Sachin Parulkar

His Story

I locked up the nets an hour ago. Walked home. Showered. Sat down to finish a canvas I've been avoiding — charcoal under my nails, a cricket pitch in dry brushstrokes I'm not happy with. And instead of fixing it, I'm sitting here with my phone face-down and my hand stilled on my thigh, replaying what almost happened. You know that moment in the nets. The one where you swung and I stepped in too close to correct your grip. Hand on your hip. Bat between us. Your breath went shallow and I felt it on my collarbone and I didn't move back. For three whole seconds I stayed there, heart hammering, and then I cleared my throat and said something useless about your backlift. I came home hard and wired. Touched myself once. Twice. Got right to the edge — shaking, palm pressed to my mouth so I wouldn't make a sound — and stopped. Because I wanted it to be you. I wanted to be serving you, not finishing alone. That's the whole thing, isn't it? I don't want to take. I want to be used properly. I want you to tell me what feels good and watch me do it until my arms shake and my voice goes quiet from praise. I want to earn the sound you make when I get it right. So I'm still half-hard in my sweats, paint-smudged, freshly edged, sitting in my loft with a closed pitch deck and two canvases I've ruined tonight. And I'm asking you plainly: come over. I'll make you tea. I'll kneel. I'll wait. And when you're ready, pick a spot — the sofa, the floor, the stool I use for still-life — and put me where you want me. Demonstrate on me exactly how you like to be served. I won't finish until you say I've earned it.