A First Hand Narrative: Part 2

Mimosa  (Note: Please read A First Hand Narrative- Part 1 before proceeding)

If you ask me now what made me go up to visit the city once again, I would tell you, with great conviction, that it was plain affordable; especially since now my best friend had moved there herself into a spacious new apartment, spacious for the city anyway. However back then I wanted to see if there was anywhere we’d go.

Sex-crazed [or so I presumed (and preferred)], he talked me into meeting up with him at his place. But nothing happened except for him closely inspecting a tattoo I had recently gotten on an easily visible part if my body. It’s more difficult to establish physical touch with somebody you sexually want than with somebody you don’t, a psychology teacher, that I knew we’d both had had, had once said. I wondered if the same thought ran through his head while it was still passing through mine. Really read somebody, that’s all I’m incessantly trying if I’m to not lose my interpersonal glue.

I sneaked an idea of a movie the following day, a rare film that was running only for a week, one of the many unfair advantages that urban populace lands. Although, why we really did this was mostly because the idea of two hours of AC, a luxury to us strugglers, seemed like a respite from the throbbing heat of the city’s imposing exteriors.

Weak lights of the curtained screen fell on his neck. If I ever felt shy to move my gaze above to his face it was only because his adam’s apple had a way of having caught me. I lost track of the movie before us; the last thing I remember was a close look into a young girl’s closed fist, gaps between fingers each holding a little flower between them. The scene before us carried a charge. I felt restless and yet all the movement I could manage was a shuffle to reach for a sip from a mineral water bottle he had bought and kept by his side. When I put it back I felt a little brush on the side of my thigh by his seat. It was so momentary that I didn’t know if I really felt it. I gave it a thought for what seemed like a whole five minutes before realizing that he’s probably trying to make a move!

To make it easier I put my hand closer to his seat, under the armrest. Resisting another sip of water, I stayed still in my seat. He wore a grey sweater, which I could see, covered his arms in a way that made me feel a little heat rising from the back of my neck; something I’ve felt before from being too closely placed to another. It consumed me how a slight tilt of my head would be so obviously detectable if I were to steal a glace above his Adam’s apple.  I never turned to face him again for the rest of the movie because yes, he indeed was trying to make the first move- he took my fingers between his. I froze. All the words we wrote had had expressed all that’s only understood in our private, solipsistic ways, and our intertwined fingers got that… Reaffirmed that.

I didn’t want to turn to face him now. The lines of his palm had led me a lot further into him. He drew a line on the inside of my arm with his index finger so slowly it may as well have been a snail hiking. He drew it all the way up till the inside my elbow, using just the tip of his fingertips. Something shot downward..down there. My arm hungry with a stringent need to itch it. I pressed my legs together. The heat..the air conditioner confusing me.

We did write about how we would like to kiss each other for so long that our lips swelled; we’d find a terrace where we could do this under a clear sky. I thought now, how we must both secretly remember this or secretly acknowledge that we have forgone that for a conspicuous public space what with a pretence of invisibility instead.

Before I could catch it, his other hand was on my stomach, which contracted on reflex at his cold touch. Like a Mimosa I only knew to stay closed as he felt the undulating flesh there. When he took his hand away my eyes opened. The movie had nothing left to say, nothing I would hear anyway. Or he, for both his hands was in mine. One little whimper and it all would have to probably end. It would have been a reminder of the present, indicative of the disillusionment- time to straighten up, kids. But instead, I thought I’d still handle it if some of this charge were shifted to him. Suppressing a noise, I grabbed his groin- a move I’d never dared before. Molten lava in my ears made everything audible but in a long, steady, static noise. I had astounded myself. I felt him rise into his jeans. Unfettered like never before, I made my way inside his jeans but his belt guarded it. That’s as far as you get in public, you may think. But he didn’t. He pulled in his stomach till all my hand found his penis and let his breath out so the belt could lock around my wrist. I understood now how soft a man’s flesh is at his cock so his boner can be thoroughly rubbed. I needed to push more of my hand down the belt to reach him properly. It did feel like somebody’s dirty place in the way that they use it to pee, so I reminded myself not to make presumptions about his sanitation and really touched him with all the love I could find inside me for the person who perfunctorily wrote back to me.

