I was 23 when I actually had a legit boyfriend. Before that, I was pretending to be loved by a lad and going on invented dates with him to look cool. Having studied in an all-girls convent school in India, opportunities to meet men were nil, and pretending to have a guy to call your own, quintessential.
He was originally from South India. His mother was a family friend of my mother’s. As a concerned Indian mother, she called my mother and renewed ties after a period of 20 years, so her son could find a second home in Delhi. The maternal instinct in my mom was no less, and she complied.
Amit (name changed) worked in the outskirts of New Delhi and literally started treating our home as his. His frequent visits every weekend enticed me.
I was then 15 years younger and right out of college. I longed to experience the big bad pub life and getting to be the outdoor gal. In an unsafe metro like Delhi, this was not possible until you had a reliable man beside you.
As his tremendous luck would have it, his arrival coincided with my overexcited hormones. He was intelligent and knew how to praise his lady to win her over. He was by no means good-looking. He was bald, but having been interviewed by the best universities had taught him to dazzle others with his charm.
My strength was writing, but in front of people, I was a pussy. If I had to convey something from my heart, I had to sing it or write it. Being with him taught me how sometimes being superficial was a necessity. He became the life of every party and in no time had women drooling all over him.
He was like a chameleon, changing colors to match his surroundings. When he was at my house, he was all homely and responsible. He had a different skin to portray to the outside world.
I was immature and jealous and wanted to be with a man who was wanted by other women. I wanted him to make him mine, and perhaps, it was this persuasion that helped me succeed, or not.
***
Soon after I met Amit, my father met with a very serious accident. It took him two years to recover. Amit stuck with us the entire time, providing dad the much-needed male connection while he lay helplessly in bed, and making me come alive in the same.
Their strong bond encouraged our relationship. Before I knew it, close family members started linking us as a couple, deciding wedding dates. In the conservative society we lived in, a lady had to be hooked if she was spending more time than necessary with any man who was not her brother.
Amit was a Cassanova. Women called him all the time. One of them was his ex-girlfriend, eight years older. She now sought his invaluable advice on how she could make her current sex life more interesting.
Having spent the majority of my life in a girl’s school, and the rest of my free time in solitude writing words or music, I had no male friends. I had no experience conversing normally with the opposite sex.
As a result, I learned to accept his flirtatious attitude, finding solace in the fact that I was his permanent love. He made me feel special with compliments, gestures, and mesmerizing perfume scents — -some of which still find room in my closet.
He traveled the world on business trips. Every time he went, his phone was either unreachable or switched off. Whether it was a cousin, friend, another friend’s friend, he was always in the company of older women. I thought this was because he was quite mature for his age.
On one weekend, I read a text from his ex-girlfriend. Yes, the one who kept calling for sexual advice. “Thanks for the flowers, it was wonderful. It would fill me up until next time.”
Whatever did she mean by, fill me up until next time? My eyes welled up. I was inaudible. I knew there was something going on, but I did not know how to comprehend it. I had never been with a man before and his hypocritical demeanor had swooned me.
His eloquent ability to speak clearly had taught me better. When I confronted him, as professionally as I could, he admitted to having met her casually for dinner. He kneeled down at my feet with tears to forgive him. I was once again on top of the moon.
***
The next week he excitedly announced getting a very good job offer from a company in Dubai. He was not the least sad to leave me. In fact, he expected me to understand that career and ambition came first.
“We would keep in touch”, he cajoled. He promised he would fly down to see me perform wherever I went. I performed considerably in Operas the world over at the time. We decided we would get married when the time was right.
In no time he was gone. I would come back excitedly from work to video call, only to find him in a hurry to go somewhere with his older cousin. I would be waiting in front of the computer screen, sometimes finding myself dozing on the keyboard until morning. He had not returned.
Then suddenly, he surprised me with a visit. He was to stay a fortnight at our house. Everyone in my family was thrilled. My parents called his mother over to introduce me in person.
They wanted to strike when the iron was hot and close the deal before either of the two young partners found someone else, or people talked. That the two of us had an affinity for each other and had had plenty of opportunities to discover each other was a known fact, which must remain hushed.
***
In those 15 days, Amit spent more time in the bathroom with his laptop than with me. One day, he forgot the laptop on my bed. My curiosity got the better of me. I saw images of a dozen older women on the screen.
They were old, wrinkled bodies, with fuller, maturer assets, having sex. A glance at his history revealed to me that he was spending at least three to four hours every day doing this. I even saw naked photographs of his ex-girlfriend and that older cousin.
I put two and two together. He was sick, and those older women sicker in their heads. I sat there getting blind drunk on his flattery and fornication. How could I be such a fool as not to understand? My world came tearing down before me.
When he got out of the bathroom, he saw me staring at his screen. He did not pretend to hide.
“I am addicted to older women”, he said.
“I connect with you on an emotional level, but sexually, I would always need an older lady to satisfy me,” he stated, matter-of-factly.
I was speechless. Before I could comprehend the situation or pose further questions he added,
“So I guess this is goodbye. You are a nice girl, and you deserve much better.”
I was perturbed at how effortlessly he shoved me away. As if he saw it coming. As if it was what he was waiting for.
I could never explain to anyone in the family the real reason we broke up. I kept quiet about it and wept in the dark.
I sang angry songs to mourn his loss. I sent several poems to his email account persuading him to realize what we had was unique. I resisted the need to dial his number but did anyway, only to hang up in a sob when I heard his voice. It took me more than a year to whiff off his scent from my being.
All my attempts were futile. He was drowned deep in his lust for older bodies. He felt excruciating desire shoving deep into that experienced sex. There was something adventurous in caving in and out of a slippery, old, loose vagina.
An experienced female knew exactly how and what to do. I was no expert at this. As flashing images of him against wobbly, sagged skin contrasted with my taut, mannequin-like stiffness, for the first time, I wished I could be ten years older overnight.
—
This post was previously published on Medium.
***
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