Close Too Close (12 page)

Our meetings became regular over the next six months. Sometimes, my yearning for her drove me insane. She seemed to want me as much – though it was tough to tell. After so many attempts at seducing her, I had given up. We went through the same rigmarole, the same routine unfailingly – whether it was fingering, oral sex or using a dildo. It hurt me to realise that she needed to drink before committing a remotely sexual act with me. I mean, was I that bad that she needed to get drunk before she could fuck me? Without alcohol, she just wouldn’t have sex – I’d denied alcohol to her a few times and had paid for it by being denied sex. I was somewhat habituated to the pre-sex rituals now, and would keep her first drink mixed and ready as she walked through the door.

Most days I would have my indignation, frustration and impatience under control, but today I was chomping at the bit. It was probably because we hadn’t met for over three weeks thanks to schedules clashing and her travelling on work. I was feeling very horny but kept telling myself that I would have to bide my time. I had plopped ice into a glass of vodka and orange juice when the doorbell rang.

PERSON 1

I was so eager to see her, this sensual woman with whom I was having outstanding sex. I was greeted with a warm hug and my first drink. She had learned along the way not to give a kiss nor expect one. It was a huge relief for me, not to have to feel that sort of pressure on seeing her. She looked gorgeous in anything. Today it happened to be an oversized shirt on boxers. It had gotten to a stage where she would wait for me to finish my drinks and make a move, rather than trying to seduce me. The arrangement seemed to work for her – she’d always be the one to ask when we were meeting next.

I was savouring my drink as we chatted about travelling and the distinctive smell of Bombay that hit as soon as one would teeter near its edges – be it train or plane. We lived in the odour, but faced it only when returning home. I loved watching her lips move as she spoke, and how her hair would get whiplashed back if it fell on her face as she talked. And I could actually enjoy the underlying simmering sexual tension between us because she was well-settled in my routine.

PERSON 2

I took one look at her and my resolve of patience flew out the window. I wouldn’t mind if she unzipped me and fucked all in a welcome greeting. A new haircut, her black-rimmed spectacles, body-hugging white pants and a purple shirt – lover-girl knew how to get me where it hurt. As we spoke, I kept on telling myself to keep a lid on my galloping itch for her. But, at the same time, I wondered – for once couldn’t we do it my way? For just once, I wanted spontaneous sex. I didn’t want to go through the motions, complete the ritual – after all this isn’t a Japanese tea ceremony.

Why was the alcohol necessary? I didn’t even know that! My lack of sex, heightened arousal and sheer frustration at being compelled to have sex in a routine grated inside my head. I was working myself up to multiple passions, seething and stewing with lust, anger, indignation, wonder and desire. I couldn’t handle it anymore – tonight, we’d do it my way. I’d had enough – after all, it was fair to expect some reciprocity.

PERSON 1

She didn’t seem to be in a mood to talk tonight. Distracted, lost in her thoughts and distant. It had been an hour since I had reached her place, but she kept looking at her watch. I’d never seen her behave in this way. I tried mentioning some of her hot-button issues – communalism, the institution of marriage – but they failed to rouse a peep out of her. Maybe a few drinks would loosen her up. I offered to make the second round of drinks.

I was surprised by the stern ‘No’ from her. She usually got us the drinks, but was perfectly happy to let me do it from time to time. Shaking her head in a slow continuous movement, she made for her glassware cabinet. Our empty glasses weren’t given a glance. She pulled out four shot glasses and plonked them down in front of me. With a few long, angry strides, she was back at the kitchen counter. Brandishing the vodka bottle in her hand, she halted in front of me. Taken aback by the vigour of her movements, I wondered what the deal was. Maybe she wanted to do shots . . . But, something was off and I couldn’t tell what.

She poured the vodka into the shot glasses in one unending motion, slopping liquid over the edges. I asked her if she was alright. Again came the head-shake, ‘No, I’m not alright. I can’t handle it anymore. You need to drink – then it’s best to get it over with. No beating around the bush tonight. Don’t argue – you’re going to down these one after another.’ Maybe it was her voice, or the way her body was bristling with an intense energy – I chose not to question her even though I don’t like my vodka in a shot.

