The dance

True to Mohini's style, her sari pallu slipped off her shoulder. "Oops," was all Mohini said.

While Mohini took her time to cover her humongous assets, a voice announced, “My wife has a way of getting attention, no darling?” It was Mohini’s husband and assistant sports editor, the bright, brilliant, boisterous Sanjoy Singh: half Bengali, half Sikh and a complete bastard. And even as Mohini preened, he added, “She manages it even when there are such pretty girls half her age standing with her,” Sanjoy added, giving TLC and me a thorough top-to-toe look. Mohini controlled her facial expressions well and put all her effort into pulling up her sari pallu. “So what was the topic being discussed here? I saw our TLC in fits of laughter…” Sanjoy added, at which, TLC giggled some more. “Oh we were just asking Suparna if she could dance,” chimed in Mohini, still smarting over the age comment and trying desperately to show how cool she was.

But when it comes to picking on people, I am always the wrong victim to choose. Apparently Sanjoy Singh felt the same. “I am sure Suparna can dance, her body seems the type that can move well… on the floor. And then I have seen her make the boys dance to her tunes,” he said and added, “Why don’t we see for ourselves, eh?” he probably meant to ask me to dance, but someone else preempted him… “Suparna! Suparna, here’s your drink,” announced Kutty, approaching the group, nearly spilling over the orange juice in his excitement. “Who’s dancing?” Kutty asked in the same breath and before anyone could respond – and much to everyone’s surprise – he said, “Come Suparna, let’s dance,” and perhaps he would have pulled me but both his hands were full.

“Why don’t we all finish our drinks and then you all can hit the floor?” suggested Runu, who had so far just been watching everything unfold with a straight face. “And while we are at it, let’s give the young lady a chance to decide for yourself, am sure the other boys here would like to dance with her as well,” added Runu and looked at me slyly. He had clearly called the other men ‘boys’ and had even called me a ‘young lady’. I knew the reverse psychology that older men often tried. “I will dance with everyone, the old for the moves of yesterday and the young for their energy, which am sure the old cannot match,” I said and looked pointedly at Mohini.
To be continued…

This is party dynamics

Two minutes of watching the Good Girls of the office – Diya, Liya and Celia, TLC they were called – doing their giggly-act and I really wanted to slap them.
But before I could do anything of the sort, Confused Kutty asked me if I wanted a drink. I asked for a pineapple juice and he was surprised. "You don't drink?" Kutty asked, "Or you are not drinking tonight?" I told him about my not-drinking-in public stance and he didn't push further. Meanwhile, TLC were on their second drink already. Kutty looked at me as if expecting me to accompany him to the bar, I was very clear that I was not going to be his 'date' for that evening. So I pretended to not understand his look and walked away from Kutty… right into Runu's path.
Runu and me stopped short of bumping into each other and as we stood face to face, Runu seemed as flabbergasted as me and blurted out, "Do you want a drink?" Before I could say anything, Kutty responded from behind me, "She is not drinking and I am getting her pineapple juice." Both Runu and I were surprised by this declaration, Kutty's voice had slightly risen and he looked agitated. Runu shrugged and said casually, "So while you go and get her the drink, I shall keep her company," and saying that, held my hand and led me away from Kutty.
Other heads were turning as Runu led me to one of the corner couches. As we sat, TLC – who had been fluttering their eyelashes at some of the boys from the design team – came over as well. "Runu sir," they said in chorus, between more giggles, more fluttering and a lot of heavy breathing, "Will you dance with us?" they asked, again in chorus. Runu laughed and answered that they would dance a little later. All three girls giggled some more at that and still stood there. Suddenly Tia addressed me, "Suparna, you can also come and dance with us when we dance with Runu," and giggled conspiratorially. Before I could respond, Mohini Ghosh also joined our little, but rapidly increasing group. "Can she dance though?" she asked TLC in general, smiled rather toothily at Runu and looked at me as if she would eat me up. And as she asked that, true to Mohini's style, her sari pallu slipped off her shoulder and suddenly we were all looking at two mammoth breasts in a very low cut, too tight to fit blouse. "Oops," was all Mohini said.
To be continued…

Shabab and kebab, on the house!

As both parties crossed each other on the gravel path to enter the club, I felt Runu's hand brush my butt…

I turned around to see if he had actually touched me…and realized he was looking at me, to see if I had noticed. He had touched me. And as fleetingly as his hand had rested on my behind, Runu diverted his eyes and walked away with Assima, who had been glaring at me. Something told me she too had noticed what had just happened. But I wondered why it bothered Her, she had a husband?

