This piece was developed as part of The Third Eye’s Sexy Log mentorship initiative, where a cohort of ten people across India worked independently on their experiences of sexuality, with the prompt of Pleasure & Danger.
In his short story, B takes us to the mountains and animates the slow burn between identity and intimacy.
Only after I arrived at the bus stand of that popular hill station, did I wonder about her turning up. There were no blue ticks on the last few messages I had sent her the previous night. It was early morning and the sun was not out yet. Construction workers in knit caps, short men with horses and tourists cradling tea cups stood around me, in anticipation of a new day.
I was 30-something but looked much younger. My backpack made me look like a schoolboy and my back hurt from the overnight trip.
There were small pools of sewage water, flanked by discarded plastic wrappers and bottles, saliva and cigarette butts. I jumped over them, placing my feet carefully to avoid soiling my (how many years old?) Bata slippers. I reached one of the tucked-in tea shops and ordered tea and cigarettes. I blew into my palms, rubbed them to warm them up, and stretched my back.
I smoked a cigarette and sipped on the chai. Drag-exhale-sip-drag-exhale-sip. I wondered if it would have been better to have taken a cab and reached the mountain house directly. That was what she had recommended. But to take a cab, one had to fly in. And a bus ride saved me 5,000 rupees in flight and cab fares. I finished my cigarette and looked for an auto.
***
I met her at a party last month and we had been talking incessantly over texts ever since.
Our conversations had a great sense of openness and energy. Like a dam bursting open. We spoke about everything. About our childhoods. About our past relationships. About the mistakes we made in those. About how we were f***ed over as well.
She was more experienced in matters of desire and spoke about her relationships with much clarity. I had been in only a few relationships up to that point and constantly checked with her to see whether I was saying sensible things about my past: Does that make sense? Is that weird?
We spoke about our parents. How she grew closer to her parents only in her late thirties. How compassionately they had accepted this oddball. I spoke about my parents and how distant I felt from them. “You will also grow closer to your parents as you age,” she texted me, but I wasn’t so sure. The reason she drifted away from her city-born parents was that they didn’t accept how she wanted to live her life. I was born in the same village as my parents. As soon as I moved to a city life — first for education and then work — I had to abandon them in their home. We had become as different as a city and a village, and the distance only grew further.
We spoke about our addictions. She had just started smoking again after 10 years of no smoking. I told her I had been thinking about quitting.
She was a film scholar and burst into monologues about Suraiya often. The most beautiful creature to have ever lived in the world. Then Dev Anand. The tragic love affair between them. About how Suraiya got the worst end of it. About Bollywood. She texted long academic phrases I could not comprehend. But I spoke about a few Tamil films that I had watched while growing up and she replied with hearts — the teasing promise of a common ground.
I told her more about my job as a software engineer and about my passion for dance. She told me about how lucky she was to make a living by teaching and writing about films: things she most loved.
A week before I arrived at the bus stand, she texted me: Tired of teaching. Escaping to the hills. Interested?
I would love to, too. Tired of quality-checking useless apps. Tongue out emoji.
I had been fantasising about her ever since I had laid my eyes on her. She had told me that she practiced ENM (Ethical Non-Monogamy). I had to look that one up. Up until that point, I identified myself as Poly and did not know about the different denominations that existed. I practice ENM too, I responded with a smiling face. She replied with hearts.
While planning the trip, we discussed what we could do. Let’s not just be two tourists,
she had said. We decided to read, walk, and visit places. Beneath the smiling faces and hearts, I knew I had to declare my desire for her at some point during the trip and that made me anxious. Not only was the age difference high, but she was also smarter, more accomplished, and articulate than I was. Why would she even want me?
The auto dropped me at the gate of the Mountain House. ‘Mountain House’ was how we referred to it in the texts. It was more accurately a mountain-view house. A farm cottage with a mountain view. A mud house with a view of a mountain. People referred to it differently in the reviews section. She had said she would take care of the booking.
The receptionist sat in a large, well-ventilated hut, shooing away the occasional bee with a rolled-up magazine. He was young, possibly a college student who made a few extra bucks by doing this gig. In fluent English he welcomed me, and asked whether I had a good flight. “Yes,” I responded and he asked for my good name. My good name is only my first name, I thought to myself. “Thank you, sir,” he responded when I gave him my name and looked through the booking list. “Your villa has the best view of the stream,” he said, adding, “Ma’am has already checked in.”
My heart started pounding when he mentioned her, as if I was about to commit a crime.
