WHISPERING HOLLOW!

“You’ve got to go to the store for me,” she says.
It’s early morning and she has menstrual cramps.
There’s no mistaking the urgency in her voice. She is in pain, and I must feel some of her pain. This is the big red one, and it’s bearing down on her.
“Go to the store. I need Whisper Ultra,” she says from the couch, television on, but she has that thousand-yard stare that tells me this is somehow all my fault.
I can and must redeem myself by going to the store for her.
She is clearly not a planner.
I ask her if she needs anything else, and she shakes her head _ not a firm no. The rules are that I should bring her some sort of treat, a candy bar, a chocolate, something to make her feel better and show her I am thinking of her.
“I’ll be back,” I say, pulling on a jacket. I close the door behind me and smile at her through the windowpane. She doesn’t smile back.
The store is nearly empty _ the only customers are two guys arguing over whether to buy a loaf of brown bread or garlic twistys. This is a good thing. Buying sanitary towels for your woman is a potentially embarrassing thing, best done under the cover of darkness. It is why they give you that illusionary black polypack.
Satisfied that no one is watching, I make my break for the feminine-hygiene aisle. On my way, I spot the rack of condoms and recollect my first experience with drugstore embarrassment _ 16 years old, and I had to have them, even though I didn’t yet have anyone to share them with. The cashier took one look at my red face and trembling hands and went easy on me, packing the condoms in a brown paper bag with my other purchases: Chiclets, a bottle of Thum’s Up, six eggs and a snack-size bag of chips. Whisper was a whole different beast. Back then there was the dim hope that some girl would take pity on me and let me use the condoms. Now all I want is to make my woman happy, keep her from bleeding all over the bedsheets and remind her that when this is finished that I am so devoted to her _ so devoted that I buy her Whisper at all sorts of odd time. I am earning points, and when it is over, my good deed will not go unnoticed. The few times I have suggested she stock up, she crinkles her nose at me and says she thinks she has some.
To which I reply, “Do you think or do you know? Because last time I had to run out and get them, remember?”
She smiles and tells me not to worry. So we don’t buy them when we are the grocery store, where we’re supposed to heap the cart full of those embarrassing personal-hygiene, anti-this-and-that things because you have enough stuff to cover for you.
Then it happens. After days of bloating and hot flashes, cravings for pasta and coffee, it comes _ the period _ and not only is she in pain, but she is unprepared.
When I arrive at the store, I go straight to the sales personnel and tell him what I want without looking as much in his eyes. I don’t want to be the guy to make his day _ the dude who came in early morning and bought only Whisper. So I look around. My choices are limited: replacement flint for a Zippo lighter, a packet of Marlboro Reds, some double spearmint flavoured Orbit and few bottles of soda. I drop the stuff on the counter and fish around for the money. The guy at the counter puts it all in a brown paper bag and then stares at the packet of Whisper for a moment. Then he looks at me, and I can see this smile creep across his face as he runs the scanner over the packet. At this point, I have been gone for almost twenty minutes, and I am running dangerously low on the what-too-you-so-long meter, which every twenty-eight days can and will without warning turn into the where-the-hell-have-you-been, I-am-in-pain meter. He tells me how much, and I grab my change and pick up the packet. The cashier smirks as he tells me to have a good day. Part of me wants to turn around and ask him if it looks like I’m preparing for a good day. But that would only delay my stay at the store further.
When I get home, she is still on the couch. The television is blaring some infomercial. I smile and wave the bag at her as I step through the door.
“What took you so long?” she asks.
I mumble something about traffic, which she knows is bullshit but lets slide because she is focused on the bag. She gets up and grabs the bag from me, opens it and exclaims, “Soda? You bought soda?”
I shrug, preferring the simple explanation, which is none at all. She wouldn’t understand how important it was that I buy something else besides Whisper, that even now appearances matter.
But things take a turn for the worse when she plucks the packet of Whisper from the bag and stares at it.
“You bought small? What the hell am I gonna do with small?”
“You can’t use them, just for today?” I ask.
“Not unless you want them to shoot right out of me,” she snarls, waving the packet.
I make a face and hold up a hand.
She is in pain, and I have failed her. Not only did I buy soda, but I have come back with the wrong size Whisper.
“I didn’t know there was difference,” I say.
This is my second mistake. Of course, I know there is a difference, just like I know Tampax and panty liners are not the same thing as Kotex.
And she knows I know this.
“You didn’t pay attention. You were gone all that time and you come back with these?”
She shakes the packet at me. I avoid mistake three by not suggesting that perhaps she should buy her own Whisper or that maybe she should plan for these things and have supplies on hand.
“I am sorry,” I say. She skulks back to the couch, leaving me with my smoke and the packet of Whisper Small.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Go back to the store. Regular. Get the Regular. That’s all I want. They are in a blue packet.”
“Everything’s in a blue packet.”
She lets that one slide.
I grab the car keys and pull on my jacket.
“Anything else?” I ask.
She gets up and comes to me and wraps her arms around my waist. And for a moment I am her conquering hero again _ out to right my wrong and deliver.
“I love you,” she says, smiling. ‘And don’t forget to return these.”
She slips the packet of Whisper Small into my jacket pocket.