On reaching inside, it was the usual scene at a party with free booze. In the earlier part of the evening, you will find most people standing at the bar, towards the middle of the evening, there are people at the bar, on the bar and on the dance floor; and towards the end of the evening, there's the bar, the dance floor and down there, the people. If you ever want to see the real side of people, don't just give them alcohol, tell them it's FREE and watch them drink themselves beyond self respect or sanity. And it's worse with the Good Girls. Now Good Girls usually don't drink, smoke, flirt with men or wear push-up bras. Good Girls are also the ones who blush at the mention of the word 'sex' though I can bet my a**e, if you could peep into their (wet) dreams, you'd come back three shades of scarlet. They would be that HOT. And these Good Girls, usually get REALLY drunk on free booze and after that… It's a free show. They will rub themselves over the men while dancing 'innocently', announce "oh I am so drunk" and then drape themselves over some more guys, say the corniest things and then giggle and keep announcing sporadically that they are very drunk. I don't like getting drunk in public – it smudges your makeup. But I can definitely pretend to be drunk when the occasion demands it. Like when there is a really dishy guy and I want to feel him up.

So like any other party, everyone was at the bar and the designated Good Girls of the office – Diya, Liya and Celia, TLC they were called, they found it cute, it made me cringe – were being their giggly best and gingerly sniffing each alcoholic drink, taking gigantic sips from each and then scowling as well. Two minutes of watching them do this and I really wanted to slap them.
To be continued…

Older men are bolder men?

Confused Kutty was positively blushing as I linked my arm into his. Since he is very dark, on blushing he looked almost purple and for a minute I thought he was having a heart attack or something. He was wearing a regular bush-shirt with huge red and black checks and he had paired the shirt with hideously brown, shiny-looking trousers. Thankfully though, Kutty did not have oil in his hair for the party. However, I had noticed that Kutty had a preference for boxers; his boxer band was peeping out earlier in the evening. As I had been getting into Kutty's car, my handbag had fallen on the ground and my lipstick had rolled out of the bag and under the car. Kutty had stood there looking at me when I had asked him if he expected a lady to bend over in public and that had been enough to send him scurrying under the car…

I was wearing my tightest pair of skinny jeans that was also low waisted and had stuck to a white shirt. It would have been almost like office dressing except for the fact that the shirt was very transparent and I was wearing it with a scarlet necktie. It matched with the red bra I was wearing that was clearly visible from under the shirt. On my feet, I was wearing the sleekest pair of black stilettos… red would have looked good, but then it's so obviously tarty, ya? I was wearing Hugo Boss for women, one of my exes had bought it for me and had put up my hair in a high ponytail. As we walked in, the door to the club where we were having the party opened and Runu stepped out… with special correspondent Ashima, who was called Ass-ima because of her really huge posterior, but of course she did not know that.

As Runu and Assima came out, they both stopped, she scowling at me and Runu, well, I thought his eyes lit up but was not too sure. He wore specs. Assima seemed to be telling Runu something rather earnestly and stopped mid-sentence when she saw Kutty and me. While she was all smiles for Kutty, she did not even smile at me. What a bitch! And it was good for her that her husband was not in our office… I had enough women to teach a lesson to. As both parties crossed each other on the gravel path to enter the club, I felt Runu's hand brush my butt…
to be continued

Better safe than sorry?

"There is an office party tomorrow. Why don't you come along as well?"
Runu had asked me and now, along with the rest of the girls in office,the question was: what was one to wear? The whole day, all girls werediscussing their outfits of choice in various corners around theoffice. Then of course there were the girls who had not been invited –usually the variety who were known as 'prudes' or who had stringentdeadlines to follow. There was the gang of girls who decided to dressalike – jeans and a top in certain colour. I failed to understand whywomen insisted on wearing the same clothes as others. I thought thepoint of dressing up was to stand out from the crowd, ya?

I was very sure about what I was going to wear. My dilemma was moreabout 'who' I would go with. While Runu had asked me to join in forthe party, it was not as if it were a personal invite. He hadapparently asked eight other girls in office… the grapevine insistedthat he had picked out the best-looking women in office. I was happybeing part of one of them on Runu's list for now, very soon, thepriority list would change. As soon as office had learnt that even Ihad been invited, there were four different offers to hitch a ride tothe party.

As I debated on the one to choose, I was clear that I would not gowith Runu. Staring back into his eyes was fine, but a girl should notgive away too many hints, ya? I chose the safest option – ConfusedKutty, the senior sub editor – out of all four. I had been a bitsurprised when Kutty had offered to drive me to the party. He wasknown by all and general as the office bore and was known to frowndown upon girls who wore "revealing" clothes. And well, as far as Iwas concerned, if it wasn't revealing, it wasn't clothes! And yet, itwas Kutty who had asked me and it was Kutty I was going with. I justthought that unlike the other young boys in office, Kutty wouldn'tmind me flitting about in the party.

I entered the party on Kutty's arm, much to his surprise since he hadnot offered me his arm. But since he had sat absolutely quietly in thecar the entire way to the party, I decided to make him an 'open'person, soon.
To be continued…

Older men are so sexy ...

So I was going to screw Mohini Ghosh's husband and ensure she learnt of it.

The next three days at work proved that Mohini Ghosh was not the only bitch around. Not just that, I also realized that you did not have to be married or frustrated to be a bitch. Most women, I have decided, have the capacity to be a bitch. And since there were many bitches around in office – most of them dating someone or the other or definitely eyeing men – there were many more men to sleep with. Now if you force a girl to prove a point, what'a girl to do, ya?

