Human beings have come up with a plethora of terms to describe the simple act of pleasuring yourself. We scuttle about inventing a series of shorthand signs that all sound distinctly violent.
In my small UP city, anything related to sex was – is – taboo. Your parents never talked about it and films and TV showed flowers brushing against each other. Which is why procuring porn was an illicit pleasure. Today, pornography is ubiquitous, but the pleasure is all gone.
I join an online group that calls itself “A 40s friendliers group” and my inbox pings with a request from “Roy”, asking whether I would like to be connected. There’s no harm if no numbers are being exchanged, I tell myself. A massive step for a middle-class, conservative, 40-something Indian divorcee.
Watching people navigate an ocean of bad choices using tools like Tinder and Hinge is as entertaining as watching an episode of Takeshi’s Castle. For couples in relationships, nothing is more amusing than other people’s misadventures in love.
There’s not just one way to love in the public domain, and no one makes the rules. There is enough misery around; everyday we wake up to a world so tumultuous that it gets taxing to find happiness. If all it takes to be temporarily distracted from our impending doom is this one “greeting card” event then it’s truly no love lost.
My partner loved mirror sex and it made me anxious. I’ve caught her on several occasions staring intently, making sexy eyes at herself. But it was only when I brought it up with her that I realised it wasn’t so much about narcissism, but a way of cherishing your own body.
Over 9.5 million humping and heaving bodies officially live in one-room homes with paper-thin walls, and sniggering aunties. This makes sex pretty awkward to say the least.
I met some clingy men on Tinder. The dating app, for its promise of a one-night stand, was becoming a multiple-night mess. So one fine morning, I deleted it.