BACK TO MINE!

Is it possible to scrub away memories with a rag, a bottle of Colin and sheer upper body strength? No, but tomorrow I will try.

I’m not sure why I invited him to come to my place in the first place. It was one of those intemperate gestures of largesse made on the spur of the moment when I was flush with endorphins and the discoloured memories of him were still freshly manifest on my inner thighs and knees.

The invitation was intended just for some hours as he was coming to town with a mixture of friends and colleagues, for a long - and predictably big - weekend, of which I was to be a highlight.

He called earlier in the week to double-check the arrangements.

“I’ll be flying in on Thursday. And I’m coming to your house, right? You sure that’s ok?” He had even made that line sound persuasively unsure and hesitant – bless his conniving little heart – such that any retraction on my part would put him in the category of Wronged Plaintiff and me in the category of Evil Indian Giver.

“Of course it’s ok!” I said a tad shrilly, knowing that I had now officially committed myself to delivering on my impetuous promise.

My mind was racing. Is the loo sparkling clean? Did I have enough sheets, enough towels? Did I do my laundry last week – if so, where was it? Should I tell the maid to come in on Wednesday instead of Friday? Was the stuff on my shelves up to snuff – did it accurately reflect my (ahem) oh-so well-rounded but eclectic tastes in literature and music? And most importantly, is there enough stuff in the refrigerator just in case he wants to eat? Shit.

To those of you that think I was being a typical woman and making an awful fuss about nothing, I would probably have to agree.

It’s not that I have never had other people over in my house. No, I’ve had both visiting friends and family stay with us with nary a complaint. We’ve even had dinner parties where my friends were more than happy to sit around a coffee table placed in the middle of the floor - listening to Pink Floyd, eating pasta, drinking wine and doing all sorts of things.

So what then is the problem? I’ve never had a man, any man, and definitely not the man who gets me more hot and bothered than all others, at my place. I mean I don’t usually let most men stick around long enough, anyway. And if they do, what is wrong with their place – so I can come and go as I please – or failing that a hotel room? Anyway, “back to mine” has never been an option really given the consideration I live with my parents.

But having peeped in quite a few people’s cupboards in my time myself, I know that observing a person's habitat often reveals more about their character, priorities in life and predilections in the sack without one having to explicitly ask.

If you must know, I once dumped a man who arranged his CDs in alphabetical order because predictably, he was only any good as a missionary-style fuck. Another had vats of protein and creatine supplements lined up in his kitchen instead of normal olive oil, pepper, salt and garlic. He turned out not to have a single hair on his body (and I’m talking chin, hands, pubes, armpits, toes – nothing!) and loved to fuck in the mirror.

So what sort of real estate gets me wet? I like residences with big hot tubs on the roof, well-stocked kitchens, huge libraries, coffee table books, cosy shagpile carpets, lived-in colonial furniture, houseplants, quirky designer chairs, cool audiophile sound systems, contemporary art (preferably drawn by you), the list goes on but you get the idea. These don’t have to be lavish postal code 10 or 11 addresses – just homey-homes that are clean, interesting, original, tasteful, full of character and well, you.

