TAKING OFF A GIRL’S BELT isn’t the easiest thing when you are drunk, but we both are drunk and back at my place. Somehow, after all those beers, with no memory of the rickshaw ride, we’re here. Drunken women always giggle when you take parts of their clothing off, and of course that’s a good sign. It’s not very exciting for me though; I’ve been banging this chick for a month, and nothing is ever as good as the first time. The first time you bang a new chick, I mean.
The satisfaction of entering home with a relatively new chick lasts about a month, especially when she was someone else’s girlfriend when you hooked her. It’s terrible, I know – and the other dude is one of my best pals, but she just wasn’t into him. He got her to band practice to impress her, and he followed her around like a puppy, asking if she was bored, inquiring if she was uncomfortable, did she want something to drink, and all that shit you don’t ask women. He’d be looking at her through the drums to see if she was looking back at him. I’d barely made eye contact with her then, I swear. I’ve got no intention of stealing another man’s woman.
In good time (about 12 minutes), she figured this guy was a simpleton. Sure, he’s a nice guy – clean-hearted and all – but apparently that doesn’t excite her. It has never excited any woman, but don’t ask them that. Ask me. I learned it the hard way.
“Do you have a number?”
“Well, can you give him your number when you get a new phone so I can get it from him later?” she says, pointing at my buddy.
I didn’t want to buy a phone; I was so happy without one. I’d lost it two months earlier and wanted to be phone-free for another two months at least.
“I don’t think he wants you to have my number. He’s already looking petrified, like I’m going to pick you up and walk off with you.”
She started giggling again. She giggles all the time. Except when I’m banging her; then she’s just fucking screaming. Back then, I didn’t know I’d be making her cream and scream like this.
The belt is off her waist, and she’s taken everything else off, and we’re in bed, and I’m flaccid.
“Don’t do this, Mehta… I’m dripping wet.”
“And I’m drunk and sleepy.”
My friend’s been calling her all day. It’s Valentine’s Day. But she’s been with me, and we’ve been out drinking with her friends. She’s not taking his calls and wants to get boned by me, but she’s not the one who has to get it up, and I just want to sleep. She gets a text message: “Oh, so you’re sleeping with Aditya now?” To which she replies, “Have you gone mad?” Another SMS comes in less than half a minute. “You fools, I can see you. The window is open.”
Oh, the advantages of having an apartment on the ground floor. He’s standing there dressed very well. With the purple shoes he bought for her, and a bouquet of roses. On Valentine’s Day.
The damage has been done, but there are very few things great acting can’t fix. I tell him I’m impotent, that I haven’t been able to get it up in four months. He buys it with a credit card. She’s back the next night, giggling, suggesting that I get a grill fixed outside the window.
Written by Aditya Mehta in 2010