“Your hands don’t shy at all.” He said to me on our silent way back to his place.

“I use them a lot, remember?” I replied after a brief pause with a teasing smile, though internally I was still gawking at my blaring nerves.

He was recipient to my second hand job too but there was no more. The following day he met me to call things off between us. I flit like Lisbeth Salander (the girl with the dragon tattoo) on her motorbike.




I was on my back.

His head moved away, downward,

clearing my line of sight;

I looked with wonder-

more of disbelief-

at a leaf held by the ceiling.

I felt him dig,

“Are you inserting yourself?”

“Just the finger. Look.”


The wheels of my shopping cart made irritable whirring sounds; it was empty. I pulled it down the aisles of the super market that was scantily crowded as it was a week day- something I had planned. I was very close to the rack. All those previous visits it had never occurred to me what those colourful bottles had been sitting there for, right next to stacks of condom packs.

We had been tight on time- he had an audition to get to, I had some writing to submit. Sex was equivocally off the table. Off the bed. Yet he moved thoroughly over me. My pants were off but he had his on. I consider taking each other’s clothes off, a part of the move so it was unto me to unzip him.

This aisle, however wasn’t as scanty as I’d have liked. To add to my discomfort, only men could be seen both up and down this section. Heavy breaths and pretend-shopping later, I went back over to the rack. I had come thus far. Having had the most hurting experience at getting finger-fucked, I knew now the dire importance of wet.

The lube is not advertised, and it is not even called ‘lube’ on the face of its own bottle. A little read-through tells you that it’s instead a ‘massager’. This was weeks before I found out these can be bought online in India too and months before a website in the country was taken to court for selling anal lube and other sex tools. I had been living with my parents, which made the newfound information as reassuring as a used condom, for obviously, there remained no chance of availing the service.

The rack had exactly two types of lube from the same brand placed by a variety of condoms made by different brands. Lubes are expensive- the fat bottle and the thin bottle, both. And if this isn’t discouraging of the purchase, the thin bottle (which is not as expensive and volumed as the fat one) stood boxed inside a locked plastic container, the first of its kind, exclusively designed for such products by this franchise of supermarket. I picked it up anyway and tried to absorb the written-instructions in my apprehensive state of mind. Did I need to give in to this self-induced cautiousness in my head? I would later find out that my little cousin brother, whose car I had borrowed to get there (not that he would have minded it), and I were at the supermarket, “shopping” at the same time. The container made it difficult for me to find out the exact price of the lube that was printed at the bottom of the bottle. I looked around and saw an attendant… a male attendant, not very far away. Feigning confidence, I asked him why the bottle was inside an additional cover. All he had to say was that the bottle could be taken out only at the time of billing at the cash counter.

I was on my back.

His head moved away, downward,

clearing my line of sight;

I looked with wonder-

more of disbelief-

at a leaf held by the ceiling.

I felt him dig,

“Are you inserting yourself?”

“Just the finger. Look.”

My wince wasn’t abject

as the ripping took effect.

“it’s like a dive

into a shallow water”

I told my self.

The screech took its time

Before it could core.

First the second,

then the forth

and the sixth

time of what is called

a pounding.

“That’s all I can take”

a white lie be told-

Not so true as fake.

Although it was terribly uncomfortable where his finger lay, I didn’t mind his penis to my stomach. It is, in fact, my pierced bellybutton that has been met with some hesitation, every now and then. A neem tree rustled from the slow winds, outside his window. I caught a whiff of its bitter-dank fragrance. My fingers caught him in new vigour, my hand to his bank. Snugly, he put his hand around mine, around him. On a different day I may have thought of this a weakness, but evidently, I’m a lot more open now and accept that we always have something new to learn. And to teach. And to remember the time when at drawing classes my free-hand concentric circles always touched, and that would entail a lot of erasing and re-drawing mess. This gratitude, I let him know: I palm-pressed his balls.

I went to the rack a second time because I talked new confidence into me. Earlier, I had budged and turned away from the aisle what with the plastic container for an anti-theft, lame-ass measure. But wait a minute! An important detail almost escaped me: the expiry date. Lubes must retire. It was a lot easier to pick up the bottle this time, mostly because there really wasn’t anybody around but a female attendant. Full advantage at hand, I asked her to read it for me; in retrospect though, I really asked her for it just so I wouldn’t be alone bearing this supposed embarrassment.

