\u201cNo one even knows your name here.\u201d<\/p>\n
There\u2019s a pregnant pause as he fumbles for his keys, and I, for a definitive answer. Packaged as an innocuous statement, there hangs a question between us: No one even knows your name here, in this remote corner of the antiquated town we\u2019ve found ourselves in. And yet, we\u2019re in front of a door, planning to know so much more.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you in or are you out?\u201d you might as well have asked.<\/p>\n
My heels are gnawing at my ankles and I have the beginnings of a wine headache. No one knows my name here, and I know his, and maybe that, really, is all I need.<\/p>\n
Breaking the silence is the single creak of the door while it swings open, two pairs of shoes shuffling across the threshold, mutely wondering.<\/p>\n
\u2014<\/p>\n
While shucking in stuff for a three-day workshop on (hold your breath) \u2018Rectal Prolapse: Recent Advances, Treatment Modalities and Prognostication\u2019, it never once occurred to me to think about chiggy time. Preparing presentations on sagging assholes of middle-aged men doesn\u2019t really leave you with much time to think about YOUR ladybits. There\u2019s no contemplating the old Waxing vs.<\/em>Shaving debate. You don\u2019t sift through your drawers for the lacy lingerie; you just throw in your greying boy-shorts and a fresh razor if you have one, and haul your desi<\/em> middle-class ass to an exhausting three-star hotel convention amidst your mother\u2019s numerous \u201cBe careful\u201ds and \u201cDon\u2019t do anything stupid\u201ds.<\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n Sitting on the edge of the bed, I ruminate this odd joy of being in a stranger\u2019s room. What is it with the delicious unexpectedness of finding a body you actually want to touch, when you least expect it? It\u2019s almost as if putting some distance between yourself and your hometown takes you miles away from yourself as well. There\u2019s so much expectation out of strange, foreign cities and their strangers. Men too meek to approach their neighbourhood crush back in whats-its-face-pur suddenly grow a pair and pursue scores of women in Goa because \u201ceverybody knows everything flies when you\u2019re on vacation.\u201d By that logic, it\u2019s not so odd if a bored doctor finds herself in the room of a man she\u2019s known for some seven hours, right?<\/p>\n You come out of the bathroom, wiping your jaw, contemplating the tactic needed to change my geography from edge of the bed to sprawled across it.<\/p>\n You go for the jugular: \u201cYou got a condom?\u201d<\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n When I was working at the office of a prominent medical aid organisation many years ago, I used their washroom on the first day and was pleasantly surprised to find a box of condoms next to the sink with a message along the lines of \u201cEverybody has sex and sex is awesome but please, this is a health organisation so have safe sex!\u201d<\/p>\n I remember giving a derisive snort and picking one up as a gag, chuckling to myself as to how I\u2019d never need it, given my self-imposed celibacy. I remember finding that pack in the middle of my Radiology textbook months later, flattened and derelict.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t have a condom, but I know why you\u2019re asking. You don\u2019t want to beat around the bush; the fact that I\u2019m in this room means that I want this, you rationalise. It\u2019s vaguely irritating. Something that\u2019s mutually enjoyable shouldn\u2019t need a power play.<\/p>\n Really, if only you could\u2019ve just asked me if I\u2019m in or if I\u2019m out.<\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n Nevertheless, your tongue is down my throat as I keep thinking \u201cHormones bahut haraami cheez hai yaar<\/em>\u201d (Hormones are such buggers, man). This feels good, this is good. I\u2019m slightly reassured about my decision for a second, even if I haven\u2019t verbaliszed it yet. We pause for breath.<\/p>\n \u201cMuslim women always taste spicier somehow, I\u2019ve noticed,\u201d you whisper against my cheek, fetishizing my heritage.<\/p>\n In the split second while I try to reel back my plummeting desire, I am also aware there is a conspicuous decrease in the layers of clothes between us.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t know if I\u2019m in or out.<\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n When I was younger and we were planning a family trip to Thailand, I remember bawling in my room, impulsively buying three kilos of bulk laxatives off the Internet. Thailand meant swimsuits and swimsuits meant everyone in the world would be exposed to my \u201chorrifying\u201d cheesecake thighs.<\/p>\n