Having always been the chubby smart one, my sex-life was really a non-starter. I remember when I moved schools for the 11th and 12th, and stuck close with a friend on the first day, the class thought I was her mother, and told me so. (We were being sharif so wore salwar kameez till uniforms were ready.) It was a mostly boys school and, though my class had an unprecedented 7 girls in a class of 33, the sexism was impressive. One chap harangued me in the break because I spoke up in class on my first day: ‘You’re new! And a girl! Who do you THINK you are?’ But I digress.
Needless to say, I fell in love with/crushed on several guys (is there a difference at that age? heh), and watched mournfully while all my friends acquired boyfriends and makeout experience and I remained one of the guys. Then I legged it off to college, where I had unarticulated but high hopes for myself. And they were mostly fulfilled. I was not a freako; everyone was as smart as I was; everyone worked hard and played hard and read like demons. But the sex ratio of my class had skewed the other way–English honours had 7 boys in a class of 33! And so, in a sad repeat of high school, I fell in love with/crushed on several guys and watched mournfully while all my friends acquired boyfriends and began to have sex and I remained one of the guys.
Since this is not a post about the loves I have lost, I shall draw a veil over the drama. However, some time in 2nd year, when I was living in a flat, we threw a party and a high school classmate of mine (the gentleman responsible for the haranguing in fact, who later turned into a good friend) who was at Hindu came with a bunch of his friends, whom I knew from hours spent hanging out in the Hindu boys hostel. It was probably 2am or something like that, and everyone had crashed. There were four boys and me sleeping in the room I shared with my roommate, who was sleeping in the other flatmates’ room. Three boys were in the double mattress and I was going o share the single mattress with the fourth. I was feeling terribly sorry for myself (which I later learnt I am wont to do at parties when I am drunk and lonely and wishing someone would put their arm around me and kiss me–don’t ask me WHY this is so important when I’m drunk at a social event) and after I finished locking up I crawled into bed head-to-toe with the sleeping guy. As I lay there sniffling I realized he was not, in fact, asleep, because he began to nudge me with his toe and asked me what was wrong. Of course the sympathy made it worse so I began to cry in earnest (god such drama), so he flipped over, put his arms around me and patted at me till I stopped. This made it even worse, of course, and so he pulled out what he thought was brahmastra or something and said: If you don’t stop crying I’m going to kiss you. (Yes. I know. Keep in mind that this person is male and 19. But yes, I know.) Of course this has no effect on me because you know mournfully watching everyone else etc. Remarkably, he actually did make good his threat then, and kissed me. I stiffened in shock and sorta just lay there. But it did make me stop crying. And he, probably terrified by my reaction quickly withdrew and we both fell asleep, to not be able to look each other in the eye ever again and other unsavoury consequences. But that was still my first kiss.
Fear not, I’m not going to make a list of every kiss with a new person here–I don’t think I can remember them all ahem–but that was fairly defining for me, because it was all the action I got in college. Yes, really. There were a couple of truth or dare kisses, but they don’t really count, do they. Then, the summer after I graduated, OOF, I think officially first love, got drunk and went after me, to my extreme delight. Oh no! Wait! That was the second time he did that–the first time he kissed me was when he was drunk (d-uh) and stoned at a cast party, and of course refused to look me in the eye for days after ahem. Anyway, you get my point.
Then I went to the Pisspot. Once again the men were few and strange, and the women were many and awesome (hello Bride, Hag, Sitar-player, Mungi and person I haven’t nicknamed). Once again I drank with the boys, swore like them, did all the bro stuff and watched mournfully as my friends entered committed relationships and I managed to minimize damage and not fall in love with any of the boys I crushed on. It still bothered me when they befriended me to get my friends’ numbers but that’s part of the lost loves story. Now since I hung out with all the the firangis and drank with them and partied with them I acquired such a varied and exciting sex life in rumour. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live up to those rumours.
Then I began working. And this is when the good stuff starts. Yes, nothing happened to me over two years. Yes, really. Well I fell in love once, but you know, whatever. So I began working in this insanely BORING company and–this was the height of my blogging days–I had a stream-of-consciousness blog that makes my head hurt if I go near it these days heh, where I ended up befriending a very fun guy who The Bride and I christened Flirty Mallu Boy or FMB. This fellow worked nights in the US and I worked days in India and we spent ALL day flirting on chat. Which led to other things ahem. This went on for a while and then I was visiting New York for cousin’s wedding and the big question came up: Shall we hang out? I swear I was so nervous I was shitting myself. It is still a big deal to meet in person someone you know online because the physicality of a person, their voice, their smell, their bodies is something that can really be a kick in the head. And this was my first time mind you, or at least first time with someone I’d had sexytimes, albeit cyber, with.
The momentous evening arrived. My sister and I were sharing a hotel room and she’d gone out with all the cousins and family. FMB showed up and I expected him to wait downstairs but he asked to come up. He sat on the bed while I raced around insanely nervous and babbling non stop. Eventually he just asked me to sit down next to him. And then he kissed me. And a veil shall be drawn again. Suffice to say, my sister showed up early, and was shocked about why the door was bolted, and then not so shocked once she saw me emerge dishevelled and delayed with a boy in the room. FMB and I quickly left to get dinner and thus occurred the first and possibly only real date I’ve been on, and probably part of the reason I’m besotted with New York!
Cut to a year later, almost exactly, (there was a time when the 25th of September to the 2nd of October always had some development in my love/sex life) and I was at NYU and the fun ginger haired English guy I met at orientation was at my house to practice dancing. Which then became long chat with bottle of wine, which became two, which became have-you-ever-been-in-love, which became how many people have you slept with, which became WHAT! YOU’RE A TWENTY-FOUR YEAR OLD VIRGIN! He began to run his hand up and down my leg and I froze in sheer terror for so long that he began to laugh and told me I could tell him if I didn’t like it. Or if I liked it I could always reciprocate. I managed a minute nod and eventually relaxed and it is time for the next veil, but suffice to say I had finally entered the world of those who had done it.
Okay, this post is getting too long. So more parts later.
At this point, my philosophy about sex went something like this:
- Sex is good
- Sex is hard to come by
- Casual sex is not wrong but it’s kinda *open eyes wide and be slightly shocked*