Chapter 7: Dating Organically

I am one of those who loves getting set up. When friends introduce me to eligible marital candidates, I always jump at a chance. I frankly do not get people who detest getting set up by friends. I mean, who better to set you up than your friends who know you well. Right? Wrong!!!

I realized something was awry when the quality of these individuals became increasingly suspect. For instance, I was introduced to Mr G – an investment banker sorts- who lives in the vicinity. Thinking that what could be better than a fun and cute looking (he rapidly friended me on facebook allowing me to amply browse pictures of him partying with lots of cleavage flashing women or doing myriad fun things in exotic locations), loaded (he apparently ran his own fund), New York resident (long distance is a non-starter) who is looking to meet someone special.  However, on successful contact and exchange of emails, Mr G suddenly was busy, camping, in ill health or otherwise occupied.

I finally did meet the elusive suitable boy to realize that he was battling mid-life crisis by hitting as many bars as humanly possible, sliding towards bankruptcy in the downturn, moving to upstate NY to manage finances and looking for a girl friend in the city where he could park his ass on the weekends to avoid drunk driving to his sunny village home.

Another of my friends set me up with an IT guy from the West Coast who was learning salsa, looked cute in glasses and also had an interesting facebook life. Mr IT turned out to be conversationally challenged, beginner salsa dancer who twirled me into various pillars and tried to make me take a subway while I was dressed like a skank.

So what was going wrong? Why did my close friends pick these totally inappropriate matches for me despite knowing me and what I would appreciate? It appears that when you get to be a certain age, your friends will set you up with anyone single. Apparently given my increasing proximity to menopause, they are of the view that I am desperate.

As a guy friend of mine in similar conundrum put it.. he feels he is now a consolation prize for anyone who becomes available on the market and is recovering from a break-up, divorce or an unfortunate sexual  act. My good friends forget that one of the reasons I am still single is because I have goals and I am not ready to compromise on them. Helping put Humpty Dumpty back together is not what I am hoping to spend precious time on.

So the quest prevails and the list of fodder inspiring men continues to grow long… and wisdom-imparting friends who complain on my picky ways continue to set me up with neurotic, paranoid, insecure men who are looking for a sugar mama in these recession hit days.

Chapter 6: Trying Matchmakers for 'Matching Matching'

In my pursuit of eligible marital candidates, I believe in leaving no stone unturned. That has meant putting a boulder on my ego and agreeing to ‘arranged marriage’ set up dates by friends and family. To be fair, they have my welfare at heart- they are increasingly concerned by my continued availability and some by my relatively happy single state while they plod through a treacherous marital route strewn by riotous children and sexual boredom. While some of my long suffering married friends are evaluating experimenting with threesomes and spouse swapping, they continue to battle guilt and moralistic social mores of such adventures. I, on the other hand, can engage in orgiastic pleasures right on my doorstep with neighbors watching and would only get a slap on the wrist and a quiet pat on my back for athletic prowess. 

But in the spirit of moving onto the next stage of my life and fulfill my duties of ‘Grihasta’, I acquiesced to meeting a matchmaker to help me in my path of achieving marital bliss. My family, apparently, has exhausted all its resources to uncover single men – never mind eligible… they are happy with anyone who earns, has all his physical facilities intact… whether the said candidate is erudite, has a sense of humor, takes his body for a run once in a while, loves to travel, is liberal – is all irrelevant to them. But given that they cannot unearth even a half-baked specimen, they are not averse to some help from a 3^rd party.. hence, the matchmaker.

Interestingly, matchmaking is emerging as a sunrise industry in India. Forget the growth rates of IT and software sectors; one should study this emerging opportunity. While the old paradigms of demand for such services were usually social restrictions around interactions with the opposite sex, the new drivers relate to unequal evolution of the two genders. To elaborate, the new woman is educated, independent, spirited and opinionated while the new man has yet not outgrown the old mould. Hence, the sector is facing resurgent demand where the women struggle to find the new man while the men struggle to find the women of yore but with trappings of the new.