After all, he was only a man and men had sharp instincts about such stuff. I wanted to clarify that we were there to read, walk and visit places, which were the only things very likely to happen. With a knowing smile, he gave me a printout to sign. Her name was engraved on the sheet in an elegant cursive. After I signed my name underneath hers, he escorted me through a garden overflowing with yellow chrysanthemums.
The cobbled path was lined by gardenias. He dropped me in front of a large house. It was surrounded by hills dotted with tea plantations. The gurgle of the stream was the only sound in the air.
The villa had a spacious verandah with a wooden table and two chairs. A pink plastic lighter and an ashtray with a half-smoked cigarette lay on top of the table. I felt a sudden urge to smoke a cigarette. I was both nervous and excited. She was right inside. After almost a month of talking over texts and calls, I was going to see her for the first time.
“Thank you,” I turned to the manager, who smiled and disappeared behind the large garden.
I smelled my armpit and ran fingers through my wavy hair in the shadowy reflection on one of the windows. I rang the bell. Triiiing. A tacky sound in contrast to the carefully curated exterior.
I had told her last night that I could not wait to see her. A bold choice on my part. She had replied saying she could not wait either, before my messages stopped getting delivered. But is the person inside the house the same person who told me that? I wondered.
The door opened with a loud creak, and there she stood, beaming.
“Hey! How was the trip?” She hugged me as if we had done this many times before.
“Oh! Fine. How was yours?” I struggled to find the right response (or even an interesting one).
The walls were textured. Natural stones lined the floor. Pristine mirrors and artwork decorated the walls. A small chandelier hung from the ceiling.
She was a 40-something woman and had a larger frame than I remembered seeing at that party. But I liked plus-sized women and that was the first thing that had attracted me towards her.
She pointed me to a corner where I could keep my backpack. She wore a large one-piece blue dress that matched with a bead necklace. She constantly adjusted her thick purple horn-rimmed glass that seemed to be slipping down on her nose.
“It’s a nice blue,” I said, pointing to her dress.
“Oh! Thank you. It’s actually turquoise,” She scanned my face briefly, ‘My friend made this for me. She is an award-winning designer.’
I nodded.
“Would you like a smoke?” She asked me, maybe picking up on a bit of embarrassment I felt at not knowing the difference between two kinds of blue. “I have made some coffee. Black. Would you like some?”
I said yes and felt better already. We walked outside the house to the table with the ash tray where we would, subsequently, spend the whole day talking.
***
Throughout our conversations, we repeated the same things we had said to each other over texts for the past month — with a smattering of clarifications, explanations and corrections. Her face was calmer when she spoke about her parents. She was most animated when she spoke about films, especially Suraiya. Before the party where I met her, I did not know who Suraiya was and suddenly it felt like she was all I was hearing about. I liked the newness of it. I liked how lithe her arms were, even though her body seemed heavy.
I liked how smooth and shiny her skin was. It was much fairer than mine.
We also seemed to be more open in person. When we spoke about our relationships, we were more forthcoming in sharing intimate details. At some point, she told me that she preferred doggy over other positions and I told her that I preferred it too. In the same tone in which we spoke about our preference for coffee over tea.
Every step of the way, she was more articulate than I was. I knew it was because of her experience, but she also mentioned it throughout our conversation: “When you are as old as I am…”, “…you are more sensitive”, “…you are more guarded”, “…you are lonelier”.
We spoke until we were tired and out of cigarettes. “Let’s smoke less and walk more tomorrow,” she said with a smile. We took turns showering and without exchanging a word, chose our bed. There were two small beds at each end of the room. “Hope you are okay with this?” she asked me courteously. “It’s fine. I don’t mind at all,” I told her. As I passed out, the image of her scrolling on the phone under the bedsheet lingered in my mind.
***
The next day was a blur. We woke up early and had the complimentary breakfast. She ate salads and croissants, with black coffee. I ate an omelette and a masala dosa. Later, looking at her plate, I took some fruit. Cubed watermelon and papaya. We booked a cab and went to a famous waterfall.
There was still a lot of excitement. I was conscious of our bodies much more than she was; the way our thighs grazed in the backseat, the way our fingers touched when we exchanged things.
On the way back, we had a quick lunch and then I suggested that we pick up some alcohol. She seemed to be happy with the suggestion. Averting curious gazes from the localites, she picked up green-apple-flavored vodka. I picked up beers and cigarettes. We started drinking as soon as we reached back. Drinking inside, smoking outside. Sip-drag-exhale-sip-drag-exhale.
At some point, when the sun set behind the mountains, she took out a small square speaker and played a mixture of songs. Our music converged too. I started with blues and jazz. She started with RD Burman and Rafi. But as we got drunk, we exchanged our favorite 80’s rock singles.
‘Dance for me?’ she said at some point, sitting at the edge of the bed.