I wondered what my house said about me. But first, let me give you a little more by way of description: I do not live in a fussy apartment. In fact, since I live with my parents means my home is more sparse and unfurnished than anything else.

Second, we do not own a painfully stylish pad straight out of the pages of Vogue Living. Even if I tried changing the setting, my mother or father would seal its fate by convincing me that my holding out for a red suede bean bag is plain silly and talk me into buying an infinitely more practical sofa instead. In the rousing shades of teakwood, no less. (I still have regrets about this and will apologise for my couch’s uninspired existence given the slightest opportunity.)

Third, my house doesn’t have a back-door entry making it impossible for the guy to jump from the third-floor balcony. I don’t intend to stay here forever, but when I do eventually move, I will have moulted and shed a skin.

Every possession I have in my home has survived the initial journey to Delhi with me and I love them all like a parent loves his idiot offspring. I have my favourite CDs and yes, a whole collection of Archies. I have books that have sustained my dad’s numerous transfers from this end of the country to that, which is several cities and towns now, my most loyal friends and my salvation when I need respite from unforgiving reality.

And that? That over there is what one calls a shoe collection. Oh yes, the force of Imelda is strong in this one.

“They don’t build shoe cupboards big enough for 70 pairs of shoes”, I pertly informed him, as he regarded a diamante-encrusted pair curiously. He had just breached the maidenhead of my apartment and was now looming threateningly like a conquering crusader exploring the 1700 square-foot spoils of territory.

“What do you eat, girl?” He had poked his head into my fridge but gave me no chance to retort or reply because he had already moved onto a different part of the room. Damn him.

“Mmmm, 60 Archies! And what do we have here… Camus…” he said, with a bemused laugh in his voice, which I immediately interpreted as mocking derision of course. It was all I could do to keep myself from unceremoniously ejecting him and suggesting that we check into the nearby hotel.

“You are too ‘man’ for this apartment,” I wailed, somewhat self-consciously. I gulped back the tension building in the back of my throat.

During his stay, we broke in different parts of my house. First of course was the bed – on which we fucked, cuddled, slept, played, filmed and chatted on. Then, the kitchen counter table – on which I perched with my legs spread-eagled next to the gas stove as he very patiently (and torturously) taught me step-by-step how to go down on a woman. The bathroom – in which we washed off sweat and semen together and where I took the first leap of faith and told him all about myself(!!!). And finally, the couch – where he laid naked on top of me until daylight, alternately kissing and stroking, whilst I read aloud in a hoarse, subdued voice what I wrote about him.

My favourite activity all weekend was to watch him lazily stretch out in bed or use my computer in my room whilse I busied myself cleaning up or getting dressed. These were Martha Stewart moments – picture-perfect pockets of comfort and normalcy – rare in a relationship like ours. And thus, all the more treasured.

Then, as quickly as he came, he was gone.

But my house has traitorously and indelibly retained the feel of him. I smell his sweat on my towels, and the trace of Issey aftershave lingers hauntingly in my spare room. He is on the empty wine glass, and most CSI-certifiably on my sheets. And I miss the unmistakable ivy-creep of masculine garments from his bag to the counter stool to the clothes rack.

Presently, I stand back, objectively surveying the damage. My house suddenly feels cavernous. An old shell that was temporarily colonised and now abandoned, threatens to crumble to dust. Thanks, but no thanks.

Today I will let it grieve. I will sleep on the outer side of the bed – and imagine the full-length of him outstretched besides me in a diagonal imbibing the sounds on the streets into our collective subconscious. I will keep his wine glass by my bed – and think about our last night together and the peculiar visitor who came to make it special. I will envy the little key-chain that somehow managed to accidentally fall into his luggage and now travels with him.

And then tomorrow - I will clean and do the laundry.

ZZ TOP!

Adieu! Zizou! You have your head and heart at the right places.

HEAVY PETTING!