However, realizing the rapidly depleting coffers of suitable men as my biological clock tocks away, loudly ringing its death knell, who am I to be picky as to which route such a suitable boy comes from? So all in the spirit of expanding opportunities, I readily trotted off to meet a matchmaker. The lady insisted that I meet her in person for her to evaluate my suitability. I assumed that she would approach this as a consulting assignment where she gathered requirements, evaluated functionalities available and made recommendations. Unfortunately, while the sector sees unprecedented growth, the matchmaker’s approach remained old and weary.

The matchmaker lady met me in a fancy 5-star hotel suite in Delhi. She was suitably attired in appropriate jewelry and distasteful sari. She preferred to keep her conversation targeted mainly to my older sister who represented the ‘elders’ in my family. Her only attempt to get to know me was to pointedly ask my age, profession and locational preference for a groom. She then went into a tizzy about my age and how I would need to COMPROMISE . According to her, I should be thankful if I ever got married and if the groom was an uneducated, uncouth farmer with pots of money in Latur, I should kiss the earthquake-shattered ground he walked on.

In my magnanimity of giving her another chance, I spent some time in mulling over my personality and what I was looking for in a partner but I could have been talking to someone in the bovine family. She was only interested in whether I had the appetite of pay $1000 for registration and if there were any twice divorced, kids infested guys in her groom database who would consider me a steal. Much to my chagrin, she even went ahead to point out that given the difficulty of my case, I would need to follow up with her every week to check whether someone popped up since no amount of money could bother her to get an old hag hitched.

Thus ended my matchmaker travails …apparently all my accomplishments in light of my age were only yawn worthy. But as Cosmo says, continue to keep that twinkle in your wrinkle… and carry on raging the battle against mother nature!!

Chapter 5: Dating the Sub-Continent

While I have happily mulled over the prospects of a White knight, I have not given up on the Indian sub-continent yet. And the sub-continent truly encompasses other adjoining countries.. which brought me into a situation of dating men from Pakistan and Bangladesh. This obviously meant that they were Muslim and though my sainted mother loves all religions, the idea of her little one with someone from the Islamic religion is well nigh to give her nightmares. 

My mother has a curious attitude towards religion.. despite the presence of myriad idols in our house, she spent many years opening herself to other influences and has shown a remarkable tolerance to all and sundry. She taught me to embrace humankind first and foremost but her aversion to me marrying a Muslim man is legendary. She fears that my charms (or lack of them) are likely to drive the man to other women’s arms and given the lax attitude towards polygamy propagated by that side of the border, I would be a victim of such abuse. 

However, I think her concerns are pure archaic baloney and my early upbringing to embrace all mankind led me to the path to do just that. In the spirit of such camaraderie, I have been open to meeting men from all religious background as long as they do not practice it fervently. I have no appetite for God discussions and devoutly believe that my conversation or battles with HIM are my own private matter. I am averse to public display of religious fervor and visiting cavernous halls set up with dirty money in HIS name. So you get the point and I will step off the pulpit to hold forth on my run-ins with the rest of the sub-continent men.

With this lack of baggage, I graciously accepted a date with a well spoken, England educated Bangladeshi banker boy. His use of the word facetious correctly in a sentence on our first date won him my secret accolades. Well spoken, well read, well travelled, wealthy and with all such Ws intact, what was not to like? While my friends often commented how we looked like Beauty and Gollum, I was unconcerned. Rapid wit, engaging personality, a good vocabulary comprised the right ingredients for him to win me over despite his poor choice of wardrobe, lack of muscle tone and short stature. Till I found that he was dating 5 women at the same time.

The Rich Banker phenomenon apparently percolates across borders and is not the mainstay of the Indian male.  The Ivy-league educated unsuitable boy felt that his pots of money should be used to attract lots of honey, which he felt his due to taste. While he viciously advocated monogamy, an ex-wife, who apparently was still legally his wife, a girlfriend who cooked and cared for him in sickness and other lady friends in the mix were the modern day version of his aspirations for a harem.