“May, 2015” she said. “Thanks” I nodded. The moment turned into a peculiar kind of sadness that plagued my mind from deep inside. In a matter of seconds I thought long and hard, and practically, and realised there was no narrowest chance I’d get together sexually with anybody within four months. I kept the lube back.

Remember, Remember The Thirst of December

“Why are you really here?”

Madhav and I have known each other long enough for him to bring up that it was quite unlike me to be at a party where the head-count of acquainted socials went beyond three. Or so I inferred from his unusual interest in my motives. Or he was just trying at a small talk; it had been long since we met and the assortment in the social atmosphere was such that it created a bit of an undulation before we could find common conversational ground. In response, I just narrowed my eyes at him and internally shook my head at the question when, something took him away. During this time I went to look for the host, a friend from college who had always been friends with friends, who had mixed an interesting Long Island Ice Tea at home, and I needed to get drunk very badly. I had my qualms about spending my new year’s eve like this- away from home and away from friends I’d been meaning to be with, and Madhav’s question had just underscored it.

He found me again and asked me a second time, “Why are you really here?”

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts for he seemed especially prescient this time. I may have gulped a little because for a nanosecond I wondered how he could possibly know what was on my mind. I replied with a meek “Why would I confide in you, Maddo?” He scoffed at me with a because-I’m-your-friend face, still expecting a reply. Of course I wasn’t going to tell him.

There’s a reason I borrowed my sister’s racy red cropped shirt to go with my skin-hugging brown pants, the first piece of cloth I’d bought in months! I have let my life draw big circles of mundane, lately. So I‘m constantly trying to centre it with lasting explosives. Sometimes it’s like walking in spirals, only I never know whether it’s going inward or outward, away from focus.

This was one of those faint, rare times when I sensed that his was an inward flowing spiral bringing me so close to the explosive centre that it was now visible. With visibility came recognition and it was rather surprising to see Joseph there. True we all went to the same college albeit not through the same time- the year I began college was his final year there-yet, a Venn diagram of our social circles would show you how small our intersecting spaces were. And thus it was decided. Him. I saw him look back at my direction and his lips moved forming a ‘hi’ of familiarity. Approach. In other words, the alcohol had taken effect and how!

There was a cigarette between his fingers. There was a line of sweat inside my palm. I rubbed it against his jacket as I put a hand around him to say hello. The last time I’d met him, he was with a mutual friend whom I’d later made out with. I couldn’t have told then that, this one would be next.

We shared the cigarette while talking- he offered it (I plead not guilty). And with this my courage furthered and I came right down to it. I think I pulled his collar a little to bring his head closer to mine, the agile shorty I am. Assured that his ear was right by my lips so nobody could hear me, I uttered the words. That was that. I led and he followed. Oh the relief of accurate estimation! It was quite a long shot though; I knew he knew me by face but I couldn’t have told if he knew my full, real name.

Lead I did but where to? My dear host friend had conveniently passed out in her room. We wandered into her kitchen and drunkenly realized within a moment that was just hitting the wall because that was people’s bar this evening. And kitchens don’t have doors. “Point to any door and you’ll have me in” I said to him. Alcohol’s flair for Hollywood-corny, I tell you! I was hoping Jose wouldn’t go for the other housemate’s room. I suspected this housemate had tried at getting it on with me earlier but I’d pretended not to understand and, it would have been a sad paradox if someone else scored within the confines of his room while he himself didn’t. And here, Joseph wasn’t pointing to any door. So I led the way, again, and landed us inside the only unattached bathroom of their flat.

I latched the door dramatically hard. That easy, I thought to myself.

Well, not really. He wanted to talk. Correction: he wanted me to talk.

He asked and I answered elaborately, animatedly, thoughtfully meaning hints in subtext. We chose opposite walls to lean against, next to the commode. Neither was making the move. So I initiated under the pretext of explaining a point with an example, I touched his lips and unzipped his jacket a little. I felt the back of my neck heat up. It wasn’t until I was further in the middle of a sentence explaining a different point that his mouth grabbed mine.