But if you ask me about my priority list and if there was anyone who I wanted to screw – and not just for point proving mind you – there was one. Or two. Sexy Butt, who's name I still don't know and who had somehow managed to evade me after that one time… And now there was Runu Malik. Older, wiser, one of the department heads at work and he has the most amazing salt and pepper hair I had ever seen. To top it all, it was said that Runu had quite the glad eye for pretty girls. And I have said before, that I am pretty. In fact I think I am growing prettier by the day. Earlier there was this very small-town-girl prettiness to me, but now it's becoming sort of a chic-prettiness. Like earlier I was just smart, now I am beginning to be street smart.

I had seen Runu notice me. Not in any obvious way – he was much senior and I was much junior – but each time he passed my desk, he always checked me out. The other day he was coming down the stairs with the CEO of the company and I happened to look up from the chat I was having online… and our eyes met. Despite the fact that it looked as if Runu was having some sort of an important discussion, he stopped long enough to look at me. This time, he pretended to answer his phone. All the while he was ostensibly trying to connect to whoever he was calling, Runu kept looking at me. He never looks at the cleavage or the legs or anywhere else. Even when I wear my belly-button showing tops, Runu always looks at my eyes.

As I looked back at him and he approached my desk, Runu suddenly stopped. He looked at me and said, "There is an office party tomorrow. Why don't you come along as well?"
To be continued...

(Suparna's story appears every Tuesday in Metro Now, New Delhi, Page 33)

Married men are trouble

As a rule, I do not involve myself with men who have girlfriends or wives. Both types – with girlfriend, with wife – always have a sob story to tell. They always cry that their wife or girlfriend was making life miserable for them, but they never leave her. That bothers me, I am not used to sharing my men, even if I the man is there for just two weeks. However, all rules, are meant to be broken. Particularly if it involves putting a bitchy woman in her place. And from the look Tall Boy’s girlfriend had given me – the “So you who the hell are you” look – she was a bitch. Only bitches are hostile to people they don’t even know, ya? I had decided, Tall Boy and me were going to have an affair, if it was only just to show Miss Uptight that you should not be rude to strangers.

But as is the case with breaking rules, you break a rule once – even though you say you will never-ever do it – there are always more reasons.. And walking up to me, first thing in the morning at work, was another reason to break my I Don’t Sleep With Attached Men rule. It was Mohini Ghosh, the senior sports correspondent, one of the few women in her times to write on sports. “In her times” is a phrase Mohini Ghosh hates. It constantly reminds her of her close to menopause age and the fact that despite her well-worked-out body, the wrinkles showed and that she was married to one of the hottest men in Indian journalism, who could fly any day. The bright, brilliant, boisterous Sanjoy Singh. He was half Bengali, half Sikh and a complete bastard. The way he could look down the table – and even though you would be wearing a sack for a kurta and a have a nine metre dupatta – his eyes would tell you what his mind (and perhaps his mouth?) were doing to your body. And it does not help your case if you have an expressive face. I have a very expressive face. My teachers called me Drama Queen all my life. And Sanjoy could see on my face what my mind (and perhaps my mouth?) would do in retaliation. So far it had only been that.

Till Mohini Ghosh decided to tell me off for sending her package to the wrong floor. What package? It was a junket she was taking money for, clandestinely. So I was going to screw her husband and ensure she learnt of it.
To be continued…

Meeting Tall Boy, the absolute dish

"He doesn't use detergent. I do. Want to smell my boxers and take a guess?" said another voice from behind us.

I turned, half-certain, half-hoping that it was Model Boy… but it was someone I had not met before. He was clearly above six feet tall and very, very good looking. I could not talk…he was THAT good looking. A clean-shaven face, broad shoulders and very long, long, strong legs. He was wearing a full-sleeve shirt, faded jeans and had a duffel bag carelessly slung across his shoulders. The bag looked puny on his huge form. His hair was all over the place, dark brown and moppy… and constantly kept falling over his eyes. I had the craziest urge to push it back from his face and then hold his face in my hands and kiss him. I looked at him and wondered if he would pick me up, I was small and he was really tall. And I could see his chest hair peeking from his top most shirt button. It was not too much, just a hint of hair. He had the bushiest eyebrows I had seen and the brownest eyes. He just looked so good that I knew I was standing and staring and I really did not care.

"Can I have my underveer back?" asked Call Centre boy meekly, looking from me to Tall Boy. I held the ugly pieces out to him without moving my eyes off Tall Boy, who too, was staring at me. As Call Centre boy took his undergarments and turned to leave, Tall Boy turned to leave with him. I had to do something, find out his name… I had understood that he was one of the NIIT boys… but why hadn't I seen him before?
"Do you live here?" I asked, breaking all rules of First Communication With Subject of Interest. He stopped in his tracks, turned around deliberately to look at me. "I am your neighbour," he said.
"I have not seen you around," I replied.
"You have not looked hard enough," he said, half-smiling, half-smirking.
And I really, really wanted to kiss him. And tear his clothes apart. And throw him there on the terrace and ride him till late night and into the morning…. I wanted to see is his shoulders were really that wide under that shirt…
"Aren't you coming down, I've been waiting," interfered a petulant voice in my fantasy of Tall Boy. It was a woman, looking from me to Tall Boy and back.
"Meet my girlfriend," said Tall Boy, smiling.
To be continued...

