Carrie Bradshaw knows good sex (Arya)

Spending a night watching Sex And The City is not good. What’s worse is sitting and work and thinking about it later. Honestly, though. I’ve been thinking about how nobody would ever think of writing a Sex and the City-type column in a country like India. Because we’re just so damn scared.

So scared of everything that has anything to do with sex. Forget sex, just the idea of a girl on the road in a dress or in shorts draws “No, no, beta, don’t step out looking like that” comments from parents. The saddest part is, they’re not wrong. They’re only doing the best they can with the society they got. And yesterday, when my parents said to me, “Get out of this country as soon as you can.”, I got to thinking. What makes India such a painful, yet daunting country to live in? It could easily be the age-old mentality, the prominence of societal life and other, similar psychobabble bullshit- but the real reason is that we’re stuck. We’re stuck in a flux- the change from ancient to modern envelopes us, and after two decades of a semi-gradual transition, there is finally a gaping generation gap. A chasm, if you will, that separates the Indian citizen from the citizens of the world- that allows two different kinds of teenagers to grow up at an arm’s length away from one another. There’s the kind who is okay with pre-marital sex, watches Sex and the City and night, and can has no qualms allowing a charming man at a bar to think he has a chance with her if it means she can have a free Cosmopolitan. (Okay, scratch that last. Usually we only say yes to a drink if we’re considering the sex. Never if it’s out of the question. Still, you get the picture.) And then there’s the kind who spends a large chunk of his childhood chanting prayers, shouting slogans and being told that his duty as a proud Indian was to keep the West out. The kind who, if you overtake in a car, will nurse his bruised ego by chasing you to your house and threatening to beat you up till you bleed, who will call you a whore if he sees you holding hands on the road, and will lech at you when you’re wearing shorts.

And that. That is why we cannot write about sex. Think about it. Your column becomes big, you get your own billboard like Carrie Bradshaw did, and instead of being proud and happy, you worry that some creep will see you and follow you around because he knows you write about sex. Or face gossipy neighbours, who’ll blame your poor parents and your upbringing, and eventually discuss how people like you are taking this country to the dark side, as the sip their mint teas at their weekly kitty parties. It’s not as romantic as you’d think.

I’m still a strong believer, however, that sex-ed doesn’t end in high school. It’s a never ending, lifelong process- and one in which all women are together. So, in the spirit and womanhood, and to encourage women everywhere not to abandon each other in times of need, I strive to write- in addition to all the gobblesmack I put up here, one column.

One column about things I know, things I don’t, things I think about, things I never did- about sex. Because SEX, is fun. And free. And unashamed. And I don’t care about the bitching neighbours or the tutting schoolteachers anymore.

And because inspired somewhere in the midst of a long night of Cigarettes and Coca-Cola and Carrie Bradshaw, I shall pay her tribute. Let’s call it…’Carrie On’. Because it fits and I like it.

(PS: I don’t know what Mila’s opinion on or inclination towards said column is. But she knows she’s always welcome. Damn her.)

"That crazy concept that we’re not really responsible for the course our lives take. That it’s all predestined, written in the stars. Maybe that explains why, if you live in a city, where you can’t even see the stars, your love life tends to feel a little more random."

-Carrie.

Rants and Raves Won't Break Our Bones (Arya)

Let's get something straight here. I have a biological problem that prevents me from working in discipline. Or under pressure. I'm more of the fuck it, this is what I feel like doing right now kind of person. Except, of course, when it's things that will decide everything. The make-or-break things. Like studying, and college admissions. You know, the stuff I'm insanely anal about.

But otherwise, no use telling me, or my telling myself to do things. I decided to write this blog. Actually, we did, but still. And instead, I wrote about everything else. I have an assortment of pointless pieces sitting in a 'My Work' folder on my desktop. We have been doing things on the list. Obviously. But we're short for time. We have ten days left, and a FUCKLOAD of things to do. Huh. So we're going to have to cut a thing or two off the list. Please. There's no list police, nobody has to know, right? Right.



