people in this world. Those who know binary, and those who don't.

The birds and the bees

It's the old mid-semester phase again, replete with the regular medley of seemingly random events that escape undiscerning eyes, forming labyrinthine webs that are dictated, if a little injudiciously, by the overbearing hands of karma and kismet.

All sure to make sense in the end, no doubt. The scriptwriter upstairs, with his penchant for the neat ending, sees to that.

In other news, women students have now been accorded permission to enter the men's hostel, and vice versa. Whether this means that the powers-that-be are unconsciously echoing the much vaunted sexual revolution touted to be sweeping the country, or are merely demonstrating their (often questioned) sound mental health, is, of course , debatable.

The one certainty of this turn of events, I suppose, is that the chances of me stumbling upon couples coochie-cooing in ostensible privacy have taken a nosedive. Make no mistake about it, my campus is a voyeur's dream, and I have never been shy of cashing in, shameless pervert that I am.

1)The library
How about the air-conditioned reading hall? Always empty, of course. You like it hot and grimy? Please proceed into the magazine section. You want a great view too? Yes, I know just the place. You'd prefer the little cubicles, perfect for two? The ones with the green chairs ? No? You find pink sexier ? This way please.

Oh, you do know that nobody uses the toilets on the fifth floor, don't you? And did i forget to mention the elevator? Passe, you think ? Yes, I agree. Bad music, too.

2)The temple
"Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity."

Ah well, you can't blame Einstein for never sitting with a pretty girl in a temple. Places of worship, if nothing else, freeze time. You can, quite simply, go on and on and on. And where better to consummate a relationship than right before the watching eyes of providence ?

What nobody cares about, of course, is what the venerable goddess Durga thinks of it all. Divine interference can meddle with the theory of relativity, but is powerless in the face of animal passion.

Albert, eat your heart out.

3) The stadium
Football pitch sized, floodlit with lights off. Proximity to the girls hostel. Deer grazing by the side. Starry, starry nights. Need I say more?

This list, incidentally, is much longer.
Yes, I know. I am a sick, sick boy.

diamonds and rust

My gift is my song and this one's for you.

****
Uno

Let me sing you a waltz, out of nowhere, out of my thoughts. A long long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. Summer of 69. Anarchy in the UK. Sitting on the dock of the bay, wastin' time. Pretty woman walking down the street. Something in the way she moves. Judy blue eyes. You sexy thing.

"Ooh my little pretty one, pretty one.
When you gonna give me some time, Sharona? "

"Dream on."

"Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please. "

"Save tonight , fight the break of dawn.
Come tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be gone."

"You can call me Al."

***
Dos

Dancing in the dark. Singin' in the rain. Nights in white satin, never reaching the end. I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

****
Tres

And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid.
Like I love you.

Under pressure. Every rose has its thorn, every night has its dawn.

"I want to break free
I want to break free
I want to break free from your lies
You’re so self satisfied I don’t need you"

"Why do you build me up, buttercup bab-y,
just to let me down, and mess me around ? "

"I hate everything about you ."

" What else should I be, all apologies . "

*****
Quatro

Was I outta my head, was I outta my mind ? How could I've ever been so blind ? No woman, no cry. NO woman, NO cry. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar. Red, red wine. Go to my head. Make me forget that i still need her so.

But it hurts me so just to see you go around with someone new, doin' that thing you do. Oh, bab-y bab-y, it's a wild world and I'll always remember you like a child, girl.

*****
Uno

1979. Motorway to Roswell. Sitting on a park bench, eyeing lil girls with bad intent.

"Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name ?"

The circle of life. Que sera sera , whatever will be, will be.

*****

With permission, of course, from (in this order) Elton John, Julie Delpy, Don McLean, Bryan Adams, The Sex Pistols, Otis Redding, Roy Orbison, George Harrison, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Hot Chocolate, The Knack, Aerosmith , Eric Clapton, Eagle Eye Cherry, Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen, Gene Kelly, Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, David Bowie, Poison, Queen , The Foundations, Ugly Kid Joe, Nirvana, Fastball, Bob Marley, The Doors, UB40, The Wonders, Cat Stevens, The Smashing Pumpkins, The Pixies, Jethro Tull, The Doors, Elton John, Doris Day. Phew .

P.S
For a few hours, a couple of days back, I had shut down this blog. Here I am again, for better or worse. Here to stay , hopefully.

joie de vivre

I'm tired of living my life like a wallflower. Dance, anyone?

P.S.
Oh, and this site intrigues me. Do me a favour, will you.

Einmal ist Keinmal

Trips home, (ir)regular these days as drops from a leaky tap, are like riding the rollercoaster in your neighbourhood amusement park. They take you down a familiar path, yet leave little time for nostalgia.

As you will surely admit, your memories are little more than show-pieces of the past, exhibits in the museum of your mind, 'Look; Please don't touch.Thank you' ; and your life is merely the handiwork of some Grand Old Lady, knitting her giant patchwork quilt, a complex, eccentric tapestry defining the fate of every little drop in the ocean of humanity.