Want to smell my underwear?

However, life has her own surprises and much before I could involve Uncleji with helping me finding Sexy Butt, there was landlord trouble. Now my rented apartment – one big room, a small verandah and a small kitchenette – is on the terrace of my landlord's bungalow. In Delhi, such houses are called 'barsaatis'. I had thought that living on the top most floor would not draw much attention to me and would keep the others out of my hair as well. But…

It had been two weeks that I had been staying at my current pad now. One morning, I got on to the terrace to put out my wet towel and… There were ugly, gray, blue and faded green VIP men's underwear in various stages of elastic-repair that were taking up the entire clothesline. My clothesline. And that too when I was paying for exclusive use of the terrace and the clothesline.

Since no one had bothered to ask me about the use of my clothesline, I decided to take things – in this case the underwear – in my hands. As I took the offending pieces of undergarments off my clothesline, and neatly folded them and kept on the chair on the terrace, I heard someone chuckle. I turned around – half expecting and hoping it was the model dude – and came face to… top of the head with one of the four boys' who were my neighbours. Since he was all decked up in a shirt, trousers and tie and yet looked ready to fall asleep at 8 am in the morning, I deduced it was the call center guy coming back from his night shift.

"Those are our underveer," Call Centre Boy said, his pronunciation screaming he was a typical spineless man… does not look into your eyes when talking, but has trouble keeping his eyes off your breasts. The fact that my wet hair – hanging down my left side – were dripping over my left breast, which now had an erect nipple, were making matters tougher. His visible discomfort and yet his visible effort to not be caught out while he stared at my breasts, made the whole scenario rather funny. I decided to tease him a little.

"These are your undies?" I asked, while slowly beginning to fondle the flimsy garments. His breathing visibly increased. He nodded his head."So what detergent do you use?" I asked, stopping short of sniffing the garment…"He doesn't use detergent. I do. Want to smell my boxers and take a guess?" said another voice from behind us.

To be continued…

All about office affairs

I did not see Sexy Butt after that and since I had no idea who he was or what floor he was on, there was no way of finding out. So while I kept a lookout for him, I concentrated on the people that were around me. Strangely, the Anonymous Caller had started leaving jokes on the voice mail at my extension. The same nice voice and jokes, all delivered in a deadpan tone but with solid punch lines. One day, as I laughed at the latest joke, Anonymous Caller, well, called.
"You look really nice when you throw your head back and laugh…it's worth sending you those jokes, just to see you laugh," said he and hung up, as usual. Though I was really intrigued as to who the Anonymous Caller could be – he had a very sexy voice – I decided to wait it out. If he was taking the trouble to leave jokes but was not bothered about meeting… well, two could play the game.
I had always thought that office environments were very serious. I had seen my Father go for his government job at a particular hour and return home at a specified time. Socialising was with your colony people or family, and definitely not with your colleagues. Coming to Delhi and joining the media house I was working for changed my perspective about the working environment for sure. Most people walked in at whatever time they were supposed to… and left at strange hours. Often, I saw many just lounging in the canteen or the Smoking Area, even after their work was over. I used to wonder earlier why people never seemed in a hurry to go back home. And then I realised… they were having much more fun away from home!
The first week, I made three friends: Moona Microphone, Robby the Player and Uncleji. Moona – I figured within five minutes of her talking – was the office gossip, the one person who had the most boring life and therefore needed to talk about everyone else. I knew she would be important if I had to get a hang of the place before the place got a hang of me. Robby was the guy who hit on every other girl, without success. He had potential and since he had been very sweet to me, I had decided to teach him stuff… in my free time. And of course Uncleji, he was the admin guy who was supposed to help us out with everything. My first mission with him was finding Sexy Butt.

To be continued…Every Tuesday
(Published in Metro Now, New Delhi, May 1, 2007)

This is work, butt seriously

My job involves meeting a lot of people, from almost all walks of life. I am the liaising point between my colleagues and those who might be interested in working with us. From important phone calls, to material that comes in through post, to who's using the office phone to do personal talk and who's sleeping with whom, I know it all.

The first day I was not sure what to wear, so I wore the safest option when in doubt: tight, blue, faded jeans and a collared, white, fitted shirt. I prefer button-down shirts to tee shirts when coming to work. You can look professional and yet sexy at the same time. So the first day I had men coming down from various floors in the building just to check me out. It is quite obvious when men do that: they have a habit of checking out women in groups. Then when I walked into the canteen for my first meal, everyone just stopped ordering food and gaped at me. Where there are men giving attention to one woman, there are going to be women who are jealous of that woman. That's what happened at office too. Even without doing a thing myself, the women at work were giving me strange vibes. I can't help if I am sexy and they are not, ya?