One. Two. Three. Four. Ugh, I hated the taste in my mouth. Was this the price for good sex? She commanded me with a satisfied ‘stay right there’ and strode off to her cupboard. She came back to me bearing a plastic bag. Out came belts, straps and finally her shiny, black silicone dildo. Damn, were we going through this again? I thought she’d acclimatised to me. Wordlessly, she came to my chair and ran the wide belt past my ankles and knees up to my waist. The narrower straps were run up each leg and stopped at my upper thigh. She pulled at the buckles and tightened the harness to the point of eating into my flesh.

Now I was really worried, what the fuck was she doing? Her determination was scaring me. Finally she took the dildo and attached it to the rubber ring in the middle of the harness. I was now sitting, fully clothed, on a chair in the middle of her room, wearing a seven-inch cock. Was she readying me for sex? I wasn’t going to be able to do anything until the alcohol hit me. I ventured to ask what she was doing. She snarled at me in response, ‘Don’t worry; you won’t have to do much.’ She unbuttoned her shirt in a cavalier fashion – so it definitely wasn’t a seduction. Her boxers wriggled off next.

Bending down to the plastic bag, she pulled out a condom wrapper. Struggling to open it, she let her teeth have a go at it. Her movements seemed calm and methodical now. In contrast, I’d begun to feel dizzy with the shots and swelling panic. She bent down to me and rolled the condom on the dildo. Standing up erect, she looked at me from top to bottom and raised an eyebrow. She raised her left leg and I felt her calf moving across my thigh. She sat on my lap – butt-naked – arms around my neck. I was freaked out but powerless to do anything. As usual, my arms hung limp by my sides.

In a slick motion she hoisted herself up and smack back down on the dildo. It was inside her – I was inside her. Her ass moved in a circle. Her eyes were locked onto mine as she continued with the slow grind. I did nothing but maintain eye-contact, I was trapped in her thrall. Her body moved a little faster as she arched upwards into me. Her chin rose slightly, a few sounds escaped her lips. She was breathing from her mouth now and I could feel it on my nose. Her breasts jiggled near my face. She propped her hands on my shoulder-blades and her nails dug into me as she starting battering me furiously. Grazing my face, her breasts made a soft thump sound as they smacked back into her body. Toes on the floor, her kickboxer’s calves were pummelling with all their might. Noisy moans. Dripping sweat. Hair wrenching. Chair rocking unsteadily. Teeth gnashing. Shuddering. Climaxing uproariously. I’m still inside her now unmoving, limp body, collapsed against mine – whose arms still hang limply.

Soliloquy

Chicu

I
stand damp and tousled in front of my cupboard.
The pink synthetic
, I decide. For whatever reason, my body wants to be seen today.
And why not
, I think as I discard the towel. I have earned these curves. They may come naturally to some, but they are the result of hard work for me. I gaze into the mirror with satisfaction at the gentle spread of my hips. My breasts are goose-pimpled from the shower, my nipples taut.
Oh yes, show them off
. I wink at myself.

My dress and make up routine is meticulous as always. A chikan bra and pretty panties are followed by a crisply-ironed petticoat and blouse. The ritual of draping a sari soothes me and my confidence increases with each careful pleat. Draping the pallu takes a lot of attention. It must be just so. Not revealing enough to attract censure, but not hiding the curves I am proud of. The last safety-pin is in place. I give myself a critical look in the mirror. I check the back to see if the sari is riding up and note approvingly the brief hint of a dark waist behind the sheer pink material. Satisfied with the sari, I turn my attention to my hair. It is growing well now. I take pleasure in combing it out before gathering it into a prim bun.

