A finely formed crotch

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When I last wrote I was recovering from a night of sorrowful passion (no connection to the chaplet of Divine Mercy ... apologies St Faustina...) and about to leave Mumbai. It's my least favourite city in India, although the whole Bollywood scene does rather fascinate me, and Amitabh Baachan is decidedly sexy. I have some friends there, so it's nice to catch up every now and then, but I never stay long enough to feel sad upon departure. Mumbai was my very first port of call in India, and I always remember looking with awe from the taxi window as we wound our way from the Shiva-whatever-a-ji airport to Colaba. There were cows and dogs, and huddles of people asleep on the pavement. In my naive, post-A level state, I asked who owned these animals, and if people really slept on the street - (as if they were merely pretending for my uncultured benefit) ....

Nowadays the poverty doesn't shock me. I happily (harshly?) walk over beggars in the street, jostle my way past lepers, and barter over a couple of rupees in the market (80 rupees = £1) I like to think these characteristics make me India-savvy rather than a callous bitch.

Anyway, I'm now sitting in a rather grotty cyber cafe in Ellora, the World Heritage Site of ancient Buddhist caves, somewhere inland from Mumbai. This is my first visit, and I'm not sure what to make of it. Someone much older and supposedly wiser (another disappointing lover) once told me that I should come here, sit in a certain place, take it all in, and think of him. Unfortunately, when I do cast my mind back to our liasons, I cannot help remember the conversation one should never have in bed: "is it in yet?" ....

Once upon a time I dabbled in Indian archaeology, so I should theoretically be enjoying the 12 Buddhist, 17 Hindu and 5 Jain caves ... but these sites are invariably filled with the post-1988 backpacker brigade who ooze testosterone and distract me from the ancient splendour of the carvings. When you combine this with the middle aged Indian tourists, and the many touts and begging buggers who continually paw you ... it is a bewildering and bedraggling experience. I haven't done the tourist route for a long time, and seeing as I have no plans for the considerable future (read: unemploy-ed/able, unattached) I thought a little educational excursion would be a good idea. Of course, being crammed like god knows what into the rickety Tapovan Express train from Mumbai to Aurangabad did little to inspire thoughts of the future. I do really need to start thinking about future plans, before I commence my third decade on the planet.

There have been no men since Ravi, and I'm a little bereft of opportunities. I even gave the porter at the railway station a suggestive look, but he quickly looked at his feet and scurried along, possibily a little terrified. I often wonder whether it's sex that I want, or the attention ... the novel feeling of being wanted, of being fought over. I think I could quite happily be dominated if the opportunity arose (arose being the buzz word). Of course, I'd also like to find someone incredibly exotic, whether just for one night or for a lifetime; the latter of which is slightly alarming. Waking up next to the same person (stuffed bagpuss excluded) day after day is a concept with which I have always struggled. However, the idea of living in squalour and spawning kids in the slums is strangely appealling. Either that, or I'll head back to Africa and marry a masai warrior. Now, I bet they'd have no problem keeping it up.

This phase of thinking about sex, wanting sex, and desiring a state of perpetual orgasm should surely have left me with my teenage acne? Does every twenty-something woman pass away the hours dreaming of bedroom gymnastics, of being hung on the brink of ecstasy, dangling at the wonderful, emancipating point of no return? This is the land of the Karma Sutra for christs sake, the men should know what they're doing beyong a prod and a poke and a grunt.

Speaking of which ... one of the charmingly grubby backpackers has just taken a seat next to me, his greasy dreadlocks hanging loosely over finely formed shoulders. My mind (and I fear also my eyes) is once again drawn towards his crotch.

Ellora today, Ajanta tomorrow, unless anything more exciting than carved stone happens between then and now.

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Comments

[joerie]

nice!

[pinna]

Weel i'm glad to hear i'm not the only verging on 30yr old who consistantly wakes up with Bagpuss!! I'm considering coming to India on my own and your blog has much inspired me. Keep up the blogging and the 80s revival trip. . . . .