And the most interesting thing happened: someone kept calling from different extension numbers. He had a very nice voice. He first asked my name, then welcomed me on joining, then said that if I had any problems at work, I should ask him and he would sort it out for me. But he did not leave his name. However, I have an inkling as to who it might be. Either the much-married, but definitely cute, HR manager or it's one of the technical support boys I was introduced too. Somehow the tech boys always get this very glazed look in their eyes whenever they are introduced to a girl.. or maybe it's too much programming.

As I was attending to another call and sipping water from a paper cup… the cup tipped and all the water spilled on my shirt.
"Your shirt is transparent," announced a voice and as I looked up, I was staring into the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a man. "I am sorry, I was not staring at you… but you are the first person one sees on entering office," with that he walked away leaving me staring at his rather shapely butt.
To be continued…

Love thy neighbour!

For the last six months now, I have been taking in Delhi: the sites, sounds, shenanigans and the people. And so far, things have been promising. Despite the initial hitch in finding a house, things have worked out fine for me. Especially since Delhi likes women who are fair, pretty and busty.

I first realized Delhi's fascination with big breasts – more than that of the men in my small town – when I went house hunting. The first day I was in a tight spaghetti top and jeans and from the broker to the prospective landlords, everyone just looked at my chest while talking. However, I didn't find a room that I liked enough. And then some of the landlords were a bit too keen on renting out their space to me. Now, had they been young and good looking, I might have thought over things. But old geezers scratching their balls through their Patiala salwars is not my idea of interesting. Even the easiest of girls doesn't sleep around with every man, ya?

The next day, I wore a transparent, fitting salwar-kameez with a big dupatta. I had decided that if it was a house I really wanted, I would let the dupatta just hang as a scarf; and if it were old men I didn't like, the dupatta would remain draped like a good girl. I found the place I wanted in Lajpat Nagar. It's a third floor flat, with one small room and a small balcony that looks onto a playground. The locality is dinghy, but my neighbours are four boys. Two are studying at NIIT, one is an aspiring model and the fourth works at a call center. And all four have offered to help me with 'anything' at all.

As I was house hunting and I had come up to my current place with the broker, I saw one of the boys – I learnt he was the model later – come out on to the balcony to dry his towel on the railing. He was bare-chested and wearing boxers and had the widest chest I have ever seen. The hair on his chest was evenly distributed: some in the center, slightly spreading to the side and then tapering down into the waistband of his boxers rather tantalizingly. As I had stood there taking him in, he put the towel out and saw me looking at him. He didn't look away but instead stretched, keeping his eyes on me. His arms bulged and his chest expanded further and I knew I wanted the house. Really badly.
To be continued...

Hear Delhi, here I come...

As I looked at Army Man checking out my lacy bra, the train gave a sudden jolt… and I was rudely awakened from my dream. There was Army Man across me, with his legs entwined in mine and fast asleep. I realized that while I had been dreaming about him, I did not like Army Man. There was just something about him that was vaguely disturbing. Usually, that would have excited me. But with the last two experiences I had had, I let this chance pass. After all, I was going to the city with capital opportunities. Both Punjabi and Jat men were known for their aggression and I hoped it was not just on the roads…

With some difficulty, I extricated my legs from between those of Army Man’s and climbed onto my upper berth, deciding not to descend for the rest of the journey. All this while, Army Man did not move a muscle. As he slept with his legs spread and stretched out on the seat, his short rose up tantalizingly. I almost remained sitting, waiting for the garment to give me a peek at what lay beneath… However, I was forced to avert my gaze as Army Man squirmed in his sleep and I was afraid he’d wake up and catch me staring at his crotch; this time for real.

The early morning coach-composure was broken by someone screaming, “Saddi Dilli aa gayi, chalo, chalo,” and whole families of people started lining up at the coach door. It never made sense why people were in a rush to get off when it was supposed to be a train’s last station: it was not going to chug away! As I got off my perch, Army Man was folding his toiletries in his towel, while his bedding lay on the seat, already neatly folded. He was wearing crisply, creased clothes and had even shaved. It was 6 am as the train rolled on to the platform and I wondered what kind of discipline could force a person to shave that early in the morning… that too when on a train. Even women would go around with shaggy eyebrows and a moustache if they had to wax or tweeze everyday, ya?

My first view of Delhi… was a lot of Sardarjis – in various shapes and sizes - on the platform. For a minute I panicked that I had gotten off at Amritsar; and then I saw the board: ‘Welcome to Hazrat Nizamuddin’, with the picture of a smiling old lady in a bun, a white cotton sari and a namaste, greeting everyone.

On the love express....

"Finders, keepers," he replied, "You're on my seat."
I promptly returned the pen; I had a feeling Army Man was not to be taken lightly. And then of course there were the other people in the coach who looked on, not interfering, but definitely interested. Typical desi junta, free entertainment is always welcome.
Once everyone was settled in and the train began moving, I got off my berth and came sat on Army Man's lower one. If the Indian Railways said I could sit on his berth till 9 pm, there was no way in hell that he was going to stop me. I sat on one of the window seats, while he occupied the other. I was dying to check him out more, but didn't for I was sure he was not going to let it pass. There was something about Army Man that said he was only too ready to jump into Situations… just like me. After the mishaps with Motorcycle Man and Ticket Checker, I was in no mood for hanky-panky… till such time I was not sure of the outcome.

