So, we’re a bunch of elitist men discussing the subtleties and nuances of a Rembrandt – the rich browns and the gentle beiges – in a stylish lounge bar, sipping on Château Cheval Blanc. We then talk about Ezra Pound and Fascism.

“I quite enjoy him. He’s an exotic, fragile thrill,” I say; my voice flavored with an exquisite, rich, deep-as-marrow Baritone. The conversation drifts to right-wing American conservatism which we endorse because we regret the sexual revolution with a modernist’s melancholia. “A generation of parasitic sybarites,” I say, adjusting my Roberto Cavalli tie with a gentle, smooth motion.

The Mini Caviar Parfaits arrive, and as we indulge, we discuss Bergman with great panache. “Persona is a work of Jungian excellence. Concepts like leaving behind an alter ego, and those still unplumbed existential questions it posits have left an impression like a Rorschach blot on the deepest traces of my consciousness. I understand exploring sexuality, but we must do it like Bergman with an avant-garde, Delphic flair,” I say and belch. I excuse myself immediately, and rush to the bathroom.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I just had to! Fuck!” I scream, and ignore that small inner voice that says, At least it wasn’t a boisterous fart. “Fuck! It’s like reading Helen Steiner Rice to an audience looking for the rich symbolism of Eliot,” I whine.

I then pull out my mobile phone and text my dealer. “I need you to hook this old bastard up,” I type, and wait. In minutes, I’m sent a group sex video on WhatsApp. I head to the urinal and relieve myself, and return to the table and sit down. “I apologize for the inconvenience gentlemen,” I say and then boisterously fart.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2020)


6 thoughts on “ Fine old gentlemen ”

    1. Ha! Which is why, I plan on becoming Gatsby one day, and eating Pastry Pigs and Turkey while Daisy waltzes. But I’ll probably end up doing the Charleston and eat Gatsby in a cheap motel with a vase full of Daisies. Or, in a worst case scenario, I’ll stuff daisies in my make-shift Gatsby and let my bowels do the dancing.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. The queen probably misunderstood your comment, and decided after supper with you to keep up with the times. She probably now has Heston Blumenthal cooking caviar ice cream with snail pudding for her.

        Liked by 1 person

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