The prerogative of dating multiple women at the same time appears to be shared by the entire brethren of the banker community resident in NYC. I have heard them espouse the theory that long hours at work leads to the desire for urgent sexual relief without the time available to pander to the needs of a relationship. Hence, the access to multiple women at the same time increases the probability of obtaining orgasmic relief. Cosmo, in fact, pointed out that 75% of wealthy men in a study said that frequent sex and more partners was the benefit of being rich. A friend of mine dated someone from this community, who promptly jumped off the bed after sex and weighed himself… whether he was checking his weight or departure of a heavy conscience is open to question.

Hence, ended my first endeavor to explore the other side of the border… but one poor experience should not color the entire country. I hope to continue the quest no matter whether it lies in any country of the sub-continent or the world.

Chapter 4: Dating White

Now that I am single and unencumbered by family in the same city or country breathing words of advice and warning me off the white devil, I decided to try the local cuisine. I count myself liberal in all matters men.. if they are not related to me, they can definitely be sampled. And to top it off, I like all sorts of men- tall, short, brown, yellow, black, white, grey and I wanted to experiment with new flavors. 

And who would not want to date these nice looking, well groomed pale skinned men especially given the poor choice available amongst my Indian brethren? I mean, c’mon, let’s not delude ourselves- the average Indian male available to us in the tri-state area has bad taste in clothes (guys- Men’s Warehouse or Gap does not count as high fashion and even worse, shopping at Target and Walmart may save you a pretty penny but will not save face), hardly ever exercises (and walking the streets of New York is not a fitness regime!!), barely engages in outdoor sports (sipping whiskey on a ski slope does NOT count as a skiing holiday) and usually carries a doughnut around their stomach (unless it’s a fanny belt and that’s also a NO NO!!). So given these undesirable traits, is it a wonder that I am keen to check out whether the other side of the world has better fare- or at least one that definitely looks far more appetizing?

But the thing that perplexed me was why would these Caucasian men want to date a ‘fresh off the boat’ recent immigrant of brownish visage me? Especially when they have beauteous women of their own light-skinned race aplenty? I was happily told by my supportive group of white sisters that the ‘exotic’ comes to play. 

To play up the exotic, I immediately pierced my nose, let my hair grow long and wild, applied coats of liner and mascara and happily went off to dates with a chef, management consultant, film editor, IT type and also a blue collar worker. Once my friends back in India learnt of the latter, they happily volunteered to give their electrician, plumber and house-help a call and set up dates for my next visit to Mumbai.

Unfortunately, the white man dating has not gone too well. The white man’s search for the exotic has not ended permanently at my door apparently. I wonder if the challenges of understanding me over the phone, getting my sense of humor, lack of my understanding of their references to old TV shows, varsity football games, rite of passage mired in spring break etc has to do with it. 

It could potentially also be that under my brown skin and black hair, I can emulate the qualities of a drunk blonde rather successfully. My tastes in risqué humor, body friction and saliva exchange may not be too fitting into a 16^th century picture of a demure Indian princess, which the exotic seeker may be dreaming of.

On the other hand, it could also be just me. My endeavor at seeking to become a reborn virgin (they say after 12 months of restraint, the hymen grows back and I am trying to see whether the miracle works) post some heavy breathing, may be unforgiving for others. So I guess dashing their imperial hopes to colonize my body also had something to do with it.

But the will is strong and ample consumption of stronger spirits keeps me going in the chase for a white man with a brown heart!!! And in the meantime, I continue dating… after all, a girl’s got to eat!!!

Chapter 3: Indians and Oral Gratification

A friend of mine recently wondered aloud whether I am into oral gratification. Before I could reply, he pontificated that I probably was not given my Indian cultural tethers.  Well, despite the answer being a resounding NO to sticking things in my oral cavity, I was keen to investigate his presumption based on my orgins. Hence, started this quest for figuring out whether the predilection for oral sex was a Caucasian event or crossed cultures. 

My Indian male friend who made the rapid assumption into the Negative elaborated that his vast experience showed him that most Indian women are averse to swallowing gunk no matter how protein rich or nutritious it may be. He hinted that if we (Indian women) kept to this regular diet of gunk, we may actually succeed in preventing our derriere from spreading sideways. He hypothesized that the French women were thin not due to genes but their diet of cheese, wine and nutritious semen!!! So while this lesson in healthy eating (or swallowing) did tempt me a wee-bit to change my sexual proclivity, I just decided to stick to my diet of staying off carbs and visiting the gym ever so often. 