So, obviously the no smoking week is out. Either way, I've cut down to about three cigs a day, which is, if I may say so myself, the boss. I mean, that's 21 a week. That's how much I used to smoke over two days, a week ago. So I'm going to give myself a pat on my back, and, as a reward, I will not do the no smoking week. Right? Seems fair to me, too.

So, coming to the list. We watched a play this Saturday. It was awful. I'm sorry, Motley, but if you want to experiment in theatre, stay the hell away from George Bernard Shaw. He is not to experimented with. While the actors belted out the dialogue in cheesy accents and fake voices, Shaw lay in his grave, moaning and begging for his pipe so he could calm his frazzled nerves. I could hear him.
On another note, one of my favourite musicians in the world, Ray Manzarek, keyboardist and the glue that bound The Doors together, died last week. I found out while I was at work. And this may sound silly, but it hurt. It really hurt. It felt like everybody I respected in the world of music, was leaving the world to the idiots who made music off computer programmes. That day, I pulled out my earphones, played The Doors on a loop, and wrote poetry to Morrison's voice, Manzarek's music, Krieger's notes and Densmore's beats- hoping that someday, somebody would want to sing my words, too. That's what they gave me. Hope. First Morrison, then Lennon, now Ray- I don't know how much longer I'll be able to stay sane in a world where Akon is all things cool in the global music scene. Maybe I can count on Dylan, though, That man NEVER dies. ;)



We went all around the city. To South Bombay for drinks. Prithvi for the play. Into this AMAZING shopping complex in Powai, where shopping is this mysterious, beautiful monster that seduces you into the darkening shadows of ATM machines and reducing bank balances. I just can't stop shopping. It's a disease. Speaking of shopping, I really want to go to Colaba Causeway again. I saw this pair of killer shades there I've been having wet dreams about. And besides, one can never have too few accessories.
Mila and I plan to go clubbing this Friday. Bring out the Nine Wests, ladies and gents! But that said, we need to be a little thrifty in general, so we're Googling Ladies' Nights all over Bombay. To no avail, of course. But mainly because when a website says 'Free alcohol all night!', we instinctively suspect them of having concocted a very elaborate scheme to extort five grand from us, anyway.

Oh, and I had a bit of a pregnancy scare the other day. And when I mean scare, I mean SCARE. I didn't tell anyone, obviously, and it's not like I missed a date or something. It was just a day of utter paranoia and despair. I had stomach cramps, nausea, the whole deal. Yes, I know, symptoms like those emerge only three weeks into the fertilization- yeah, I know my Biology, babe. But you can't blame me. Try talking to a weeping me, who thinks she's going to have to quit college, marry some guy her parents pick and move into the suburbs, about implantation. What's worse, I didn't tell anyone. Not even my boy. Because I KNEW I was being an arse. I really did. But I couldn't help it. Don't you know? Worrying is a compulsive trait. It's all fine now, though. I've been thinking about other things to worry about. Maybe I could now fixate on how the house is so dirty. Yeah, there come the palpitations. Predictable bastards.

Oh, AND, I made a new friend! A lot of new friends, actually. But the most surprising one, was Sushmita. Mila and I met her on a train to CST. Mil and I were talking about this:

And she said she couldn't help overhearing, and that our conversation made her miss being a girl. So we included her in it! We spoke about shopping, places to relax, and how much we loved the city. It was great. And sort of reaffirmed my faith in people. And in this city.
They really don't care enough about each others' lives. That's why everybody gets along so well.

Speaking of cities and their people, I don't think I want to ever visit Japan. EVER. I have a non-racist explanation, wait!

Mila and I watched The Grudge 2 in the darkness the other day. I still can't close my eyes entirely in the shower. I can almost hear the burp-like breathing of some dead Japanese woman. Why do they do this to their audiences? No, why?

It WAS pretty funny when the electricity failed when Mila was in the shower, though. She FLIPPED. Ah, life's small joys. But the movie. Crap. It was bad. I knew that. I dissected it as much as I could, so I could take focus off the content of the film. Didn't work. Shut my eyes through most of the movie, ended up- by pure accident, watching the only two ACTUALLY frightening scenes in the movie.
Eep. No more horror movies, ever. The only thing that made me feel better is that Mila was fifty times more scared than I was.

