It's Fine.
I wanted fun. It’s a new city. I’ve never lived in a metropolitan for so long; that too alone. I could do with some fun. I came back from work, threw my phone and bag on the bed and sighed. I really needed an outlet, a release for my stress. I couldn’t help but compare myself to all my other friends. The heterosexual ones get sex easily, and the homosexuals are usually from big cities and have a lot more experience. I am not like either of them. While I have had good sexual encounters in my university but nothing which could match theirs’. I tried to calm my mind telling it that it’s fine. Everyone has different experiences with sex and everyone explores it eventually. So what, if it wasn’t perfect? I knew people older to me who are still virgins. Suddenly another thought cropped up in my mind: Was I being judgmental by comparing myself to them and making myself feel better?
I don’t know.
But these thoughts put my anxieties at rest for a while, so I guess it works. Coupled with my anxieties, almost unconsciously, I thought of all the fun experiences I could have in this city. Bangalore is big, it’s got tolerant people, accepting people, and something will turn up.
Suddenly, as though the universe knew of my fantasies, my phone buzzed, and flashed a pink-and-white logo. For a second, I thought it was Instagram, until I realized it was Tinder.
Well, I guess you if ask for fun, you get fun.
I dislike fantasies, they idealise your desires and make it something far from reality. Perhaps, that’s why they remain fantasies. Scenarios we continually imagine, partly knowing they won’t materialise, but partly still hoping.
My phone flashed a familiar name with a message: “wanna grab a beer?”. All my Tinder experiences have been fun, even though I’ve had like three. I trust that space, I think it’s a good place to meet people. I assured myself. It was 11:30PM, I was done with work, I could actually do this. Keeping my fantasies in mind and hoping for a fun time, I texted back “sure”.
Ten minutes later I’m in a cab, driving through Bangalore. There’s less traffic in the night time, so it was a fun drive. Multiple thoughts kept on racing my mind: I’ve known this guy through Facebook before, he seems real, he’s definitely not a rapist; it’s just a drink, everything in Bangalore closes by 12:30AM anyway, I’ll be back home in no time; what if something goes wrong? He is like eight years elder to you, though, are you making the right decision?; fuck off, your friends could do it, so could you. I tried to push away my thoughts, imagined thought bubbles being thrown outside the window.
I want fun, I just want a good time and I’m getting it, it is fine.
I reach the bar exchange where we had planned to meet. I quickly pay the cab and let him keep a fifty rupees change because he didn’t have cash. My date had been waiting for me since the past ten minutes- that’s fine, I guess. It’s cool if I went in late. I hurried upstairs and tried to look around for him. I spotted a guy in a red shirt, drinking beer. He looked at me with a sense of recognition and then excitement, raised his hand and said “hey!”. He’s cute, I thought. We immediately started talking. He’s 27, he’s working in a successful law firm and he’s back for a while to visit his parents. He sounded educated so that was reassuring. My mind chided myself for setting a literary standard for your partners, is that wrong? Are you asserting a certain level of intellectual superiority by limiting your partners to a certain class of educated people?
I ordered a Budweiser and drank my thoughts away. I’m having fun, let’s have fun, I kept on telling myself. “So, what do you identify as?”, he asked. I smiled, excited to share my idea of identity and said “I don’t”. I went to give him a certain theoretical explanation of how one need not identify with a category. How the idea of desires not being categorised is beautiful. But he just laughed. Dismissing all what I had to offer, he said, “Come on, you’re gay”. '
That pissed me off, I wanted to punch him. But keeping my anger at bay, I continued thinking: He’s a nice guy, you wouldn’t find someone like him in the near future. You are here to have fun, just be positive and have fun.
He was otherwise really sweet; he also offered to pay for the drinks. I agreed. While we were about to leave, he asked, “Do you want to spend the night in a hotel?”
Fantasies. They find their way to a reality sometimes, somehow.
Without thinking (or with a lot of overthinking) I said, “sure”. He paid the bill and I followed him downstairs. We took a cab to this boutique hotel and throughout the drive I tried to act as indifferent and casual as possible. Thinking that would make me more alluring, that’s how they all do it, don’t they? I think he fell for it, or that he just didn’t care.
He paid for the hotel room as well. I tried to protest, hoping he’d deny my offers and to my surprise, he did.
Everything was going as planned, it seemed.
