Udaipur is beautiful. And full of color and tradition. It’s the India you imagine.
You can have spiritual conversations with any store owner. You can watch handicrafts being crafted on every corner. You can see elephants gossiping and donkeys working.
But there’s something sexual I can’t put my finger on.
Again, I was accosted by several men on motorcycles who wanted to “show me around.” Of course I took it upon myself to dispel rumors, and I made them stop and listen to a tirade about how not every woman from the West wants to jump into bed with them and how many women like me are waiting for love and bla bla bla.
Then I met Harmony. She’s a Swedish teacher who comes to India each summer to have sexual relations with men half her age.
Oh.
Maybe Western women are sluts! Or maybe India is this big sex tourism capital and nobody told me about it. This could explain why every man thinks that my smile means I want to see his penis.
Hmmm….
I was thinking about it all one day as I walked into my hotel lobby to find the owner waiting for me. He was maybe 70. Grey hair. I earlier dubbed him ‘the cutest old man.’ When I said hello, he told me I looked sexy this evening.
“You mean I look Indian,” I corrected. I was wearing a full Punjabi suit.
He grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me into him. When I resisted he pulled and pulled. And I pulled and pulled back. Then he said, “Please, just kiss me.”
I just kept repeating ‘this is very weird’ over and over and pulling and pulling away from him until I freed myself and bolted to my room.
REALLY? I mean, really? Come on, really?
What ever happened to buying a girl a drink?
In the spirit of my newfound realization that women should not travel alone in India (especially really hot ones like myself), I present to you this poem:
I am Western, yes it’s true.
I’ve had sex maybe one time or two.
You are Indian, and sex is taboo
But still sir, no. I won’t have sex with you.
I know you think that for me sex is free.
But, sir, I’m in my twenties and you are 83.
Even if you say you’ll make me scream woo-eeee.
Not a modicum of me wants to test and see.
And you, sir, please, stop speaking to me French.
And inching to me closer on the white garden bench.
And telling me I’m sexy and that I look so good in red.
Is this really the way you think you’ll get me into bed?
Maybe you fucked a French chick last tourist season.
And maybe that Russian lady blew you without a stinkin reason.
Maybe the Swedish blonde took her clothes off in the lake.
And maybe the American girl let you fondle both her fakes.
So I see why you think we’re promiscuous and bold.
Especially since Indian women guard their pussies like they’re gold.
But this Western woman is not as easy as the next.
So, please sirs, please… stop asking me for sex