Love Spoils

I swipe through profiles on Tinder, almost as a force of habit. When I match with someone, I'm thrilled. I send an excited message to them, hoping they'd reply. Sometimes, there is a short lived conversation. Sometimes so short that it ends with an "I'm good". Sometimes, it develops into a long monologue about life, love, loss and longing. And they are reminded of me only when there is something else to rant about. And I'm forced to think, "Am I not approaching people the right way?", "Are my 'hi's and 'hello's too regular and boring?", "Am I a boring person to chat with, in the first place?", "Do people only want to talk about their life problems with me?".

One of my friends recently told me (and a group of other friends) that I give "amazing teacher vibes". Now, of course, that's a compliment, considering the professional stage I'm in. But has that always been so? These compliments/characterizations are not new, really. A good, calm and patient listener is an assessment that a lot of people have made of me. And that forces me to think. Am I patient listener, or am I just extremely slow at processing things?

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He sat across the table, smiling. I knew he was looking at me, although I didn’t look him in the eye. I looked down at the idli on the plate in front of me, laden with a handful of ghee and podi, wondering whether to attack the food first, or start a conversation.

“So, do you often meet guys, through this…uhm…app?”, I asked. 

“Yeah, I do, but haven't met someone in a long time, you know” he said.

“What do you want to do, once we are done with lunch?”, I asked.

“I don’t know….maybe, we can go somewhere, and chill. You want to come to my place?”, he asked.

‘My place’? That was quick. Could he be trusted? That was the first time we were seeing each other, and he wanted to take me home? But it wasn't as if I found him boring; talked well. But whatever, let’s take the risk, I thought. “Yeah, sure, why not”, was my final response.

In the almost 40-minute drive to his place, I was trying my best to look beyond his face, inside his head, what he really wanted from that day. In no time, an automated voice screamed from the driver’s phone, “You have arrived at your destination”. When we were finally inside his apartment, I could not help but gasp. Wooden flooring, french-windows, open kitchen. Fancy indeed. Any previous date which culminated in being taken to some place had otherwise been dingy rooms in the basement, or the cramped room on the roof of my house (if those visits can be called ‘dates’ in the first place).

“Fancy place, ya!”, I remember exclaiming. I couldn’t hide my amazement. What now? Will we proceed on to the bed, take off our clothes, and start the routine humping course?

“What would you prefer, red or white?”, he asked.

Red? White? What? Were they some condom flavours? “Uhm..whatever..”, I started to say. I almost wanted to bang my face against a wall when I noticed he was holding two bottles in his hands. Damn it. Wine. “White, please”, I said, trying best to hide my embarrassment at the otherwise carnal thought.

Sipping wine, sitting against the balcony door, we talked. And talked, and talked. We talked how we landed in this city, how we’ve been with other people in the past, about our ex-es, and what we liked in other people. It was going quite well, quite contrary to my expectations. And I was sufficiently buzzed. Buzzed enough to let him kiss me on my lips. And then to be pushed on to the bed. Gently. Not like the times when in the room on the roof of my house, it would feel hard and cold to be pinned against the wall, or to be pushed on to the loosely strung bed.

A few minutes later we were in the bathroom. Stark naked, with water running over our bodies from the shower above. We kissed. Touched each other. Ran our hands over each possible corner of our bodies. It felt good. It felt different. Our erect penises rubbed against each other. I looked into his eyes. Was there an expectation of a blow-job? Before he could say anything, I blurted, “I’m sorry, I don’t really enjoy sucking a dick.” Almost as if shocked, he said, “No, no! I didn’t mean to ask you for one!”. Oh, okay, I wondered. That was pleasantly surprising. But I couldn’t help noticing his eyes on me. After a point, the gaze became a stare. “Uhm, hello..?", I said. “Oh, sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t help getting distracted looking at you.” Flushed scarlet, I stepped outside the bathroom and sat outside. The date had gone well.

-

Recently, I was talking to one of my friends. Actually, to more than one. How sometimes, I fear I'm going to be largely alone for the years to come. And I was implying a romantic-loneliness. But that also made me think. Why am I seeking romance in these 'relationships'? Rather, why am I seeking 'relationships' for romance anyway? There are so many other spaces and people where I can get and demand that. But, again, I think. Am I consoling myself? Am I trying to make up for a failed (first) attempt at love? Am I just an a/un-romantic person? Or has my (limited) experience of love been too limited for me to judge love in the first place?

"Love is the beginning of heartbreak", is a line I read recently. It stayed with me for a few days. And I kept on thinking. What do I fear/judge? Love? Or heartbreak? What does anyone even mean when they say "I love you"? I'll never know that. I can only re-look at the 'love' that pierced through and shook me for the past few years. Till then, the dilemma is here to stay and I guess, I'll have to live with it.

Oh, but these anecdotes will continue. That's something I love :D