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…

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.

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…

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...