Ronie Dinosaur

Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 39 - Unfolding As The Beast snarls in Kung Fu Hustle: "In the world of kung fu, speed defines the winner." Don’t mistake me. I only want to kill you- or be killed by you. Read more from here...

This is something beyond mere bad intentions-people with very little ability have those, not me. The reason I don’t have a girlfriend until today is because I’m too horny. I have a lot of lust, and it isn’t an issue of intent; it’s part of my character that I feel it in excess. It steals the show, taking the spotlight away from moving step by step toward mutual understanding and affection. I end up giving the wrong message by mistake. And my low emotional intelligence makes it seem like lust is the only way I know how to approach a girl. I don’t live by the clock. Sometimes I sleep at eight and wake up at midnight in the middle of winter, and I have no desire to sleep again. That’s normal for me. From my study years to my athletic days to the period of alcoholism, I never cared about a watch. For me, dark is light and light is dark; neither is special. I’m lonely during the day just as much as I am at night. That “love at first sight”-I never saw the girl beyond her eyes, let alone anything below the belt. I was afraid that even looking at her would make her dirty. With the girl in college, I restrained myself whenever she became affectionate because I was scared she would misunderstand me. Maybe that’s why I could never say what I actually felt, and I lost her-and many others later. When I say nobody ever wanted me, I mean I wasn’t good-looking enough for anyone to choose me on that basis alone. A man desires women. That is biological and natural. It is not a flaw in my character, but I treated it as one. In India, women portray themselves as devas-untouched by desire-yet the same woman at night expects a man to ravage her. At my age, I didn’t know the second half of that psychology. I only knew the devi part. If I told a girl that I desired her, it would weaken my claim of being with her. Besides, I don’t think the two girls who tried to hit on me did it successfully, because they only tried to touch me-by accident or by intent, sometimes even forcefully. The only real solution is following my own decisions and desires instead of being manipulated by someone else’s. My questions were unclear; I wasn’t asking the right things. I was beating around the bush, trying to act naïve the way they did. No matter how affectionate I am inside, I have no problem calling myself a randa, a man of lust. I’m stating facts and looking for answers. I don’t chase. One negative reply and you’ll never see my face again. And those girls must have thought at some point over tea: “This motherfucker didn’t persist or insist. We might have even said okay.” Read more from here...

You called me and asked me to come over the phone. You were already naked on that brothel bed, legs spread wide, begging me to slide inside you-pleading for it-when you suddenly froze mid-thrust and whispered, “Am I a whore?” You had summoned me yourself. You had offered every hole like a gift. The question was never mine to answer; it was always yours. You were the one on the clock, in your own kingdom, collecting cash, cock, liquor, food, and the sharp thrill of twisting my guilt like a blade-all in a room that smelled like home to you. I had no words. For a moment I forgot where I was. Tears rose uninvited. I pulled out, zipped up, pressed every bill I carried into your hand-ten times your rate-and left without a sound. Outside, wiping my face, I realized I didn’t even have bus fare. Then my fingers brushed two forgotten hundreds in my back pocket. That’s when the picture snapped clear: I’d been standing over a woman accusing me of reducing her to flesh, while to her I was never flesh at all-just a wallet with legs. And she was the one who waved me in. Shame hit me hard. I was ashamed for ever thinking the word “whore,” ashamed it had lived in me at all. I kept walking. You never called after me, never asked why I left. Nothing. Probably busy counting. If you weren’t a whore, the next time we met in that room you would have pressed the money back into my palm and said, “I’m not.” Read more from here...