Chapter 11: Dating Younger Man

A friend of mine recently recounted her mantra to getting married.. she was opening herself to the possibility of marrying fat and bald. This community of fat and bald men have apparently been forced to build character to attract women. Men self-help books/ articles often tout the necessity of building personality and using humor to attract beautiful women. The exception of course, continues to be Rich Bankers, who could have braided hair sprouting from their nose, personality of a wart and humor of a train wreck and still take a dame home every night.  

The trick, my friend decided, to cope with the fat and bald man of her dreams would be to have nightmares during copulation… where she was beset to her distress by Christian Bale (think Patrick Bateman in American Psycho).

So while I was reconciling to a future of closing my eyes while mountains of flesh rose above me, I got a chance to date a younger man in the peak of fitness. And why question a gift horse in the mouth, when instead of flaccid muscles and flesh, I could feel steel under my hands.

While men my age and older were happy to sport doughnuts around their stomachs, my young beau was all steel and muscle. His hair was thick and luxuriant and much pulling did not end up with a greasy toupe in my hands. Moreover, I got abundant respect and attention. He listened to my views as if I knew what I was talking about… though often my mouth often wanted to shut shop and explore his mountainous landscape.

Unfortunately, while I admired the visual landscape, the fitness advice that accompanied the body, did not lend itself to much stimulation. He waxed eloquent about his $500 vitamix blender, which was so positioned that he could see it from his living room, bedroom and bathroom. This goddess of smoothies was his holy grail and he indefatigably tried to convert me. The green gunk aka wheatgrass smoothie that the 45,000 rpm blender regurgitated was another story. But what broke the camel’s back was perhaps the regimented lifestyle which abhorred consumption of copious amounts of liquor. The battle between my wine glass and his green smoothie led to a painful partition and thus ended my sojourn in the land of the young.

To be perfectly candid, trying to do a Demi to his Ashton, would have taken too much work at the gym and hours that I just did not have. Moreover, youth and age have clashing priorities and mixing the 2 stages does not make for a pretty cake.

So I think I will stick to the older age group and try my hand to convince a doughnut juggling man to give an infrequent go to the gym. Or practice what Cosmo would advice.. tease, squeeze, close your eyes and dream.. of Christian Bale.

Chapter 10: Sexting Texting

We have all made mistakes… of texting or ringing the guy who got our knickers in a twist and then never called back. To be honest, I have had some issues keeping the index and thumb off the touch-screen once my booze infused brain starts signaling my nether regions. My trigger happy fingers have all too often landed me in trouble when I have sent misspelt texts to some glorious man on how I yearn for him. The hunter-gatherer man, obviously, is turned off by this lack of chase and happily showcases such maudlin texts to his other friends as indicative of his desirability. 

So the time came for me to change my errant ways in the form of my Caucasian friend who had consumed enough self help date books to rattle off rules on ordering coffee, eating, dressing, barfing, evacuating bowels etc while with an eligible man. My learned friend also held court on communicating appropriately through calls, texts, emails, tweets, facebook and many myriad mediums with a date as well.

Her admonitions helpfully kept me off the phone and texting in dangerous times. This was put into practice by ignoring all phone calls during the workday (to let the man know that I had a busy job), ignoring calls during the evening (since I had a hectic social life), ignoring calls during the weekend (cmon, my friends and other dates are demanding my attention), ignoring texts for up to 48 hours min (all the above reasons of busy work life, social life and demanding friends implied), replying to emails after 72 hours min (cos emails from strangers end up in the junk mail which I do not bother checking).. basically making it so tough for the man to get in touch with me to make it a truly hunting and chasing experience worth his while and piquing his interest.

My predilection for verbosity has also translated into lengthy texts which shared a joke (showed my humorous side), a quick comment on some current event (showcases my intellect), an emotional occurrence (showed me to be feminine despite the enormous intellect).. basically was a novella in itself.

I have since been discouraged by Cosmo studies that show that men are incapable of reading more than 2 lines of text. In fact the 160 character service was invented keeping in mind this low threshold of attention that beset most men. Taking a cue from Cosmo, my texts are now direct and present a Call to Action. E.g. ‘I have an itch, would you like to scatch it?’; ‘Going commando; less work for you tonight” etc etc..

The impact of this new way of communication is still to be studied to be statistically significant. But suffice it to say, that the Call to Action is getting the men to respond. It’s another story that I may be pushing the wrong (or right?) buttons.

Chapter 9: Friends with Benefits

My aunt apprised me the other day that the women in our family suffer from early onset of menopause. This means that the years of natural lubricated sex in my life can be counted on the fingers of my hand. My dalliance with chastity be damned, I was going to fruitfully use up my time before estrogen gave up on me.

I decided to indulge in bed games with guys who I KNOW would not feature in my future. 

On the other hand, for the guy who caused my rapidly deteriorating womb to rouse from its despondency, I would plan to delay gratification. The reason being pretty simple- for the latter I want to continue to hold mysterious allure and challenge (and play the age old game of dangling the intercourse bait- as Beyonce widely sang, ‘if you want it, you gotta put a ring on it’). For the former, its two ships passing in the night phenomenon anyways- so why not engage in some friendly honking while keeping my emotions intact.

