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...