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JHOOMUR BOSE

Confessionally Yours

PENGUIN METRO READS

CONFESSIONALLY YOURS

Jhoomur Bose is a former journalist, blogger and full-time mother. She has written for various Indian magazines, newspapers and websites and currently lives in Melbourne, Australia. She writes about stuff that happens and stuff she wishes would happen at http://twistingthetail.blogspot.com.

For my daughter Mia, my star

Vindaloo & Vibrators

Get them by the balls & their hearts & minds will follow

BLOG ARCHIVES

2009

September (8)

Sex, sweat & Sharon Stone

Size doesn’t matter, unless it’s the ego

The breasts of burden

The world at my fingertips

Suck it, shut it, forget it

October (10)

November (9)

December (6)

2010 (32)

24,688 HITS

Sex, sweat & Sharon Stone

The first time I had sex, I remember it being very sweaty. It was a sweltering June afternoon in Delhi and the ceiling fan did not work. There was a cooler in the room but neither the boy who was to fuck me, henceforth the Fucker, nor any of his four friends thought of turning it on. From what I could hear of the friends—sitting outside in the drawing room—they were arguing over who would go and buy more beer and who got to handle the remote control.

They planned to watch a rerun of the 1996 cricket World Cup, the quarter-finals between India and Pakistan. But that was to be after I was sent home. While their friend was inside—screwing me—they were watching an unedited version of Basic Instinct. The fight over the remote control erupted when one of them replayed the Sharon Stone-leg-crossing-flashing scene for the fifth time.

Earlier, none of the other boys had looked at me when I entered the house. The Fucker did not introduce anyone and ushered me into the bedroom. Just as he bent to kiss me, there was a knock. The Fucker answered the door and came back with a bed sheet.

‘Can you spread this?’ he said, while he fiddled with the fan regulator.

‘The fucking fan doesn’t work!’ he yelled out.

‘Just don’t forget the bed sheet, my mom will kill me,’ someone yelled back.

Then he kissed me or squeezed my breasts. I don’t remember which happened first. I remember holding on to him and my neck hurting from the stretching—he was very tall. I was about to ask him if he had locked the door when he threw me on the bed and pulled off my tee shirt. He fumbled with my bra clip and ripped it off. It was my favourite bra. Through a blur I saw that he was naked. There was a strange, cloying odour, like flesh that has been packed in too tight.

He said something about holding ‘it’ and condoms; I turned my head and covered my breasts. I heard plastic rip, he pinioned my hands on top of my head, pushed my thighs apart. I felt him thrust in, it was uncomfortable; I wondered if the door was locked.