Now for the icing on the cake: make-up and accessories. I smile like a little girl playing with her treasure chest as I sort through my assorted bits of sunshine. I choose earrings, bangles, and a slim necklace. My fingers graze the silver anklets and I hesitate. Was it Coco Chanel who said that when accessorizing one should always take off the last thing one put on? I wear them anyway. Forgetting my care for the carefully-draped pleats, I hitch up my sari and bounce on my feet listening to the jingle of the bells. I look up and laugh with the delighted girl I see in the mirror. The pink frosted lipstick I choose reflects my sunny mood. A swipe of kajal is followed by a dusting of powder.
Never forget to powder your ears
, I remember my adopted mother saying.

My adopted mother. It seems false to say that. After all, she gave birth to the woman I see in the mirror; gave me the permission to be who I always was. I cannot fault my birth mother either. After many girls, she finally gave birth to a boy. The family was elated, and many plans were made for the little heir. When she discovered my penchant for dressing in my sisters’ clothes, her distress was understandable. In an attempt to dissuade me, she boxed my ears when she found me using her make-up. I thought then that she was ashamed of me. Later, I realized she was also afraid for me. She wanted to spare her child pain. She suffered when the neighbours tutted about me; she suffered even more when her husband beat her for giving birth to a defective son.

Most of all, she was anguished when he – my father – threatened to beat me into submission. Her punishments were milder than those he threatened to inflict on me. Naturally, she wanted to correct my behaviour before he took that job upon himself. It was not in her to understand that for me, the pain of living as a man was a torture far worse than her beatings. She meant well, but she left me with no option but to run away. What else could I do? I was tired of the beatings and the ridicule. I was tired of seeing my mother being punished for who I was. Running away was so easy! A walk ‘to the market’, an exchange of some money for a rail ticket, and I soon found myself in a city large enough to provide me with anonymity. Sadly, a city that is generous with its anonymity is stingy with its welcome. Here too, I was cursed with being between worlds. Being from a ‘good family’ I could not bring myself to beg, but at the same time that family did not have place for me. My money ran out fast, and I found myself without shelter and food. And it was then that Amma found me. Starving, delirious with fever, with the earrings I had stolen from my mother clenched in my fist.

‘If you get better, I will pierce your ears so that you can wear them,’ she promised me as I struggled against the healing poultices she applied on my chest. She followed through on that promise, and on many more. The only payment she extracted was an unquestioning obedience. I was not the only one in Amma’s care. I found myself with other women like me, all allowed to live the way they were meant to be. The other women followed a fairly stereotypical career; singing and dancing at peoples’ houses and more or less coercing them into parting with their money. For me, Amma had something different in mind. ‘You are not like them,’ she said. ‘You are posh. You are a graduate. People listen to you. You should work in an office; we need someone like that.’ I was happy enough to agree. I worked as a typist and did Amma’s chores whenever she needed someone ‘posh’ to negotiate the world for her. I only protested when she told me to leave the house and live elsewhere. ‘There is nothing more I can do for you,’ she told me. ‘Go out now, beti. Live the way you want to live. Come and visit your Amma, but live outside.’ She was right. Hormone therapy and Amma’s training had made me all the woman I could be. The operation to complete the transformation from man to woman is not within my reach and probably will never be. I do not mind too much. This is enough for me. I am happy, I am free. As for the odd hidden secret, who does not have one?

I finish applying my make-up. As I take a last look in the mirror, my elated mood disappears. I recollect what I go through once I step out of the doors that protect me now. I feel the speculative glances on my body, hear the whispers. I see myself brushing past the leering crowd with my head lowered as if in submission. It is not lenient, this world of mine. It reminds me over and over again that I am vulnerable, forcing me to dig deep within for my reserves of strength. Every day, I return depleted to sleep alone in my little room. I always wonder what it would be like to have someone to return to. Would we hurry back home together? Shutting the world out would no longer be merely a relief, it would be a joy. Home would not mean just a place to hide, but a sanctuary in every sense of the word. But would it really be like that, I ask myself. I think of the people I know who are as trapped in their relationships as I am outside of one. I don’t care. I want my chance. I want to know what it feels like.

The clock reminds me I am running late. As I rush out, my face assumes the wooden expression it reserves for masking vulnerability.