Some hours into the journey, I dozed off; there's just something about the rocking motion of a train that gives me the best sleep possible. I woke up with a start when I felt something against my feet. It was Army Man's feet…placed in such a way that we were both sitting with our legs almost entwined. He had his head back and eyes closed and my legs were caught between his. I didn't know how to pull them out without waking him up.

"Do you have to move your legs?" Army Man asked suddenly, casually scratching his thigh and I realized that he had perhaps not been sleeping at all. My eyes followed his hand movement and I was staring at his exposed thighs – solid columns of muscle, covered with just the amount of hair– and he noticed me looking as well.
"Like what you see?" he asked and started laughing as I looked away. Just who the hell did he think he was?
"What do you mean talking to me like I am some…" was all I could say.
"Lady, you check out my butt and my crotch and flash your cleavage and then pretend to be Virgin M?" he said, lifting his brows. I checked and to my extreme mortification realized that while I was dozing, my top shirt button had come off and Army Mad had had a very relaxed and full view of my breasts in their purple, lacy bra.
To be continued…

The berth of an affair....

I was really angry and really frustrated. After weeks of flirting with Motorcycle Man, he turned out to be the sort who cannot keep his thing in his pants. And just when I thought that perhaps Ticket Checker would save my evening from being spoilt… he turned out to be a PE (premature ejaculator) too! If anything irritates me more than an over-eager lover, it's a lover who revs my motor and then goes and shoots… his mouth, early.

After clanging the door shut on Ticket Checker, I took a rickshaw back home. I was thinking of self-gratification when I noticed I had a letter… from Delhi. It was the interview call I had been waiting for, a call centre job in the capital of the country. I had already had a fight with my parents about going to a "big city"; they thought it would spoil me. Well! I assured them that I would never let them down and would always be there little, good girl. Three days later, I was on a train to Delhi. It was an 18-hour, overnight journey and my Daddy was sending me in AC-2. He said that the start of my new life "on my own two feet" should be comfortable. After all, according to Daddy, I was going to Delhi to make a name for myself.

I got a side-upper berth and was trying to push my two suitcases under the seat, when I found a pen rolled under the seat. As I bent to retrieve it, someone tried to push past me and I fell, face first, onto the seat. I turned around to give the rude person a piece of my mind… and found myself staring into the greatest piece of, posterior, I had seen in a while, with a great pair of legs to go with it too! Tan slip-ons, white tennis shorts – which initially I found funny, but then I realized it was an Army man – close-cropped hair, a Lacoste tee shirt and Rayban Aviators perched on his head. He was looking at me with faint amusement as I looked up at him, half lying, half sitting on the lower berth, holding the pen in my hand.

"That's mine," he said, pointing to the pen, and his voice was very deep.
"Finders, keepers," I said, wanting him to keep talking.
He just bent and suddenly caught my wrist in his hand.
"What are you doing?" I asked, surprised.
"Finders, keepers," he replied, "You're on my seat."
To be continued...

Easy cum and easy go?

As we stood there hugging, Ticket Checker's breathing intensified and the movie reached its climax. Before it 'The End' flashed on screen, he quickly led me out of the box into the still-deserted exit stairway and led me to a small door that said 'Staff Only'. We went inside, the room smelt of old newspapers, dust and rat poo with a few round cans with film spools lying abandoned.

Ticket Checker pulled me inside the room and shut the door with a clang. It was really dark and the thought of rats over my sandaled feet were giving me the creeps. Ticket Checker tried to pull me close, I pushed him away and said I needed some sort of a light first…

I could sense Ticket Checker's haste as he began fumbling in the dark. A 'click' later, a weak bulb came on and though it was not pitch black anymore, I could barely see. Ticket Checker lunged, caught my face in his hands and started kissing it all over. Ticket Checker pushed me into the wall, crushing me with his weight as he continued kissing me and rubbing his entire body against mine.

As I kissed him back, I realized Ticket Checker had managed to hitch my skirt up to my waist and we were standing against each other, joined at the hip… He was wearing jeans and as he rubbed himself on me, I felt the denim scratch the soft skin on my inner thigh. I asked Ticket Checker to control himself, but he only intensified his rubbing… And then there was a sudden "Ah" and Ticket Checker stopped moving and fell against me; I thought he had a heart attack or something. But he was alive… with a little wet patch in the front of his trousers. He looked at me, and looked away. I pushed him away, pulled my skirt down and left, shutting the door behind me with a clang.
To be continued…

Not a bad a girl…

As I pointed to Motorcycle Man, the Ticket Checker puffed his chest and seemed to stand taller. The Hurt-Girl Look always makes men think they are John Abraham and they all start standing tall and looking very important. As Ticket Checker puffed up, Motorcycle Man seemed to wake up from his libido-generated lunacy and stood up as well.
"She is my girlfriend," announced Motorcycle Man, with both men standing nose-to-nose. I instantly denied it and even managed some tears to show how absolutely horrified I was with the idea. I don't know if Ticket Checker really believed me, but with the attention he was giving to my still-heaving breasts, I was sure he would choose to believe me.