Another friend of mine (of the opposite gender of course) opined that the aversion may be that we do not like to receive and hence, give. His hypothesis was that Indian women lack the good habit of douching our private parts. Given that I LUURRRVVEE to stream water from the bidet and have recently fallen in love with Japanese toilets (which make the loo going experience an art), I find that hard to believe that we stink!! And while most American toilets do not have a bidet (which I struggled against in my early years in this wondrous country of so many other things), I have taken to the use of appropriate wipes to give the genitalia good ole cleansing. My man friend went on to further discourse on how it was important for men to have a clean space and my continued repugnance to Brazilian wax could also be a continued factor on why I was less experimental south of the border. Needless to say that my retort on how Brazilian wax felt that I was being assaulted by a thousand needles and continued imagery of my inner parts being ripped out of me, was of poor interest to my friend.

Another friend (obviously male again) mentioned that non-Indian women loved giving fellatio. On the other hand, he apparently had to beg and hold an Indian woman’s head down... I refrained from mentioning that his way sounded like a criminal offence but that’s another story. 

Well, my Indian female friends on the other hand have not replied in a universal negative. Some are more adventurous than most. But no-one (Caucasian and Indian alike) said that they absolutely adored giving head and that it was their favorite thing to do in the world. Most appear to engage in it since they do love to receive it.. hence, they definitely view it as a give and take. Some of them are averse to sucking the Indian projectile cos they felt that Indian men had unhygienic habits and the gunk often smelt funky!!! Images of crotch scratching Indians from the homeland have apparently left a lasting impression. 

For my part, I do not prefer to fall to my knees with every man I take to bed…. It continues to be a faintly yucky act which I reserve only for the very near and dear ones.. an act of sacrifice. Such an act that focuses on another person’s pleasure to the exclusion of mine requires a tremendous amount of love from my end… 

But one man’s poison is another’s cognac.. so men and women, keep genuflecting or not at your own discretionary pleasure!

Chapter 2: Dating ‘Shaadi’ men

To  keep my poor, tortured and innocent parents happy (who still persuade themselves that I have never been touched by a man, leave alone went on a mission to try all sorts of positions to figure out which one I was particularly fond of), I signed on to Shaadi.com. Their tender sensibilities were duly satisfied, with special credit to the lovely advertising that the site has used to attract all unsuspecting parents of unfortunate progeny. In my view, the insane simpering woman in the ad basically promises to give up her career and individuality in worship of the brute of known means. 

However, all men are not created equal- only some are created by mothers who knowingly or unknowingly are unleashing evil on the female race and propagating stereotypes. Especially to blame are the ABCD men who have been reared on a diet of India that their parents left behind in the 70s… these men dream of village belles clothed in virginal white with cookery, singing and dancing skills along with a masters in education (to keep up with the modern times after all, we need educated village belles). Never mind that there is still a high rate of female infanticide in the villages, poor standards of education especially amongst the so-called ‘business class’ and increasing cases of sexual experimentation amongst the teens…. Let us not disillusion the ABCD guy who dreams of the docile bride who has protected her hymen against the sordid world and will bring it as a gift to the marital bed. While waiting for this pussy of gold, these poor boys in the meantime will try to screw anything in sight – after all, their gift back should be one of skill and sexual prowess to keep the said golden woman satisfied for all her life with one man.

I have started to wonder what the fetish about marrying virgins is with some of these men.  I am guessing that since Indian men are usually blessed with unsightly body hair, overactive sweat glands and a below-average sized penis, the virginal fascination may be to ensure lack of comparison. Which man wants the woman, when she sees his fully erect family jewels, to exclaim ‘how cute- it’s the size of my little finger’ or wondering whether it takes some persuading to emerge from the bushes?

