I had the entire ride back home to take the house keys out of my handbag. I suppose my frustration had taken over my sensibility. Why would my date not plan things through, especially when he said, “Let me plan this.” What else do those words mean if not “I am planning everything”?
A perfect date requires me to feel confident, which needs a salon, which in turn needs money
Rishabh, with an extra H, had the most interesting Tinder bio I had seen in four days. I swiped right and so had he, already. We started talking, sparks flew, memes were exchanged and so were numbers.
Yesterday he hit me up with an image of a chart and captioned it saying that he had ‘planned out’ our date and just needed me to say “yes”– which I did.
I had just come back from my home town in Kufri, so I chose against taking a work-from-home to get ready for this dick appointment. Knowing that he had written down everything from what time he will pick me up to where and what we will be eating, I just had to get waxed now.
With a date in vision and limited financial resources, I rushed to the parlour got my upper lip done and waxed off my underarms, the only two things that I could afford on a 150-rupee budget. Rest I lathered myself up and shaved it all off in the shower.
Big buildup, dismal deliverance: A perfect date, that wasn’t
Rishabh picked me up from outside my apartment gate, because otherwise I’ll be brandished as a loose woman by my fellow residents. The car ride was great, he looked just like his pictures, and we shared our playlist during the 40-minute long drive to the restaurant.
As soon as he parked the car, he dashed out of the driver’s seat and ran to open the door for me. I slipped out of the seat being cautious of a panty-flash from under my tiny skirt. He put his arms around my waist and pulled me to his side while looking me straight in the eyes with respectable lust (if that is even a thing).
His lips were so soft, I could melt in his arms.
He shut the car door behind me and landed a swift peck on my lips. His lips were so soft, I could melt in his arms. His breath smelled of fresh mint (did he just use a mouth spray in the time he moved from his door to mine?) and his body smelled of body wash from the latest Bath and Body Works Christmas Collection, unusual for a man. Well, I know this because the PR for Bath and Body Works had sent me free goodies (and I am not ashamed to admit I love free stuff).
Coming back to the moment, Rishabh retreated and looked for approval. I wasn’t going to put it in words or grand lid fluttering gestures, so I just threw my arms around his neck and kissed the daylight out of him. Hmm, a good kisser.
We shouldn’t be making any noise in the house
The dinner was fantastic, I was less focused on the food and more on the old-school footsie both of us were playing under the table. Back in the car we indulged in some good ol’ fondling and kissing. Once outside his house, we started to passionately make out in the car. In the middle of our steamy mess, he whispered, “Leave your heels in the car, we shouldn’t be making any noise in the house. Also try and be sneaky once inside.” But I did not make much of it. I couldn’t wait to move it to his room, and probably pass out because of crazy head banging on his bed’s headboard.
However, for some reason, his damn phone wouldn’t stop ringing after a point. He even put it on silent but it kept vibrating in his pocket. I knew this because I was straddling him in the driver’s seat, a piece of information I don’t mind sharing.
The marvellous man who was finally going to end my two-week long dry period suddenly pulled away and picked up his vibrating phone. He hushed me up and in an apologetic tone spoke into his phone saying, “Yeah I’m right outside the house, coming!”
What??!
He looked at me and asked if he could take a raincheck because his mom was waiting up for him. I wanted to laugh out loud at this joke, but he actually moved me to the side and stepped out of the car, asking me to take a cab because he had to rush now and could not drop me home “as planned”.
Poor man had to wait till my Uber arrived.
List of mental notes which will never see the light of day
Now, as I stand in the familiar dark corridor of my building, rummaging through my bag like a routine drill, I make a mental note to never depend on a guy. As I do this, I also remind myself to replace the fused light bulb above my apartment’s entrance.
What a fortunate time for my housemate’s parents to be over! Now, I might just be angry blabbering in my own head, but Neha knew I was at my parents’ place for the last two weeks, and hadn’t had any action.
Did my ‘good friend’ Neha just try to cock-block me? Couldn’t she have invited her parents while I was away? With this final thought I finally feel a small, cold silver key which I take out and silently insert into the lock (with all due respect to my nether region), afraid of my new house inmates.
Sex and sale, my only true loves have dissapointed me gravely this month
I tip-toe to my room not wanting to wake up uncle and aunty, and be answerable to them about my whereabouts post midnight. Neha’s parents are nice, they brought laddoos for me and homemade veggie macaroni that I am supposed to heat and eat the same day. I am not fond of these food items, as far as my opinion matters macaroni is just pasta for tasteless people.
I quickly heat a bowl of the macaroni, because sadness and munchies take over me, and ditch the skin care routine that I had just gotten used to. After spending a third of my salary on the ‘custom-free’ Beauty Bay sale (where everything was barely marked down by a dollar), one would imagine I am a skincare enthusiast–no. I was compelled to burn a third of my salary on that stuff because everyone in the office was.
Not a time to whine over money splurged on sales, when I am still reeling from the embarrassing turn my night took and ended in no sex. How do I explain my love for both the big S’s in my life? To make it simple, my best friend Sam wouldn’t call me promiscuous. But she does call me “rangeen” which I have come to understand means promiscuous only.
Dear Diary, are you the only true companion of this basic millennial soul of mine?
Finally in my pajamas, and face washed with chilled water, I tuck myself into bed with my bowl of as-spicy-as-habanero macaroni. As I open my beloved ‘Dear Diary’ to cut off Rishabh’s name from my ‘Prospective Dick List’ for the month, I make my infamous mental note one last time before I call it a day—do not choose men who look like they don’t know the meaning of ‘planning’.
I take out my prized possession, my trusty bullet, to finish off my night. I lay on my back, relax my muscles, open the latest episode of my favourite porn series and pleasure myself at a speed level 3 vibration. I silently orgasm, go pee and come back to bed finally to catch some z’s as the clock strikes three.
I, Ira, might have had a disappointing night but my job doesn’t care about it. Ira needs to get up, get ready and punch in at work at 10 am, and be the lifestyle writer she gets paid to be.
*Join me next week to know about my hits and misses in the youthful wonderland of dates and dating.