This is what I dream about at night. I hate little-kid ghosts. Fucking scary.




Okay, enough of this nonsense. On, to more interesting things.

So Mil and I did a nude photoshoot.

Told you it was interesting.

It was SO liberating. Man. I made Mila start, because for some reason, I was nervous as a fuck. I must've gone through two packs in three hours. But, in the end, it was really good. It felt relaxed, and easy, and empowering, in a weird way. It felt like fetters were being loosed, and burdens were let loose. Did I mention I love being naked? I mean, not in front of other people, but just in general. So this felt like letting go. It was nice. Plus, looking at the pictures made me feel like a sex goddess. In my own head. Love the feeling. Make mental note to feel it more.

Sneak peek? This is Mil's photograph of me. Before the clothes came off, that is. *blushes*

On another note, I wrote another post about my style inspiration, to whom I owe an independent update. I'll put it up in a bit.

In the meanwhile, I'm wondering how much fun it'll be if we combine No Bra Day and Red Lipstick Day into one big, slutty day.

Love,
Arya.

Make Way! (Arya)

Hallelujah!
Do you, or do you not, LOVE shoes? I mean, don't they just sweep you off your newly adorned feet, and take you a new kind of heaven? I love shoes. They make life a little better. You know? They really know how to make your day a whole lot better. So I was having a bad day. I come home, and bam. A pair of gorgeous Nine Wests from a friend abroad, who had promised me a birthday gift. I love you. If you're reading this and know who you are.

This not a picture of the shoe. This is the picture of A shoe- I took it off the internet (God, the resolution) because I was too lazy to click. I got back an hour ago, and I have to be at work in five. But aren't they the best? I know. I almost feel afraid to touch them. But no. I'm going dancing on Tuesday, and I'm am going to wear these. That's it. So that at the end of the legs I'm so proud of, are these divine gifts of the Gods. And the cousin. God bless her. Really.
So, to match my new shoes, I got colourful hair! A blue and purple streak each, natch. God, I love colourful hair. I have to let my inner kook out sometime. Turns out, it was this weekend, when I was back home. I missed home. Man. I got warm food, that had actually been cooked for me, and that I didn't have to pay for. It was divine. There was air-conditioning in every room, and a nice fluffy blanket to snuggle under for the entire twelve hours I slept for the two nights I was there.
(Speaking of when I was away, Mila needs to stop being depressed and having us find out only when we read her posts. Worrisome, that girl is.)
I met my...errr...boy...person. Friend? I missed him. You know that feeling, of returning to something familiar? It was that. Except quadrupled. We drank chais, smoked like chimneys and spoke about everything in the world that could possibly be spoken about.
And then, before I started my journey back to Bombay this evening, I got nice and drunk. And a little high. Needless to say, the ride was reeeeaaallly fun. For me. Probably not for the friend who was travelling with me, though. I think after a point, he just wanted to shut me up. Not more than the annoying kids who seemed to have taken over the vehicle, though. Ugh. I hate the kind of kids who yell and run. I want to eliminate them. I mean it.
And I think I made a promise to make out with me friend. "And maybe more.", I think is what he said. I didn't protest, but I didn't say yes. I'm a cow. Honestly. I'm a big sex-doesn't-change-anything activist, but there are people who you'd want to sleep with. And then there are just the...NOOOOO!s. He's not at the top of my 'Hotties I'd Like To Make Sweet Love To Forever' list. Besides, much as I'd like to deny it, I'm very worried that I might be one of those people who can't sleep with anybody but the person they're with. Dammit! I'm faithful?! I never would've guessed. Well, no, actually, I don't think I am. I'm just looking for someone at par with the person I'm currently sleeping with. As of now, there doesn't seem to be anybody worth it. So faithful until proven otherwise, I suppose.
When did this post become about cheating?
I just want to put on my shoes, dance, and show off my new colourful hair to the world.
Make way!