Home-coming is a time for reliving the old experiences, without feeling the deja-vu. Like getting drunk the second time. Or falling in love, again. Each time a little different, each time really the same.

It is a time for visiting the flea market, for hunting down the movies you never could find elsewhere. Ozu's Tokyo Story. After all these years .The elusive son of a gun. Discussions on Bergman, no less, with impassioned pirates, eager to unload their booty before you can say 'Wild Strawberries'.

It is a time for used bookshops, the swanky new malls, and all the particles of sand that slipped through your clenched, impatient fist.

It is a time for espying old flames, walking down the streets of your youth, hand in foriegn hand, each step a cold dagger piercing your broken-heart, each unrequited love a flag-bearer of your eternal defeat.

It is a time for your favourite at the restaurant, still crowded after all these years, and the chocolate chip sundae, and the long walk home.

But all in all, deep down, you know that it is a time for all the things money can't buy.Perspective, for one.

.

I sometimes wonder if full stops at the beginning of sentences are rather more apt than at their end.

Not that it makes a difference, of course. What's done is done.

waiting to exhale

As cities across the Islamic world continue to endure the spiteful bites of the Great Dane, I will simply paraphrase the words of Luis Bunuel, and say - ' I'm still an atheist, thank God. '

my bloody valentine

It seems that today, hands have officially been washed off me.

"I wish things could have been different
all i do is miss you and the way we used to be
nothing ventured nothing gained
I ventured all and still I failed.
The test , the mirage,the blue oasis,
I dont really know who fell more,
I hate myself and I hate you more."

Damning evidence, you would agree.

What else can i say?
I'll take all the blame.

And I look back over the past year, and wonder, has anything really changed at all?

Melon C

It is a wintry, cheerless Friday night. I sleep tumultously, tossing, turning, teetering on the brink of another introspective, infinite journey into nothingness.

Sadness, you will agree, is an intensely personal experience. Nobody shares it with you, no matter what they say. Ennui, loneliness and depression make for a heady mocktail. Lap it up while you can.

There is someone at the door.
I ignore, like I do the now incessantly vibrating cell.

The knocks intensify, to raps, rattles, thuds and culminate in a crescendo of thunderous booms, startling me out of my reverie.

I open.
It is A, dapper as ever, with K.

Nobody's ever visited me in my room before. Not for a year atleast. This calls for a minor celebration. I make a mental note.

"Get dressed. Collar shirt. And shoes. They don't let people in without shoes. And ID card, just in case."

The message is clear. I am to be initiated tonight. And I know that in this state, I simply don't have the strength of will to resist.

Orders followed, I trundle down to the car, where we are joined by B, and C. Do remind me to tell you about B sometime. Quite the character.

The place, I'm told later, is called 'Bikes and Barrels'. Whyever, I cannot fathom.

I walk in to the strains of 'Sweet Child of Mine'. As I remember telling B at the time, that is a great song to enter to. In many ways, like 'Summer of 69', 'Sweet Child' is the song of my misplaced, lost, wasted adolescence.

She's got a smile
that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Nothing like a familiar song to get you relaxed. Especially a familiar guitar riff. I feel immediately at home, despite the decidedly alien environment.

There is plenty of smoke in the air, and my eyes begin watering. I leave the ordering to B, and let the atmosphere sink in. The music changes to hip-hop, and the wonderfully named Pussycat Dolls begin to pose their intriguing queries.

Don't ya wish your girlfriend was hot like me
Dont ya wish your girlfriend was a freak like me

I contemplate the lyrics, and dig into popcorn and salted peanuts.

The waiter arrives. A pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea is placed on the table. The glasses are filled, with a deep brown, translucent liquid.

I am toasted, and asked to go first.The first sip stops short of spectacular. For a cocktail of rum, gin and vodka, it takes quite a while to make its presence felt. A couple of glasses down the line, however, and I feel my legs separating from the rest of my body.

It feels lovely. The light-headedness, the lack of control, and after such a long time, the happiness. Nothing matters anymore. Not my summer unemployment. Not my rejection. Not how people trample all over you when you are down. Not how people you would have done anything for cannot spare a few minutes for you when you need them. Not the loneliness.

Tonight, I don't care.

I complete the night's bacchanalia with a gin and tonic, and we head back. The afterhours are spent drooling all over Kate Beckinsale in 'Serendipity'
As I walk back to my room, I look up, and see Cassiopeia.

And in my heart, I know I need to do this more often.

What can I say?
Happiness is a warm gun.

eleven and out

1) I have been much too depressed for much too long. Not just depressed, to be honest. Moody is more like it. On top of the world one day, the pits the next, and so on and on in an infintely complicated emotional rollercoaster that refuses to let me get off.