I had always been shy about dancing for a private audience. Dancing was more of an onstage thing for me. But I had done it within four walls a few times before, and I found it easier with my eyes closed. I curved my arms and hips in space, tracing outlines of unrecognisable objects. After a few minutes of watching, she joined me in a slow dancing of our feet.
“Can I kiss you?” I asked her when our bodies were leaning against each other. She let out a bemused smile.
“Yes!”
I moved in closer and saw her eyes close. I kissed her.
We slowly undressed each other and got under the blanket. Although we were extremely present, there was a sense that things were happening too fast. After about 30 minutes, we were done, panting and clutching at each other’s bodies.
“That went like a flash,” I said, turning over and trying to catch my breath.
“You like to bite,” she told me, showing me a bite mark on her neck and her hip.
“Yes,” I said sheepishly.
“Didn’t expect that.”
“What did you expect?”
“Well, nothing much really. Did not know what to expect.”
“Same here,” I said emphatically with a faint smile.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I am a Sub,” she said.
“I thought so,’ I said, ‘I think I may be a Dom.”
“You don’t say,” she said with a grin, “I liked it when you pinned me down.”
I looked at her with embarrassment. She waited for me to say something.
“It’s okay. Most men are not good at talking about it.” She let out a sigh and looked at the ceiling.
“I liked your hips. I liked the way I could hold onto them while having sex,” I stuttered, looking at the spiral pattern on the ceiling.
She turned around and smiled again.
“Is that an odd thing to say?” I continued, not having heard anything from her.
“No, not at all,” she reassured me by placing her palm on my bare, hairless chest and continued, “I love your skin.”
“I love yours too,” I said, thinking it was the normal response. I did love her skin, the way it felt warm and comforting against mine.
“You are nothing like anyone I have ever been with,” she continued.
I was startled. I did not know what to say to that and fixated my eyes on the spirals on the ceiling instead. It made me dizzy. There was a brief silence.
“Weren’t you a bit scared of coming here? For a while when you didn’t respond, I thought you were not going to turn up.”
She chuckled to herself.
“My phone died. I was a bit apprehensive before coming here, of course. I have to be… as a woman. But if you are my age, you could tell… Also, I know the people who run this place and I have pepper spray in my handbag for additional measure.” She mimicked spraying me.
“Smoke?” I turned around to ask her.
“Yes.” We threw some clothes on and walked out to the bite of the cold breeze. We had sobered up.
“I am glad this didn’t turn out to be one of those horrible experiences,” she continued, in an attempt to reassure me, I thought. But I knew by this she meant me, but I felt strangely good anyway.
We smoked a cigarette, drank more, went back into bed and had more sex until we exhausted ourselves.
The next morning, while at the complimentary breakfast, we had a lot to say about the previous night. There was an older couple eating at the table beside us in the common space/ dining area hut. She pulled her t-shirt down to show me the top of her breasts where I had bitten her.
“What are you doing?” I looked around to see if anyone was watching us. The older couple had their faces buried in newspapers. I was surprised to see people still did that.
“There is more.” She lifted her skirt to show me the insides of her thighs. There were bite marks there as well.
“I am sorry.” I really wasn’t sure if that was a complaint.
“Don’t be silly. I liked it,” she said picking grapes with a fork. It was a show of appreciation and it calmed me down.
“I liked it when you went down on me.” It was my turn and this time, I tried to be more direct.
“I am glad you liked it. Otherwise, what are we doing here?” she grinned while sucking on a grape.
“What time is your flight again?” I asked her.
“Late at night. I have to leave here by 8pm. So, we don’t have a lot of time.”
“Then we should finish our breakfast early.”
“What else do you like?” She asked. I paused eating my dosa for a second.
“I like choking.” I said and looked curiously at her face.
“Choking others or yourself?” The grin persisted on her face. I was not sure if she was pulling my leg.
“I like choking my partners.” I tipped my head and then looked around to see if anyone heard what I said.
“Well, we have lucked out there as well.” She picked up the cup of black coffee and sipped it. “Tell me, how you would like to choke me?” She was back at the grapes.
***
When we went back to bed, I showed her just how I liked it. I made her kneel on the bed and went behind her, encircled my arm around her neck and clasped my arms. I squeezed my forearms. “A textbook rear naked choke,” I whispered into her ear and she nodded to say she liked it. So much so that the subsequent times we did this, she pushed me to choke her more strongly than I had anticipated.
Then we discussed the surprising and unending list of what we liked and performed them almost mechanically, fighting against the little time we had.
Smoke.
“What else do you like?”
“Spanking?”
“Spank as hard as you like. Don’t hold back.”
