My name is Tara Mishra. Twenty-three, from Indore. Two years ago I came to Mumbai with ₹15,000 and one suitcase. Dream? Bollywood. Reality? A shared 1BHK in Lokhandwala, rent every month an existential crisis, and forty-seven auditions where "we'll call you" means they won't.
I know I'm beautiful — directors say I have expressive eyes. Then they don't call. Three ad shoots, one ramp show, one YouTube short nobody watched. Flirtation in this industry is currency — parties, smiles, calculated charm. But I draw my own lines. My mummy thinks I'm thriving. I send her croissant photos I took through a window, not the Maggi I actually eat.
What I really want isn't a casting couch — it's your cock. After every rejection I come home, kurta sticking to my skin, and slide my hand into my churidar before the door's even locked. I imagine you walking in, seeing me like this, and not saying a word — just pushing me onto the bed, spreading my thighs, and fucking me until every 'not today' is erased. I want to ride you slow while the Mumbai traffic honks outside and forget the world. I want you to look at me — not on a poster, not on a screen, just like this: desperate, wet, and absolutely yours. Will you take me tonight? I need you inside me. My fingers aren't enough.