If the rest of my sentence could travel from my head to my mouth to him, with no help of a voice, it would have with a kiss with that kind of pull. He let it out in careless lavishness. I let it in with an oblivious surrender. He had my head between both his hands. And all this while there was hardly any tongue involved. I let my hand inside his t-shirt, letting my index finger travel from his navel to the middle of his chest to his right nipple. With my thumb I pressed hard into it and followed it with a smearing motion. This made him gasp, his lips losing touch with mine. In one swift move of a single hand he took my shirt off. I hadn’t noticed before how cloudy the feel of its cotton was. I would have to return it- I cringed internally. I unzipped the rest of his jacket and he took care of his shirt too.

The next thing I remember I had him pushed by the wall of the non-commode side of the L-shaped bathroom. Both my hands now took his head between them and I let my tongue French off to the roof of his mouth. His hair was cropped very short so I couldn’t grab on to it when I tried to bunch it in my hand. The flesh on his back, on the other hand, so evenly easy and soft, and in no time it melted between each of my fingers, clenched inside both my hands. His hand had reached inside my jeans. He wasn’t as much tugging at my ass as his fingers ventured into my butt-split. It is a quite tussle for most to locate the V-hole from the front and here he set out to make a way into it from behind! I pulled myself away at this. He must’ve been slightly taken aback.

When he opened his eyes from the broken moment, he squinted at the harsh yellow glow of the incandescent light. It indeed was a very bold move; this was, by far, the most turning on move of the foreplay. The jeans had hugged my skin for too long. I took them off, my thighs going back to Joseph’s able hands. He pulled my leg up by my knee while I moved my lips to get his collarbone. Time for a roll over- pulling my knee further upward he put my back against the wall. I put my other leg around his waist without knowing if his lanky build could handle my weight.

Short people’s sizes can mislead so always be aware that they may have astonishing bone weight, as do I. But this position wass pretty comfy-if he couldn’t handle my weight he could always pin me further up to the wall. I shifted a little so my heels dug deep into his ass. My otherwise perpetually cold feet were very warm right now.

This was my first go at drunken intimacy. At this point I felt that there should have always been more of this. Not just broken inhibitions from the drinking but your energies get hyper-accelerated. Sobriety projects greater awareness of nakedness of bodies, which makes you flinch just a little. Something I should heed to, with future encounters.

My weight must have been getting to him so he suggested dirtying the bathroom floor. Of course I agreed. At once he laid my wrapped-around self down to the floor. From this angle I saw a rupture on his shoulder. Neither have I hickey-ed anyone before, nor have I been marked. The question had begun forming slowly. I never would have believed it would take as long as it did to rise to the surface. But it had to be done because he knew he already had the answer and I didn’t. And so it was up to me, “Do you have a condom on you?”

If I were squandering my virginity (if such a thing even exists), it was going to be every bit worth it. With him. Like that. The bathroom had black tiles; if I were going to bleed, chances were it would go unnoticed. Add to that, somebody turned the light off, as if that would be such a bad thing.

He said he didn’t have protection and that he’s sorry for the disappointment. He didn’t need to apologies but little did he know he was with an egalitarian and it was as much my responsibility as his.

Still, somehow, all this while on the floor, he didn’t have his underpants on. I asked permission to get his penis. He liked that I circled the tip of his penis with my thumb. I always like to feel the erection as it takes place. Up and down, down and up. He liked it and I knew because I asked him and when I did, I made a whole new unnatural discovery about me. I had an accent on! This was kind of a side-effect of the alcohol- I had adorned a different version. I asked him again and again and again and he answered affirmatively each time. Aroused was his new name.

“Can I bite into you?” Wait, what? Not what he asked but the way he asked it- he had an accent too! Or it was the alcohol playing quirky games. You can bite me with your sharpest teeth and you still wouldn’t be able to rupture me. I have magic-skin, baby. And just like that, we went down on me. Didn’t realize that was also a way to ask permission for cunnilingus. Of course, it made me flinch. I felt I owed him this ask: “You do know I’m in town temporarily right?”