However, woe betide me - I think it’s important to use an old English phrase given the rapid carbon dating condition of my chastity belt… I have struggled to find the occasional ship. Moreover, the fear of sexual transmitted diseases definitely has laid restraints on any spontaneous amorous intent. In order to circumvent such considerations, I sought advice from my experienced friends to take on a temporary paramour aka ‘friend with benefits’.

The first advice I received from a friend was to refrain calling a partner in such a liaison as a ‘friend’. The raison d’être being that as soon as the said paramour is a friend, we are doomed to vicissitudes of female emotion. Great sex combined with laughter, understanding and friendship usually goes one way for most women- and that is downhill, spelling emotional upheaval. The concept of ‘friend with benefit’ is apparently a male concept since most men find it easy to disassociate testicular driven interest from emotional connection.

The formula, I have been advised is to act like a man – i.e. engage in a satisfying amour without tangling up in emotions. I have been instructed to find someone who I will barely be able to have a conversation with but who will make me do cartwheels in bed and find muscles in places where I thought only fat resided. I have been told that the complete lack of emotion once the urge has been fulfilled, the absence of the need to cuddle, the ability to walk away and sleep alone and secure in my bed with only my fluids and stale breath to battle in the morning, will make the experience worthwhile and cathartic. 

Another of my friend noted that women who have a good sex life are far more interesting. The reason apparently is that they are able to concentrate on the higher things in life once the base animal need to bump and grind has been satisfied. I was also told by a 23 year old that 30+ women often reek of desperation and the lines on our face are less of experience and more of frustration. So the decision to get your knickers off and get a piece of heaven apparently also pays off in terms of deferred expenses on face lifts.

Another friend happily notes that the occasional roll in the hay has helped to bring the sparkle back to all things seemingly dreary and mundane in her life. She can once again afford to spend precious hours of her rapidly depleting sexual life and listen to Fareed Zakaria and The State of the Union (ever tried to interest yourself in national and international politics when your mind and body are screaming for some sexual congress?), battle against her screaming female instincts to learn the basics of American football (btw- why is it that Americans corrupt regular sports with meaningless violence- see ice hockey, American football, WWF- need I say more?) and get her groove back to attract the erudite lot of the opposite sex.

So ladies, our instincts are natural- indulge in bed games occasionally, it does not make you a person of questionable morals but rather does wonder to your ego and physical allure… as Cosmo said.. climax your way to a better skin!!!

Chapter 8: Rich Indian Bankers and Stepford Wives

Erudite, rich Indians in the city, actually, let’s just call them bankers, hedge fund guys and let’s not call them erudite since reading financial papers and dossiers does not make one well-read in my assessment. Back to the point....I increasingly perceive that my melanin infused brethren in the guise of the Rich Indian Banker (RIB) guy are trying to be WASPs. Not to say that they are insects.. but just like the insect which suffers an identity crisis of being neither a bee or an ant, my wallet heavy countrymen are trying hard to belong to the elite American white class. If the MJ experiment with skin bleaching had gone well, maybe we would have had a long line of brown RIBs trying leach the melanin out from their body. (I am going to keep an eye out for scientific progress at this end and rapidly invest in such a company and maybe one day belong to WASPdom). 

So while the eligible Indian male brethren are trying to go white and inculcating a dislike of all things Indian, the women-kind is undergoing their own parasitic (think wasp) metamorphosis. This is translating into many cloning themselves into a facsimile of a Stepford Wife to appeal to the white and the coconut male alike. The feisty and fiery Indian girls who have struggled against the double whammy of gender and color imposed glass ceiling, are turning into cookie-cutter versions in appearance and behavior. These women dream of summers in the Hamptons, white attired sailing trips with Chuck and Mary of the Mayflower genes, $1,000 tickets to the Viennese opera ball, designer togs and accessories, Central Park homes and an endless list of options to encourage a fatuous and vacuous living style.

I have been apprised that embracing this attitude along with ironing my unruly locks, wearing high heels to wreck my spinal cord, investing in $1,000 clothing to attend banker infested charity event (no matter that the charity is for the poor, starving, homeless and clotheless in the world) is apparently a successful formula. My penchant to sport bargain $100 dresses, loud cackle and the sight of un-straightened teeth, preference for comfort over clingy attire, tendency of drink scotch, bourbon and wine all in the same sitting and Bollywood does not make a strong competitor in this environment.

Cosmo says that cashed-up guys think they deserve to be with trophy women, or women they deem prizeworthy. They want their women to be extremely beautiful, plan social schedules, have good manners, be submissive and compliant to the man’s needs…. So either I am to try out this new formula or give up on the hope of the wealthy white or RIB knight.

And given that I am averse to changing my body and soul for such wasp action, I continue to have faith that it does not take an entire country but just one to sting my hive.