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…

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...