"You are disturbing the movie," Ticket Checker addressed Motorcycle Man and pointed to the exit. Motorcycle Man scowled and left without arguing… he had seen two of the theatre chowkidars standing next to the exit, looking eager for a fight. I thanked my willpower for not giving in to Motorcycle Man's advances. He just wasn't man enough.
"Popcorn? Softdrink? Enjoying the movie madame?" asked Ticket Checker, who was now alone with me, the guards having mysteriously vanished. The whistling crowd had settled they saw Motorcycle Man leaving. I made a great show of straightening my clothes and looking distressed, and sat on the chair's armrest chair with tears brimming in my eyes. That seemed to really alarm Ticket Checker, who I noticed looked very young, but not that young either. "Can I do anything for you?" he asked, his eyes darting from my eyes to my mouth to my breasts to my eyes… I put my hand on my chest, as if to calm myself – his eyes followed – and told him I felt very unclean and cheap. I asked him if he thought I was a bad girl; and held his hand, as if looking for assurance. He held on tighter and vehemently shook his head.
I then touched my mouth – his eyes followed – and asked if there were any bite marks. He said no. I pulled down the neck of the top I was wearing, with just a bit of my cleavage showing, and asked him if there were any marks. He looked. I cried louder and squeezed his hand; he pulled me and hugged me. I could feel him go hard down there… I was not a bad girl, just that he looked a good boy.
To be continued…

Get your tongue out of my mouth, am kissing you goodbye

As the whistling increased in the theatre, Motorcycle Man's tongue and fingers both got more insistent. In his ill-controlled enthusiasm, Motorcycle Man's tongue was now getting into places it didn't need to… like my ear, into my nostrils; he was even eating my hair! I was worried the gum in his mouth would get stuck to my hair. The more I tried to keep my mouth shut — to keep his tongue out — the more he seemed to pant and try harder. When he finally couldn't get past the barrier of my sealed lips, he decided to distract me… by increasing the hand activity under my skirt.

Now had it been hand activity that I liked, I could have let it continue… but he was pinching me! Motorcycle Man was proving to be absolutely different from what I had thought he would be. He had looked mysterious and in control and oh-so-sexy from atop his bike, in that covering-his-face black helmet. But now… he was like Shakti Kapoor in a rape scene in some C-grade movie. And no girl wants to be a heroine in a C-grade movie, ya? The moment I realized that Motorcycle Man's hand was under my skirt, at the juncture of my legs, I did the next best thing possible…. I trapped his hand by clenching my thighs real hard.

"Oho, don't be shy my Little Suppu," he cajoled, again pinching me in an attempt to make me unlock my thighs. I couldn't dare scream out for fear that the moment I opened my mouth, he would jam his tongue inside. I so wanted to slap him: I hated anyone calling me Suppu, what a horrible name. I was on the verge of losing it with Motorcycle Man when he suddenly stopped. I had my eyes closed. When I opened them it was to find the ticket-checker staring at us, the torch-light shining in our faces. And I was stunned. The ticket-checker was a rather good looking, rather young man.

"What's happening here?" he asked, staring at my heaving bosom — I was panting — and my exposed thigh and legs. I have always known when a man is too busy looking at me to be thinking straight. I gave my best Hurt Girl Look and pointed at a very disgruntled Motorcycle Man. "I am alone and he is bothering me," I said, deciding at that moment that the Ticket Checker definitely did not look bad at all. In fact he looked very, very good…

To be continued...

Kiss me Bebby, one more time!

Motorcycle Man’s kiss was nothing like I had ever had before… at least for a first kiss.

I could taste the chewing gum he was having as his tongue plunged again and again into my mouth. It was irritating; I didn’t like that brand of chewing gum. Also, his entire mouth was like an open pit of saliva and him like a panting bulldog, slobbering over my cheeks, my neck and my entire face. I don’t mind kissing on the first date; but I do mind bad kissing on the first date.

Motorcycle Man was not just a bad kisser, he was also bad at multitasking…. As he continued slobbering over me, he kept trying to get to my left breast with his left hand while his right hand – which had now thankfully given up its stronghold on my jaw – was trying to get under my skirt. I was momentarily paralyzed, trying to keep his palm from grasping me, his fingers from fingering me and trying to keep my mouth shut as his tongue continued shoving.
“C’mon Bebby, why you being shy?” he kept saying, wheezing into my ear as he tried to climb onto his seat’s arm rest. I kept pushing him away, trying to turn my face in the most dignified manner. I didn’t want the people turning around to see me. After all, everyone knows: when a couple comes to see a really hot movie, they don’t come to ‘see’ the action, they come for some action of their own, ya? So while Karisma-Aamir kissed on screen, I battled Motorcycle Man.