There is a new accessory without which no modern woman’s life is complete. It’s not tights that are ladder-proof, or a painless depilator: it’s a new type of man.

Women, you see, no longer want men to take on responsibilities. They just want men to run errands, perform tasks set down on lists, polish handbags. They want someone to keep at home to hug and cuddle, a man who, occasionally, on their own terms, they can use and abuse, take out on display, pamper and ignore. They want men to be like food from the uncle’s shop: convenient, with easily definable labels and sell-by dates. They want men to be their pets.

Petting is the latest thing _ women, at last, have come out as the pragmatic powerbrokers they truly are. They want realistic control. They want men to do happily what they are told. They are the women who read Nancy Friday’s Women on Top not because it’s a good book, but because it gives them something to do while their pets are muff diving.

Although there are hybrids, and cross overs, the pet is a simple animal easily classified into four species. As long as the pet knows his type and his place, he will have a cherished life.

Professional Pets, for example, are the sort of laptop-sized office portable types that every high-powered woman would keep near her work station. They are bred in kennels and come in either black or grey jackets. They are the least physical of all the species, usually content to drone on about their careers, have their egos stroked periodically and make the tea. They can, however, pose the most problems. They have a tendency to work to hidden agendas, secretly despising their subservient positions yet getting off on fantasies about leather-clad female executives throwing them over the desk for a good beating.

Household Pets, however, are rarely beaten _ domestic abuse, after all, can lead to the neighbours calling in the SPCA. Chosen correctly, they are peerless.

Essentially, they go out and hunt (usually at the supermarket), come home and cook.
Of all pet types these are the ones who require the most care and stroking. Keepers must bed down with them otherwise they have a tendency to get neurotic, overeat and over-drink, and become hard to handle. They are often referred to as “husbands.”

Which is not to confuse them with Social Pets, who also help with entertaining. Social Pets are just that: social. These are the guys whom women get to carry their handbags or hire out to their girlfriends. Good social pets are a dying breed because they require training, and must have membership of clubs, and money. They have a sense of humour _ which is just as well because they are often driven by the mistaken belief that the women might take them to bed. Poor souls.

So what’s in all this, I hear you ask, for you men? Well, for one thing, you will be loved and adored. The better you get at your new position, the more you will be treasured. They will buy you little gifts, pamper you and take you out to mingle with other pets. And in doing so, they will have removed from your shoulders that outdated macho urge to be Top Dog. You can relax because everything is much simpler: all you have to do is apply for one of the newly formed vacancies: Professional, Household, Social or…

Bed. It’s the toughest job of all and the most important category. IT’S the one with the most applications, and rejections. Yet it has the easiest entry qualification: touch the bottom of a pint glass with your tongue, without breaking your neck, ad the position’s all yours. Everything else is a simple matter of training.

You Know You're Mindfucked When...

...with truth and context held at bay, you play together with the desperate carelessness of the damned. You are a man in your element and she is the perfect aphrodisiac. For that stolen slice of time, you allow yourselves to be as the Immortals were, masters of your universe and savouring every minute. It's now that mindfuck begins.

...she becomes a splinter embedded in the rabbit-hole of your altered consciousness. You reminisce. You daydream. You wonder. It irritates you. She has infiltrated your subconscious. It scares you. And you're glad.

The thing is, I - of all people - should know better and believe me, I smell the deja vu in this situation, as do you. You'd think that age and experience would keep me from making the same mistakes. But alas, it contends with the sheer obstinacy of the human temperament and I must be biologically hard-wired to behave in the same impulsive, foolhardy way that I have since birth.

In popular culture, the way a mindfuck ends is that it usually destroys the host. And up to that point, things are just suspended in an unpredictable tangle of red herrings and ambiguity. And so I predict it will be with this particular mindfuck. It is thrilling, stimulating, exhausting and goes against every fibre of rational thought.

Do I think it will end in disaster? Yes. Do I think I will end up hurt by all this? Yes. Do I go along with it anyway? Of course. And thus I wait patiently, alongside you, like any other obedient mindfuck victim for the plot to unfold.