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.

WHY I HATE BOYS (Arya)

I hate boys. That’s right. No, I’m not a feminist or a lesbian. I just don’t like them. I mean, I don’t mind an occasional shag, or flowers from a secret admirer. But having boys as friends? No thank you. Because all those lameass movies they told you about, where they said women and men can never be friends because everything gets screwed in the end? They weren’t lying.

Having friends is not easy. Particularly not close ones. There’s always the fear that you’re being your most honest, most vulnerable, truest self in front of someone who spends half his time thinking about something else. There’s also the fear that you love your friend more than he loves you. There’s the fear that, everything you say, he repeats to his own group of actual friends, and laughs. The fear that you’re just a temporary confidante in times of convenience, and will soon become obsolete. The fear that the person you think the sun shines out of only thinks you’re, well…okay-ish.

It’s scary. Scary to have a friend. Scary to be one. Even scarier to look them in the eye, and tell them “Dammit, you hurt me.” I don’t have it in me yet. Yeah, I’m chickenshit. So I’ll just do it here. I’m angry. And hurt.

I had a best boy-friend once. I loved him. I still do- I think that’s the problem. And I loved him for just what he was. A friend. I didn’t secretly want to have his babies, he didn’t secretly want to father mine. We didn’t secretly scribble each other’s names on our notebooks when nobody was looking. We were close. I mean really close. We didn’t need to talk everyday, or call each other every night. When we met, it was like no time had passed at all. We spoke about everything. Love, relationships, friends, family, dreams, ambitions. My family loved (loves, actually) him, his loved me. We were close enough for everybody around us to wonder whether we were having our little sexual fun on the side. We laughed the rumours off. That is, until she came along. Suddenly, it was a problem that I spoke to him so much. That he kissed me on the cheek when he felt like. I thought she was the problem. Clearly she thought I was.

I expected him to fight for all the people he believed in. Not just the one who was making him happy in bed. He didn’t. He succumbed. We stopped talking. And even though I wish it had never happened, he doesn’t seem like it’s too much of a problem for him. Which is fine. Hey, one more thing to bury under the sand, right?

I was upset. More so when I heard he didn’t understand or care about how upset I was. The new girlfriend is keeping him busy, I see.

So I did what any upset girl would do. Got a swanky new haircut, drank enough rum to fill three barrels, wept till I was dehydrated, and fell very fast asleep. Woke up this morning, worked extra hard to compensate for the shit that life seemed like, and felt so much better.
Ah, the pain of watching your hair fall to the ground and around your feet. But the snip snip snip always assures you that change is on its way.

My hair looks awesome, by the way.
(Note to self: Strike 'Haircuts' off the list.)

Now, while I write this post, I’m wondering what exact flavour of ice-cream I want.

Maybe Mila and I can get a pint for dinner. She’s had a bad week, too. Ugh.

Boys are fucking disgusting. This is why I say it. I’m going to now have only straight-girl friends, so this will never, EVER be a problem again. Because YOU, yes you. You hurt me. I had faith that this meant as much to you as it did to me. And the fact that it doesn’t makes me want to punch you in the face. With a chair. So that all your teeth fall out and your girlfriend doesn’t want to sleep with you anymore. HA.

Mila made a good point today, though. It’s not your girlfriend I hate. She’s just being a girlfriend. Which I suppose, by some extension of logic, I can understand. You, on the other hand, you are behaving like a spineless dick. Like I was just someone you could hang around with until your real girlfriend came along and told you what was best. Until your REAL life started.

That’s the thing about having friends. Or maybe it’s just the hard thing about being friends with me. I’m possessive. No, I don’t dislike it when you eat lunch with someone else, or talk to someone else, or decide to split a chicken roll with some random dude instead of me. It’s not like I spend my nights carving your name into my wrists. It’s just, after so long knowing you, I don’t understand or like the fact that in the flash of a euphoria and social orgasm, you forgot who you are.

You forgot how easy it was for you to separate right from wrong. Rational from irrational. Truth from rumour. You knew how smart you were, what you could do with what you had, because nobody else had it.

I know that you’ve forgotten, but I haven’t. And it disgusts me to see you throw it all away for something you think is worth it. And all the years that I told you that, you weren’t listening to me at all. And now she comes along and tells you you’re not good enough, and all it takes is a second to change. I know it’s easier to believe the right things, but I also know that if she were the right person, things wouldn’t be this hard.

You turned your back on me for someone who’s trying to make you a better version of yourself, and here I am. Knowing that you could’ve done so much more. Fought so much harder for what you know is the truth. You were strong in your confusion. Strong in your determination. Somehow along the way, you lost you spine.

If you’re not going to be here, Ben and Jerry’s will. And all the other people who I know will stand by me when the time’s right. So Fuck. You.

In the meanwhile, I miss you.