However, with much trepidation, I dared to go on a couple of dates with the ‘shaadi’ men. The first one spent nearly half a hour in shock that I dared suggest we have a bottle of wine (I mean, the reason he wanted to meet a recent transplant from the motherland is that they drink milk and honey and not fermented grapes)... I appropriately toned it down and just ordered a glass (which helped eventually for me to escape quickly- imagine trying to down a bottle while plotting my escape in 1 hour!!!). To be fair, the gentleman did pay for the dinner and offered to give me another chance to redeem myself in the next date.

The next  one spent time regaling me with stories on some of the excellent women he met (never mind that the so called accomplished ladies came up with all sorts of excuses to avoid the second date); another one shared his Plan B- his aunt would find him a nice woman back in the village in India the next time he visited in case he could not find a suitable bride nearshore. Yet another brazenly inquired why such a fine specimen as I has not been taken out of circulation yet- obviously wondering why his other brethren have passed on me.. . no matter that he was twice divorced and had a stable of kids somewhere.  The string of ‘shaadi’ dates continues with an inevitable conclusion of me narrowly escaping going bald by tearing my hair out in frustration.

So now, I have invested in a range of wigs to give my natural follicles a respite but I still go on the infrequent ‘shaadi’ dates – because to be honest, I like a man who has figured out that he desires commitment.. .though the fact, that most of them should be committed is another story altogether.

Chapter 1: Dating in the Big Bad City

I am a 35 year old, Indian born, bred, roasted and toasted brown single woman in New York City. I took the long route to New York City… never should anyone say that I shirked the road less traveled. The path and the past are strewn with tears, tribulations and various other alliterations which I will spare you with. To cut a long story short, I am here and am dating with vengeance in the Big Apple.

I am writing this blog as a chronicle of my experience with dating white, black, brown, yellow and all colors of the rainbow. And trust me I need reminding. The other day, while out killing my few remaining memory cells with some sub-par brew, I forgot how many frogs and princes I had dated, kissed and had indelicate moments with.

So obviously I made a list while waiting for a massage at a Chinese parlor after such an indelicate night. I have duly annotated my past dalliances as onk (one night kiss), r (relationship), r & s (relationship and sex)- yes, I was a good Indian girl who had relationships with no action… but now I am wiser and realize that it was all effort and no pleasure. Unfortunately, while I have the list chronologically correct, it is interspersed with question marks since I have forgotten some of the frogs I have exchanged saliva with amongst other things. Hence, the intent of the blog to remind me of my dating experiences and also add on the stories of my other single friends- so that I can hold them to an occasional blackmail.

My first quandary was what on earth does ‘dating’ mean in the city.. and the confusion was amplified with my first date. I found the gentleman on an online dating site, he called and we met the same day. He turned out to be a surprisingly well travelled and knowledgeable American who knew about Gandhi and not only as a dhoti clad individual from India. We talked about ‘My Experiments with Truth’ which both of us happened to be reading and consumed copious amount of liquor. He stared into my eyes and called me beautiful and I expressed interest through frequent smiles, brush of my hand on the sleeve- the usual bag of tricks.

After 3 hours of intriguing conversation and mild flirtation, I was feeling quite lucky to have landed an interesting individual for my very first date when he popped the question on whether we were going to have sex. My sainted mother flashed before my eyes and my convent roots shook in their boots… I love a good romp but I am amending my ‘prodigal daughter in her 30s act’ to meet someone for long term dating, relationship et al. Well, again to cut a long story short, I declined and we had a good laugh, split the bill and promised to meet again. And I took the enjoinder to call as an authoritative request.. which meant here I was, texting him the next day and emailing him on when we could meet. After a lackluster reply on how busy he was, I was disillusioned by a dating-experienced friend who intimated that I was given the brush off.

So now I am wiser that a man who is interested a) pays for the date b) messages the same night/ early morning at the latest c) fixes the next date venue and basically does the chase… The lady on the other hand, a) never agrees to meet on the same day/ sometimes the same week b) never pays no matter that she may be earning well enough to keep her in designer togs c) never suggests the venue d) always turns up at least 10 minutes late. And hence, my first date and first lesson was duly earned.