Deboned and loving it

That first time. The momentous instance when your cherry is popped a woman is deflowered and a man deboned. How many fantasies built around it, how many books written, how many movies made! The movies for some reason are mostly comedies and almost always about men. Virginal men are funny. Virginal women coveted if only to be conquered (conquested?)

Much is written about virginal women holding on to their hymens virginity till they meet the Right One. Conveniently, the Right One is always devirginated and a great lover. Or so we are told. Though how does a woman with no prior experience know he's really *that* good is never explained.

Another unexplained phenomenon is why a woman, who has held on to her virginity till its ready to be pickled, is suddenly ready to give it all up for *this* particular man. I am not talking about the marraige situation, I'm not there yet.

I'm talking about women -- particularly in romantic ficiton -- who (suddenly) want to give up their virginity outside of marriage or in Indian parlance "want to indulge in pre-marital sax". How do they know that this man will rock their boat, ring their bell, tickle their tonsils and other similar euphemisms? Perhaps its hormones, or pheromones or a "six figure salaray and job with reputable company".

In the ideal fictional scenario, virginal woman meets deboned man, they have great sex -- in a post-50 Shades world, she is whipped around as well -- and then they get married. We all assume they continue having great sex because (a) its fiction and (b) she still has only a singular experience of what she thinks is good sex.

Why am I banging on (pardon me) about the first time? Because that's the opening chapter in my debut novel. Because I wanted to -- and still want to explore -- the idea of a non-romantic, no candles/ chocolate/ flowers "first time" experience.

The kind of first-time experience that real people have told me about -- hasty, nasty, confusing, too short, too quick, in the wrong hole, someone knocking at the door, embarrassing, hurting, inconvenient and mostly where the man comes (too quickly) and the woman does not. What do women think when it's happening? What do they feel? Do they want to try it again? Do they regret it?

Still looking for the answers. For now, please read the first chapter from my book, Confessionally Yours.

PS: I'm told it should reach bookstores by end of this month, it's already available on uread.com, bookadda, flipkart and dial-a-book. If you have the time, lemme know what you think.

Sex, sweat and Sharon Stone

The first time I had sex, I remember it being very sweaty. It was a sweltering June afternoon in Delhi and the ceiling fan did not work. There was a cooler in the room but neither the boy who was to fuck me, henceforth the Fucker, nor any of his four friends thought of turning it on. From what I could hear of the friends—sitting outside in the drawing room—they were arguing over who would go and buy more beer and who got to handle the remote control.

They planned to watch a rerun of the 1996 cricket World Cup, the quarter-finals between India and Pakistan. But that was to be after I was sent home. While their friend was inside—screwing me—they were watching an unedited version of Basic Instinct. The fight over the remote control erupted when one of them replayed the Sharon Stone-leg-crossing-flashing scene for the fifth time.

Earlier, none of the other boys had looked at me when I entered the house. The Fucker did not introduce anyone and ushered me into the bedroom. Just as he bent to kiss me, there was a knock. The Fucker answered the door and came back with a bed sheet. 'Can you spread this?' he said, while he fiddled with the fan regulator.

'The fucking fan doesn't work!' he yelled out.

'Just don't forget the bed sheet, my mom will kill me,' someone yelled back.

Then he kissed me or squeezed my breasts. I don't remember which happened first. I remember holding on to him and my neck hurting from the stretching—he was very tall. I was about to ask him if he had locked the door when he threw me on the bed and pulled off my tee shirt. He fumbled with my bra clip and ripped it off. It was my favourite bra. Through a blur I saw that he was naked. There was a strange, cloying odour, like flesh that has been packed in too tight.

He said something about holding 'it' and condoms; I turned my head and covered my breasts. I heard plastic rip, he pinioned my hands on top of my head, pushed my thighs apart. I felt him thrust in, it was uncomfortable; I wondered if the door was locked. 'I swear she is clean-shaven man, no fuzz, rewind it dude,' an excited voice said outside the door. I was unshaved. The Fucker started moving faster then. For some reason I thought of the previous day's class, the microeconomic theory of demand and supply.

At the precise moment one of the voices outside started shouting 'Dickhead, stop rewinding, get on with the movie!' the Fucker, grunting now, violently shook his head. Rivulets of sweat were running down his face, dripping off his chin, on to my breasts. As he tried to shake off the sweat, a steady stream of saline droplets dribbled off his nose and fell into my eyes. It made my eyes water. 'Don't cry baby,' Fucker said, still thrusting, grunting, somewhat strained. 'I am . . . about to . . . come.'

I turned my head into the pillow and screwed my mouth and eyes shut. I didn't want any more of his sweat. In fact I wanted him to get off me. My thighs were tired and hurting. The kind of pain you get when you cycle too much or do a lot of aerobics. Demand- supply-demand-supply went on in my head as he started moving faster, panting harder. Then he collapsed on top of me. He was heavy, it was difficult to breathe. A minute later, he rolled off and walked into the bathroom. I could hear Sharon Stone saying something like 'I'm sure we can arrange that officer'.

The Fucker came back, a towel around his waist. He asked me if I wanted to have a shower. The water from the overhead tank was boiling hot. I quickly wore my clothes, stuffed the now torn bra in my jeans and walked out into the drawing room. None of the boys looked at me. The Fucker walked me to the door. As I got on to my bicycle he asked, 'Was it good for you?' I said yes. It was my first sex lie.

There have been many fuckers since that day, many lies. Never love. Even that first time wasn't love. Why did I do it? He was available and willing. I was curious and impatient; and I didn't want to wait for a husband chosen by my parents.

That first evening, I waited to bleed. There was nothing. I was a virgin, but I didn't bleed. It's been eighteen years since that day. I still wonder why I never bled. I don't recall the boy's face, but I still remember the theory of demand and supply. I am not scared of holding 'it' now and I don't shut my eyes anymore. I also, as a rule, never fuck without a fan.