2)I have always kept to myself . How introvertedness turned into excruciating shyness is beyond me. I just can't talk to anyone anymore without being agonizingly self-conscious, and judgemental.

3)There's not one thing I feel really strongly about. I'm absolutely bereft of passion. What I needed, perhaps, was a Muse of some sort, something or someone that could've filled out the emptiness.

4)Everybody I know has the paths of their lives charted out to the smallest detail. I, on the other hand, have never felt more aimless. Ambitions have never been my thing, and deep down, I know that I'm driving down to a dead-end.

5)I always grew up considering myself to be gifted in some manner. You know the standards - math whiz, super writer, star athlete. As each year goes by, you strike one off the list, till one day you wake up to the fact that you might as well have torn off the page when you were ten.

6)The other day, it just struck me that I can't do anything. I can't ride a bike, drive a car, cook, play the guitar, sing, fix the radio, dance, sew, paint.Nothing.

7) I'm fat and ugly. And I'll never forgive You for that.

8)Lately, I've taken to listening to sappy love songs, and watching the most unbelievably mushy candy-floss. I don't know if you do this too, but I seem to have gotten into the habit of imagining myself as the actor on screen, especially during all the making-out. I'm sure it isn't healthy thing to do. Kissing Kate Winslet did feel rather good, though.

9)I tried to make a list of the people who would miss me. Really miss me, truly wish I was still around. Afraid not too many made that list. And I can't blame anyone for that. If I were you, I wouldnt miss me. Eminently forgettable I am, if little else.

10)Spending long hours online is a sign of social dysfunction. Perhaps if i had tried to go out and talk to real people, I wouldn't be as lonely as I am now. Virtual relationships are easy to make, and from personal experience, very convenient for people to walk away from. Use-and-throw has never had more license.

11)I hate my ego. It is just so suffocating.

the amazing race

two rain drops
fall, cheeks apart.
which one first?

survey

Would you rather see me fast unto death or hang by the ceiling fan?

DT

Deutsche Telekom Laboratories do not deem me worthy of a summer internship. What's more, they do not believe that I'm even good enough to make the shortlist.

My dreams of frolicking in the Rhine this summer, during the football World Cup finals, no less, are dashed. Shattered. Beyond repair.

What else can I do now but wistfully paraphrase the immortal words of Amy Sedaris ?

"When shit gets you down, say 'fuck it' and eat yourself some motherfucking candy."
"Bitch. I'm here to tell you that it's going to be all right. We'll get through this shit, motherfucker, just you wait"

Yeah, DT, you sonofabitch, just you wait.

One

Whilst I find my calling in the City of Joy over the next week or so, I'd greatly appreciate it if you would wish my bloggie a very happy first birthday on the 14th.
A cake would be nice, too. And a candle to blow out .

I wonder what wish my bloggie would make.
A little less neglect, perhaps.

Dazed and Confused

I dig Richard Linklater. I really do. The man gives me perspective.

"I mean, God. Don't you ever feel like everything we do and everything we've been taught is just to service the future."

"Yeah, I know. It's like it's all preparation."

"Right, but what are we preparing ourselves for?"

"Death."

" If we're all going to die anyway shouldn't we be enjoying ourselves now? You know, I'd like to quit thinking of the present, like right now as some minor insignificant pre-amble to something else."

In other news, the fork in the road is approaching. My life and career, and the direction of the same.Time to toss the old coin, and ask the question again.

I mean man, whither goest thou?
Whither goest thou, melon collie, in thy shiny car in the night?

the whore of mensa

I find the idea most fascinating. Merely thinking about it gets me dripping wet. (I meant the drool, silly). My hair begins to stand on end. And not only my hair, to tell you the truth.

Consider this for yourself. Call someone over at an odd hour of the night. Someone unknown to you, preferably mid-twenties, reasonably comely. A sweet smile would be a bonus. Proceed to fulfil your deepest, darkest, most deviant fantasies. Succumb to the exhilarating, overpowering ecstasy, leaving you utterly at the stranger's mercy, begging for more more more.

All at a price, you understand.
No touching, of course, though some are known to be accommodating in that respect. Absolutely no fondling allowed, however. The mind is the mind, the body is the body, and never the twain shall meet.

The whores will discuss, at great depth, any intellectual topic of your preference. You name it. The recurrent motifs in the work of D.H Lawrence. The films of David Lynch. Perhaps even an explanation (if such a thing does exist) of 'Lost Highway'. The pointillist art of Georges-Pierre Seurat. Husserl's phenemology of internal time consciousness. The fugues of Johann Sebastian Bach. Freud's stages of development. The influence of bebop on Beat literature. The list is endless.

Trust me. There's nothing sexier than talking high-brow with a well-informed woman. If you feel uncomfortable about this, just look upon it as a cerebral jerking-off. And of course, you don't need a condom either.

You know what they say. The most erotic organ is between the ears.
Yeah, baby. They got that one right.

P.S.
Read the entire Woody Allen short story here.