Dosti

Dosti

It started with Aarvi and Tarsh as it often did in those days. She brought her new Aarya friend to the party, and the little bitch made a move on Tarsh, so Tanvi, my BFF tossed her aside.

Tarsh would choose Aarvi over Aarya because her boobies were bigger and that’s how that worked. 

Tanvi stripped Aarvi and Tarsh of their homemade clothes — we couldn’t afford the store-bought kind — and inserted Tarsh between Aanshi’s slender legs.

It was an anatomy lesson without anatomy. It seemed to me that things were missing, but who was I to question? Tanvi was a worldly girl and knew better than me.

Later, in a dark little bathroom with the door locked, Tanvi explained to me what a period was. She dropped her corduroys and pointed to her clitoris.

“When this thing falls off, that’s what your period is.”

I lived in terror of this for years.

In the sixth grade hallway, a few of us gathered in the girl’s restroom. Meera stood in front of the mirror admiring her breasts in a tight red sweater. “I’m a 36C.”

Those of us still in training bras, slumped our shoulders and lowered our eyes.

Rishita outdid Meera by telling us all about the cute boy who held her down and did it to her.

We listened with prurient interest, equal parts impressed and horrified.

I was in the tenth grade when Tanya moved in next door, rocking our rural neighborhood with her tight-legged jeans, tall black boots, and D.C. attitude. She’d been sent to Ahmedabad to live with her aunt and uncle — exiled from home for bad behavior — and to give her mother the space she needed to tend her rich husband.

Tanya loved to tell stories of her big city life, especially the parties, and the boys. There was a girl who sat behind her in class, and asked every morning, in her South Indian accent, “Do you have any gum or candy?” On Monday mornings the same girl would ask, “Did you get wasted? Did you get laid?”

Tanya started asking me the same questions every Monday while we waited in the ditch for the school bus, our hands over our teased hair to protect it from the rain.

Wanting to impress the coolest girl I knew, I cheerfully answered yes, to the first question. As for the second one, I disappointed her every time.

I had no idea how one goes about getting laid. Chubby, shy, and a victim of being shy and the Cinderella syndrome I was waiting for Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet. I had yet to learn that fairy tale endings only exist in romance novels — which I loved then, as I do now.

After a few months of getting wasted and getting laid, Tanya was allowed to return home to meet her new brother and rejoin the family. Last I heard, she married a rich man.

It was a rite of passage in our area to drive forty minutes to the big city, to a dance club for those over eighteen but under twenty-one. I went with three other girls, all more worldly than me.

There was Suhani, who was responsible enough to borrow her mother’s car, and resourceful enough to acquire wine coolers. And Riddhi, who had the face of a cheerleader and dressed like an honor roll student, but swore like a sailor and drank like a soldier on leave. Aneri was the exhibitionist. She’d drop her pants and pee in front of anyone — even her brother. That night, we all watched as Aneri stripped off her jeans and zipped her curvy, nude body into a skin-tight jumpsuit. I was the virgin in Levi’s and a hand-knit sweater that matched the one my mother once made for Aarvi.

We drank, we danced, we claimed the boys who caught our interest — or they claimed us. I ended up with Joe, a skinny guy with a stutter. I can’t remember now, if he had any appealing qualities, aside from his interest in me. When he asked for my number, I danced as if I’d won the lottery.

On the drive home, the four of us compared notes. Talk turned to past conquests. The girls bragged about the boys they’d been with. I was the only one without a story to tell.

I took a chance and confessed to my virginal state.

The mood changed as each girl told her first-time story. They expressed regret over sexual experiences they’d bragged about only moments before. They envied me for having waited. I still had a chance to make my first time special. My Prince Charming might be waiting right around the corner…

For several more years, I clung to my virginity, as if my vagina were Grandma’s fine China — once broken it could never be repaired.

I can’t say I regret waiting. Regret is a waste of time, and it worked out all right. My husband isn’t Prince Charming but he’s a good man and I’m glad he’s mine.

What I do wish, is that I could go back and tell my younger self, as well as my friends, that virginity is not a precious object to be protected, or given away. Waiting didn’t make me any better than anyone else, and my first time was not amazing — though a lifetime with the man I love has been. Most of all I wish we could debunk the myth of the ‘good girl’ as one who is non-sexual, or who saves ‘it’ for the love of her life.

As once said, “Honey, we all deserve to wear white.”

Next blog will be out soon.
Please share this blog, like it and comment what you feel about it!

Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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