We entered the room, it seemed like a decent place. We both lied down in bed and started talking. He wasn’t particularly masculine but he did seem to have a male arrogance: dismissing my opinions, paying for me, laughing off my thoughts. Did I like him? I’m not sure. Did I desire such a scene to play out? Definitely. Was I completely, a hundred percent sure, I wanted to have sex with him? I don’t know. Was I just doing it to meet an unrealistic standard I had set for myself? Maybe. Was I liking it? Sort of. A thousand similar questions come up in my mind and I seemed to not have a definite answer for any.
“Draw a picture of my soul and it would be a scribble with fangs” (Gillian Flynn, Dark Places)
He took off his shirt, I took mine off too and we started kissing. I’m not sure why but I kept on trying to defer the act by making conversation. He did reply, nicely too, but I knew this won’t work out for long. I remember all the times I’d been rejected, all the times my relationships didn’t work out, all the times I fantasised about something like this and within some framework of some screwed up logic I convinced myself I wanted this.
He made the first move and I let him.
We kept on making out for a while, and then he pushed me to go down on him.
He was extremely dominant. We didn’t have lube so I told him I don’t want to have penetrative sex, and he didn’t seem to mind. Yet, even with everything else we were doing, he was super aggressive. He bit me at multiple places he spanked me continuously and I let him.
Throughout the process I continued thinking of multiple things and not acting up on any: This is how it is supposed to work out, isn’t it? This is what happens, even in porn. I’m supposed to feel pain, it’s the pain which is supposed to be pleasurable. I’ve had sex before, of course it hurts, why am I being whiny? Just moan louder, maybe he’ll stop.
I started moaning and he covered my mouth with his hand.
I continued thinking: This is foreplay, this is fine. I’m just supposed to continue like this, I should. He bit my nipples, it hurt really bad. It’s fine, my mind thought. My friends have done wilder things, I have fantasised about harsher acts. It’ll be too embarrassing if I stop now, let’s just continue. I do want it. Don’t I?
I squealed in pain and he seemed to enjoy it. I tried to enjoy it as well. I’m not sure if I was more distressed by the unanswered questions in my head or his dominance but I continued nevertheless. Suddenly, a voice, resembling that of a bullied, harassed child shouted it my mind: Ugh, I want this to stop.
Fantasies.
After a while, he did stop.
He kept his head on my chest and we slept naked. The room was cold and I really wanted the quilt but he lied there so quietly I didn’t feel like moving. I was just happy this had stopped.
What did I just do?
Did it feel good? No. Was I satisfied? No. Was it like how I fantasised about it? Not at all. Does it mean I wanted it? Maybe not. Was it rape? No, I gave my consent. Was my consent informed? It was, wasn’t it?
I traced question marks on his back with my finger. I couldn’t sleep all night.
In the morning he woke up and initiated something again, I kissed him, thought I’d succumb one last time until again the voice in my head said: fuck it, I deserve better. I pretended to get an anxiety attack and rushed to the bathroom. I think any act of pretension has a sense of reality to it, because I did start shivering and felt like puking, but I didn’t. I looked at myself in the mirror, looked at my small belly, but hairy brown body, bite marks all around my skin, dark deep crimson hickeys. I started tearing up.
I went back in and he asked gently, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m just not in the mood”, I smiled. Contrary to how I posed to be, my mind kept on thinking: How? How can someone be so violent and gentle at the same time? Is this how sex is for everyone? Why is it supposed to be so violent? These are the people who march shouting “Love Wins” on the streets. Is love lashing out in bed, dismissing my sexuality, hurting me?
I tried to calm my brain down: it’s okay. You’re fine. This just didn’t work out how you thought it would.
I bid my goodbye to him and called for an auto. The sun was out and the skies shone bright. There was traffic and construction sites all around. I cried throughout my way back thinking it happened because I’m from a small town with an atypical sexuality. Blaming myself for being so dumb and not being able to make a decision.
Calling myself a fool for believing that fantasies work out the same way as realities. Wishing I was mature enough to understand that fantasies would never materialise to realities.
I went back home, messaged my colleagues that I wouldn’t be able to come for work. I went online and read the news about Ayush Nautiyal: a gay teen who went out on a date on Tinder, got kidnapped and murdered. The article stressed the dangers of online dating which queer individuals and women face.
I sighed. My body ached, my nipples hurt, there were bruises all over my skin.
Thinking of Ayush Nautiyal, of my friends, of my fantasies, of porn, of people and of myself, I slept.