“C’mon Bebby, why you being shy?” he said again amidst pants, “I won’t hurt you no?” Motorcycle Man was wheedling now.
“You are not hurting me, but you are irritating me,” I tried one final time to push him away… and scratched his cheek badly.
“Aaaaaaargh,” screamed Motorcycle Man.
“Shit,” said I.
“Arre, upar kya ho raha hai?” came a voice from the audience down below.
“Chooma, chaati, dhoom dhadaka,” yelled another and suddenly heads were turning towards the balcony…
“Arre bhai, picture is happening in the balcony, sex bhi hai, dekho dekho, give it to me Bebby,” screamed another. Now the Front Benchers were standing, craning their necks; some stood on their seats, some whistled. Other couples – married or bored or both – looked disgruntled.
Scared that someone might actually see us, I did not realize that Motorcycle Man had managed to reach under my skirt, or rather the juncture of my thighs.

Lonely Sundays...

Some say it's a day to spend by yourself. But what do you do when you have been spending the other days by yourself too?

Faces, faces, everywhere, not one to call my own.

Time for some kissy-pressy...

For the next two days, I did not see Motorcycle Man. I wondered if something bad had happened to him...
As I walked towards college, I noticed a man standing near the gate, next to a black, jeep. He was wearing all denim, had short-cropped black hair and he stood there looking at me. As I neared the gate, he began approaching me and stopped at just about an arm's length.
"Tum bahut sundar ho, Suparna," he said (You are very pretty) and gave me an envelope. There was something dangerously thrilling about this unsmiling stranger who knew my name. I did not say a word and took the envelope. He walked back to the jeep and drove off. On his passenger seat was a black Thunderbird helmet. The Motorcycle Man! Where had he been?
The envelope had a neatly folded letter, written in red ink. It was more of a note:
Suparna, as promised, 9 pm show, Raja Hindustani, will pick you up from your colony gate. Wear a skirt.
PS: Last two days, my bike was right behind your rickshaw.
We had the corner two seats in the corner box on the balcony. We called those the Sex Seats in college. There were goose-bumps on my naked legs, I could feel the shivers rising up my sandaled toes, tickling behind the back of my knees, going straight up to the centre of my groin. The AC was fully on though. There was no one in the box yet. He came back with the popcorn and juice. Thank god, I did not like colas. It's the bubbles... No girl wants to be burping on a date, ya?
He sat on my right. As the trailers began, he put his arms around my shoulder and pulled me close. He didn't even pretend to put it on the backrest first! As the first song started, he began playing with my left ear, pulling at the lobe, pinching it, his fingers stroking my neck. I crossed my legs tightly, the heat slowly began stirring inside me. As the first song started, he turned and ran a warm tongue, from my neck up to my jaw, nibbling at my jaw. I was alarmed, what if the ticket-checker came?
I realised his hand was right under my... left armpit. His fingers dug into my flesh, I gasped out loud, he bit my neck. "Don't leave a mark," I said, mortified.
"I want to," he replied, his voice thick with lust, his lips moving from my neck, seeking my mouth.
"But you can't," I tried to turn my face away, "I have to go back home."
He laughed loudly, caught my chin, turned my face and kissed me hard.

Single, mingle, what?

Life in small town India is not much different from life in a big town like Delhi. And I am not talking public transport system, drainage system or any of the other systems, ya? I am talking about things that actually make up 'life'.

Like the many familiar strangers you recognise daily on your way from home to work, perhaps even smile at... but who you would never speak to in a lifetime. Like that man on the bike at the red light every morning. You could only see his eyes from under his black Thunderbird helmet, with his denim jeans stretched tautly across his footballer-legs and those perfectly shaped calves that always seemed to ask me just run my hands over them. Each day at the Sadar Bazar redlight for two years of college, he would stop his bike waiting for the light to turn green, adjusting his sideview mirrors to look at me sitting on the rickshaw, waiting for the green as well. He preferred wearing denim shirts too, a particularly faded blue, almost the blue of the Marlboro man. I don't think he smoked for most small-town studs on bikes always lit a cigarette if they saw a pretty girl checking them out. I am very pretty.

One day I wore a skirt and as his bike came and stopped next to my rickshaw, I hitched the skirt slightly, letting it ride up my knee a little. I was wearing my cute Calven Klain (a local brand) string bikinis under the skirt. He of course did not know that; but I was secretly pleased that I was all sexy as he looked at me. As more of my knee was visible, he looked at me directly and not through the mirror; it was a first and I could make out from his crinkling eyes that he was smiling. As the light turned green and he kick-started the bike, he put his helmet visor up, brought the bike closer to the rickshaw and to my utter and pleasant shock, ran a leather-gloved finger from my left ankle, up my left calf and stopped in a caress under my knee. I had not moved, couldn't, I was creaming... Then he grinned somemore – his eyes crinkled more – and he said, ''Maybe we should meet up somewhere private sometime?''

With that he drove past, jumping the still-red light. I had not moved. I had noticed his forearms were nicely hairy and wondered if his chest was hairy too. I would soon find out, perhaps...