humans are funny

Category: old men

  • WARNING: This post says ‘fuck’ and ‘pussies’


    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

  • Day 2: I regret not eating more raisins.

    I stepped on one of the many scales on the sidewalks of Delhi put out by a beggar to make a quick rupee (2 cents US). I figured I should see how many kilos all this eating of foreign delights had put on me. Immediately, I was stuck in a swarm of curious men, women and children. This many people had not been on the sidewalk a second earlier. But as soon as a white woman wants to know her weight, they use an intricate system of communication that calls out to all Indians in droves. They pushed and pawed to get a look at my 58 kilos. And, in the middle of it all, I laughed. Not because of the lack of privacy in India. Because someone squeezed my ass.

    Not an hour after the scale event of the century, I dawdled by the entrance to the Red Fort. It’s where the old emperor lived back in the day. To be honest, I really don’t care where the old emperor lived. But it was in the guidebook and it was next to the best desert shop in the city.

    Anyway, a man in his sixties with perfect teeth and hennaed hair is suddenly in step with me.

    “It’s a shame foreigners have to pay 250 rupees and Indians only 10. Really not fair.”

    “Let me guess, you live in a village and your wife has had some disease for 50 years and so you’re still a virgin and if you could just take me to a travel agency and then have sex with me, your life would be perfect?”

    Ok, I didn’t really say that, but I thought it. I held onto my bag with fury.

    “Do you mind if I walk through the fort with you? I am a tourist as well.”

    Another one. Right. He happened to know all about the fort and which building was what. Tourist shmourist.

    Turns out this guy just wanted to get me to be his patient. He’s an ayurvedic doctor who can cure everything. “Including all those splotches on your face,” he said.

    We walked through the fort together. I bought him a tea. He bought me a jaleebi (You must try this. It‘s a funnel cake fried in a huge vat of oil and soaked in some fatty syrup.).

    Before we parted, he gave me a free prescription which would help me be “more womanly.”

    For this I should soak ten raisins overnight in a glass ¼ filled with water. He spent quite a long time describing how to ensure the glass was a quarter filled. Then, in the morning, I am supposed to eat each raisin one by one.

    “What do you mean more womanly?” I asked.

    He motioned to his chest and then made that curvy hourglass figure with his hands.

    “Are you saying I need bigger boobs, sir?”

    “Well, models are chosen as models because they have the bodies that everyone wants. And they all have curves.”

    “So, you are saying that I need bigger boobs then?”

    “Yes.”

    This is the one picture I took that day. The old man insisted we take a picture together, but I was convinced he knew every single Indian and had pre-planned for them to steal my camera. What? The first guy really revved up my paranoia.


    THOUGHTS: So this is the India everyone warned me about. SHIT! This is the India everyone warned me about!