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You Speak Like A Girl

Updated: 2 days ago

New Delhi is a dry and rude city.


The air was heavy with dust.

My hair felt dry, dirty, brittle.


It was early evening.

I walked over to his room to borrow hair oil.

His room was next to mine.

You could say they were one room—

split by a locked door.


Three men stayed together in another room.

I was alone.


One of them asked

if he could sleep in mine.

I said yes—

but asked him to arrange a separate bed.

There was only one in the room.


He never came.

I thought I had offended him.


So I said—

you can use my bathroom in the mornings,

if you need.


Three men.

One toilet.

I thought I could help

so they’d make it to the meeting on time.


I was wrong.


The next night,

I asked for hair oil again.

He gave it to me.

I went back to my room.


His room was beside mine.

Mine beside his.

The walls were thin.


I heard them.


Mocking my voice.

Mimicking my tone.

Repeating what I’d said.

Laughing.


They turned my kindness into a joke.

A sexual one.


People say I have feminine traits.

That I speak like a girl.

Soft.

Quiet.

Mild.


Too soft, they say.

So it must be feminine.


They joked about fucking me.

Said I’d scream like a girl.

Said their thick, long penises

would drill my ass.

That I’d moan like a slut.


I heard every word.


I didn’t use the oil.

I didn’t know how to return it.

I didn’t know how to face them.


I was agitated.

I am agitated.


But I’ve always been agitated.


This isn’t new.

Men—whether close, or distant—

have often shared their “fascinations” with me.

Some even tried.


Agitation is my normal.


And I am a boy..



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