The other day I went on a date with a writer, you know because I am a writer, and I do have this weird notion that writers are good in bed.
I connected with him on Facebook. He sent me a friend request and I read his poetry where he pushes the books off the desk and his woman shatters the glasses kept on the study table, they throw away the clothes scattered on the clothes line and clean the bed off all pillows.
And then in clutter free room they make passionate love.
Well, if that weren’t an indication of his raging, intense libido, nothing would be.
We chatted; I told him that he writes well.
He replied, “Once written I don’t own it. Your eyes and soul make it beautiful.”
I smiled because even with a writer, you need to wade through a ton of bullshit before you can have an actual conversation.
And then he ‘opined’ the ‘postulate’ that since we were in the same city, we could perhaps meet sometime.
His ‘opining’ and ‘postulation’ wasn’t really necessary because had he not asked, I would’ve suggested a meeting myself.
I had been depraved of a good romp in bed for so long that lately my bidet was my favourite gadget at home. But that didn’t mean I was into one-night stands or friends with benefits. I really needed to get to know the guy well and to be courted, before I even started anything. I am old school like that.
We met at Starbucks, where I walked in a Mango dress carrying my Fendi bag and wearing Aldo shoes.
It did not take much to recognise him there, the only man sitting in a corner furiously typing away.
He was the kind of writer who would buy kurtas from FabIndia and then poke holes in it to fit into the ‘struggling writer’ stereotype; the kind who would carry his Macbook Pro in a jhola and order Pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.
His silhouette profile picture did not do justice to the fact that his beard almost reached his cheekbones like a Neanderthal with zero access to a razor blade. And his hair was long enough to be tied in a bun as thick as a donut. Between his head and his chin, there was a lot of hair and very little face.
Although the one thing his profile image did do justice to, was his muscular physique. If the muscles bulging at the seams of his kurta were any indication, he looked like he lived in the gym.
“Hi Moni” I said.
He took his own time to look up from his laptop and roamed his bespectacled eyes on me.
“Your pictures do not do justice, you know.” He spoke with a smile.
I smiled and sat down. That compliment did not deserve a response.
Even with the beard covering his face, I knew he was much younger than I was. Not that age were a barrier, but I did hope our ideologies met.
“So, what are you writing?” I asked.
“Oh well I am writing Erotica, and my heroine is called, Natasha.” He said with a wide smile.
“Isn’t it a co-incidence?” He continued. “I just started writing about a Natasha while I am meeting one.”
I smiled again. If he did not drop the act, I would probably give up trying to court a decent intellectual and join Tinder.
“You knew you were meeting a Natasha, so no surprises there.” I said. I probably shouldn’t have, because he pushed his spectacles up and went back to typing furiously.
“You write a lot of Erotica, don’t you?” I asked, hoping to have a reasonable conversation.
“Yes, because I am an asshole, and I hate my own phallus.” He responded.
“That’s good to know.” I said and wondered who the fuck calls their dick, a phallus?
I did want to ask him about why he hated his phallus, and if the answer would have been because it was too small, I guess I would’ve ended the date then and there.
But I didn’t. Unlike Moni, I was polite and did not want to start off a conversation with a practical stranger on topics of assholes and phalluses.
“So Natasha, I also did read some of your striking pieces. It is beautiful that you would lay yourself bare for the world to see.” He said.
“Oh… I thought I only write fiction. How, pray tell, do I lay myself bare to the world?” I said.
“Well you know in that story, where this widowed mother is attacked by the police man. The beauty with which you describe him defiling her body was captivating.” He said.
“Umm… that was a rape scene.” I said.
“A beautiful one at that.” He responded, his eyes glinting.
Right there, I could feel my bidet calling out to me, telling me to get out because dating a writer was so not worth the effort. But you know me, and even if you don’t, I am an eternal optimist. I prefer giving people second, third, fourth and umpteen chances, just like I did with my cheating ex husband.
“I really like your prose, it is fluid and seamless.” I said in hopes of moving the topic away from how I lay myself bare when writing a rape scene.
He smiled, placed his hand on mine and said, “Just like your fluid body.”
Well, I had asked for it. I had asked for a writer with a raging libido. So if there was anyone to be blamed for this disappointing date, it was I.
“Thank you, Moni.” I said and snatched my hand away. His palms, callused, from lifting all those weights felt clammy on mine.
“So, how do you want to take this forward?” He asked sitting up straight.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, would you be the Natasha in my story?” He asked, again smiling from ear to ear.
Oh my God, this guy moved fast. I wondered. Was it something to do with the glaring age gap? Did I miss a few policy changes on romance, while I was busy giving my ex a dozen second chances?
It did not take Einstein, to understand what he was suggesting, but I still persisted in hopes that I might’ve misunderstood the blatant proposal.
“I don’t understand what you are saying.” I said.
He sighed and spoke, “Your place or mine.”
“Ohh…” I said. Faced with a choice, to stick to my romantic ideologies that were clearly a couple of decades archaic or to replace the bidet with this bearded, muscular hunk.
“Mine.” I said.