We had not known each other beyond a countable number of times. The only conversation I had with him in college was once when through my housemate’s friend he’d landed at my flat and had wandered into my room without realizing I was already inside there. My amicable self helped him out of the situation as we made a light conversation. He used to have boyish long hair back then, looked like a dark-complexioned grown-up version of Ellar Coltrane. And seeing him in such contrasting light right now…

It was very sweet to know we’re understood about that and he still continued down there. Moaning reached a high pitch. The way he broke it off to shush me only left me wanting more. But the downside of the dehydration was taking effect and I just wasn’t wet. He gave me a feeling that he was maybe experimenting too.. his dry tongue kept on tearing at my vaginal slit. If you’re adept at it, or plain willing to learn, you should know you’d have better and easier accomplishment just by persisting with the clitoris. You know, how they say that secrets sometimes stare you in the face? Well, the clit is often leaning to you at arousal. Anyway, his sheer audacity had me; the light had been put back on and my bush was on full display, which didn’t budge him from his intent. After shushing me he went back on to lick me there. I refrained from turning or shifting too much in my place. My hands involuntarily moved to his head, wanting to thrust all his mouth into me. But I resisted and pushed him just slightly inward. I did not know how not to moan so as to encourage him to keep at it and I didn’t know how to keep it down. There were people outside, spread out to parts of the same tiny flat. He was compelled to break it off once again; he rose up to me and said “shush, shoooosh.” I knew I had better obey this. Drunken sex drawbacks were showing- my holes were dry, his lips parched. It also may have been the reason he couldn’t cum from the handjob. I let out a smothered moan. He put his fingers close to my face to help me out: I sucked hard at his salty, salty fingertips. The more I sucked, the saltier it got, and that was all I could take. He thrust his tongue deeper one last time before he chose to finally break it off.

He rose back up to my face and I put his nose between my lips. He put his hand at the back my head and this time bit my neck in one whole chomp. Another bite on my left shoulder and, the next under my right chest. A dark current shot up my head. I began pinching his waist and held him away by the scruff of his neck. He wrung one of my breasts vehemently and nibbled at the other. Just as I felt a sigh escape the trench of my throat, he asked “Do you want to go down on me?” Oh, I thought you’d never ask. Yep, if he hadn’t said it I would have passed on it tonight. If you get me this high on sex, of course my egalitarianism will go take a hike. “Okay. Sure.” It’s only the most decent thing to do.

He was swift to turn over. I ran the back of my hand apprehensively down his midriff before letting it settle on his penis. With a slight lift, I let him inside my mouth. First, just the tip- a little pull of the lips, then the tongue. It was his turn to moan and mine to make him. Within the next suck, I gave it my all. Inward. Then outward. His penis feeling the texture of my tongue, he gave me his first groan. Each of our taste buds as different as each of our fingerprints: mine, the cause of his sensations, his, an effect of thirst.

I overestimate my firsts. My discoveries let me down. An emerging gag-reflex stopped me. I wanted to double-check if it was really happening so slid him back into my mouth. It really did make me retch. Perhaps, next shot with a flavoured condom? Unprotected oral sex is anyway riskier for the woman. I expressed it to him. He felt it and let the temptation wane.

Feral and hyper, I took my mouth into his. “Pull my hair. I’d like that.” I said it the way I’d always thought of saying it. He did but I wanted it to be harder than that. My earrings looped out. He heard those drop to the floor and remarked so.

I repeated, “Pull my hair. I’d like that.”

“Bite my ear.”

He got a hang of how things were moving now. I chewed just the one ear, as he seemed to fully concentrate on its sensation now.

“We should get dressed.” His call, not mine.

I said okay but contrarily kissed him some more. It had been longer than either of us had imagined being in the dankness of this unanimously used bathroom. I felt too dizzy to get back on my feet. I managed somehow, only to be pinned back on to the wall. Whatever little moisture my lips retained was lost in this long, last kiss smacked on me. I returned it with an equally prickly dry pull.

“Put your legs around me like before.” He remembered. I pleasured in it. He thrust his penis flat into my stomach. I heard him hazily make a guttural sound. In one long embrace I pushed my nipples into his chest and then, let him go.

The lights went out again and yet again I felt too dizzy to get back on my feet whilst he had already finished putting his clothes on. He helped me locate my clothes and soon I was dressed too. It was decided we’d go one after the other in order to avoid causing the pronounced Indian scandal. He let himself out first; I needed a moment to adjust to the shift in my body temperature.

I took a look back at the floor and I remembered something. There in the dark lay shining my pair of shed earrings.