I didn’t.
Smoke.
“What else do you like?”
“Rope play?”
We made do with the towels in the bathroom. I tied her to the legs of the bed. “Next time, we will be prepared,” she said.
“Cuddles?”
“Yes.”
We collapsed into each other’s arms. At the end of the ‘session’ – that’s what we call it – I was struck by how natural it all felt with her, how openly we could talk about things, how it felt almost too good to be true.
“Is it this easy?” I asked her.
“What is?” She looked up from my chest.
“This lifestyle.”
“It’s anything but easy. I have been doing this for almost a decade now and I can count the number of good experiences on my…” She paused, “You do see that I am an oldish woman who is not married? In India? I have lost more friends over this lifestyle than I gained in partners.”
“Oh! Sorry.” I had not thought about it.
We passed out while cuddling with each other.
When we woke up, I felt as if my organs were turned inside out, exhausted and hungry beyond imagination. Too tired to even go out.
“Let’s order in,” she said, “What time do you have to leave?”
“I will leave when you leave. Will go to the bus stand and take the first bus.”
“Adventurous boy,” she murmured.
I wanted to focus on the word adventurous but instead, I focused on boy.
She picked up the phone to order something. As I fixated on the word, my head felt dizzy again and I passed out.
***
She woke me up a few hours later. Wearing a purple dress, she bent over me and said, “Wake up! Let’s have one last smoke.”
“What time is it?” I lifted myself from the bed with my elbows.
“Time to leave, unfortunately.” She went to pack up the smaller items like the square speakers and phone chargers in her handbag.
“Give me a second.” I ran to the washroom and freshened up.
Her suitcases and bags were carefully placed by the door when I got out. I heard the lighter click. I walked out to join her.
“My cab will be here in 10 minutes.”
I picked up a cigarette and lit it.
“You are going to quit it, right?”
“Yes. And you?”
“I don’t see a point anymore.” She barely got that out and I wondered what made her say that.
“You should,” I said and immediately regretted saying it. It was not my place to say it. I carefully scanned her face when she puffed out smoke clouds.
“It has been wonderful, you know,” she peered at me, “I think we are very compatible and we should do it again. Maybe for a longer period.”
I felt an incredible warmth in me. “Yes, I would love to,” I conceded and looked out into the gardens and then the hills. I wondered if I would see them again, the way they enclosed this private bubble of ours in concentric circles.
“My cab should be here,” she declared and walked up to the door for her bags.
“Hey! Can I say something?” I turn around while sitting in the chair. She had already worn her handbag on her shoulders.
“Of course,” she paused briefly.
“I am not upper caste,” I stared at her watchfully.
The word, like the terrible call bell noise, didn’t belong in that space. Her face was empty, maybe for the first time, and she paused to study my face. “Oh! So?” She let her handbag slip on the suitcase.
"Did I offend you in any way?”
“No, you did not. I just feel like I should be honest with you.” I turned back and looked down at the floor. “Since we spoke so openly about ourselves. I felt like I had to say it.”
Her face didn’t change its neutrality. “Oh! Thank you for sharing that.” She came back and sat next to me. “It does not matter. I don’t think it matters.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I was worried that I had said something odd to offend you,” she said in a girlish voice that did not suit her anymore. “Don’t worry about it,’ she said, seeing I was still absorbed in thoughts. “Anyway, I have to go.” The handbag was hanging on her shoulder again. “I sincerely hope to see you again.”
I got up and hugged her. She hugged and kissed me with all her strength. “Please take care. I have enjoyed the last two days with you,” I told her and helped carry her suitcase to the cab.
I waved her goodbye when she told me that all the bills would be taken care of and if I wanted, I could stay the night and leave the next morning. I thanked her for that. With that, the white car rocked over the puddles on the muddy road.
On the way back through the chrysanthemums and gardenias, I wondered if I should stay another night and leave in the morning. By the time I reached the Mountain House, I decided to stay. This had been one of the most beautiful places I had ever been to. I was not sure if I would get another chance.
I sat at the table and lit a cigarette. Beep. A text message.
“I hoped you decided to stay back.” Her message popped out.
I kept my phone away, thinking I would respond to her after the cigarette.
I wanted to say many things to her: about the wonderful time I had with her, the way her hair and skin smelled, the way she spoke eloquently about films. But I found myself fumbling for words. Beep. Beep. Beep. There were more text messages from her. I did not open them. I took deep drags from the cigarette and when I stubbed it, I lit another one. A faint sense of shame — as faint as the moonlight that illuminated everything around me — washed over me. In the distance, the purple hills stood tall in the moonlight. A chilly breeze blew from their direction, as if they had sent it my way.
