I had a conversation with a friend. She was having trouble with her man. Hearing her pour her troubles into the coffee we had ordered I realized the perils of being a girlfriend are more or less that of a wife except the bills, nappy changing, boredom, EMI. Why bother then, is what I ask? Why not stay the girlfriend? The fear of “what if he does not pop the question”.
Yet, we pursue these defined "safe" relationships because we live in a society that frowns upon anything other than. Who makes these rules and casts aspersions. Trust me, the very ones who have many a skeleton spilling out of their spouse's closet. So we live according to the mores spelt out. Step out of the boundaries and one is labeled. Fear makes us seek refuge in “definitions”.
I have spent many a boring evening questioning the (never-to-be-spoken-in-polite company) word “mistress".
What does one get being a girlfriend, partner, soul mate. All different words for for the same “taken for granted, irritating, wish you were dead”. Yes, these are the familiar lines thrown during a fight. One never hears these during the courtship days, fights are controlled and contained with love and blooming red roses. Weeks and months into the relationship, the smiles are replaced by irritation at the sight of the person, the excuse is either “PMS” for the woman, or “I’m having a tough day at work” for the man. I’ve also come to the conclusion men are our PMS and they too suffer from PMS. Otherwise how does one explain them being irritated throughout. Basically it should be termed as Perennial Male Syndrome. That would be another chapter. Oh, we can go on about our men.
Coming back to the “mistress”. Whats wrong with being a man’s mistress?
One fulfills the same obligations, yes it becomes an obligation when you are a wife, out of fear that he may stray and since you are juggling many a chore. That’s the reason for the frequent bouts of headaches we suffer from. The mistress like the wife or girlfriend, is with one man. Though the girlfriend has greater options of playing the field or leaving him if it does not survive the test of time. Yet, the girlfriend will bind herself by trying to make it work, the forever optimist. The wife cannot leave as she is bound by law and children. The mistress is bound by money. The key? Find a Rich Daddy.
You turn cartwheels in bed, age permitting for both, or you’ll have a dead daddy on your hand and have to shop for a new one soon. It’s easier to turn cartwheels when you have to stare at the ceiling and think of the next big rock that may adorn your finger.
The mistress is always well dressed when he visits her. He gets to see her in the “one dreams of women only in” lace lingerie. The wife is between nappies, or juggling kids and a career or running the home, so he sees her in everyday boring attire. She does not have time to change out of her everyday lingerie, no the right word would be "undies" as lingerie is so much more sexy, something we women save for that special night which never happens because shhhh… the kids may wake up!
I doubt the other woman's hair is ever out of place. Naturally, while the wife is packing lunch, she’s getting a wash and her nails done!
Do they ever fight? Am sure over the stray chipped nail polish or strand of hair that covered her left breast during the act or her increasing shopping bill which she but needs to pout over and everything is alright. Does he ever fight with his wife? Of course about how she never listens - not that he talks to her anymore - how she doesn’t dress up anymore - as she is so busy looking after his brood - which she gets no credit for and balancing the home and maybe work too and how she is crabbity all the time since she is left to pick up after everybody.
The wife is a case of lust being translated into love then marriage and then all downhill thereafter. The girlfriend is a case of lust being translated into relationship which ends up getting mired in fights and tears. Mistress is a case of absolute lust each time. Isn't that what sex is about.
They say a mistress’s life is lonely, well so is a wife’s. While she waits for him till the wee hours unaware of his whereabouts, at least the mistress knows where he is headed once he steps off her porch.
I know I have convinced myself about a mistress having it a lot easier.....!
Friday, April 16, 2010
Sinful Indulgences
I have fallen in love at 40, yes, I still do love my husband. The laws of attraction state that “thou shalt not covet another”. This is a love that is unadulterated, sensuous to the touch and sinful when in my mouth. I had avoided this interaction for years, actually I loathed it. But when I reached out and put my tongue to it, it was such ecstasy that I knew I had sinned and there was no turning back.
I have since confessed to my husband. Initially he was reluctant but decided to be party to this. He is a silent spectator, he actually enjoys watching me in the throes when I have my fingers deep into it, when I knead the butter into the dough. Its the yellow stick. A love I have discovered since for all things with butter. Butter on hot toast, butter and sugar on the chapati or naan, corn with a huge drizzle of butter, butter in rice, butter on my roast chicken and butter on my fingers. Its pure delight to lick butter off the fingers when baking, as I did yesterday for a friend.
I do believe a woman is very attractive with a flour face, strands of hair framing her face and smelling of butter. I would not recommend this for a night out on the town or a first date unless its Gordon Ramsey. Once upon a time I ignored butter and prided myself on it, as association with it meant it went south of the border.
My time spent with my new passion have resulted in ample handles. Now I have been educated on the reason for the love handles and decided to keep mine. One has to earn these love handles. Today I would qualify as Michelangelo’s or Rembrandt’s muse with my fertile handles. All thanks to butter I have more heads turn today as I sashay past.
I wonder if it’s the fragrance of butter or the hips that don’t lie.
I have since confessed to my husband. Initially he was reluctant but decided to be party to this. He is a silent spectator, he actually enjoys watching me in the throes when I have my fingers deep into it, when I knead the butter into the dough. Its the yellow stick. A love I have discovered since for all things with butter. Butter on hot toast, butter and sugar on the chapati or naan, corn with a huge drizzle of butter, butter in rice, butter on my roast chicken and butter on my fingers. Its pure delight to lick butter off the fingers when baking, as I did yesterday for a friend.
I do believe a woman is very attractive with a flour face, strands of hair framing her face and smelling of butter. I would not recommend this for a night out on the town or a first date unless its Gordon Ramsey. Once upon a time I ignored butter and prided myself on it, as association with it meant it went south of the border.
My time spent with my new passion have resulted in ample handles. Now I have been educated on the reason for the love handles and decided to keep mine. One has to earn these love handles. Today I would qualify as Michelangelo’s or Rembrandt’s muse with my fertile handles. All thanks to butter I have more heads turn today as I sashay past.
I wonder if it’s the fragrance of butter or the hips that don’t lie.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Bitch Barbie Bimbette
Woah, a combination of the three is a man’s ultimate dream. The bitch has claws and makes her own decisions, Barbie is pretty and smart as ken is always in her shadow and the bimbette is the arm candy and she enjoys that position. Denials I hear at the table, loud denials saying utter rubbish over the sushi and sake, yea those are the lunches we attend as we are uber cool and can afford it. We don’t call our sisters sluts anymore, unless they are serious competition or we hate them enough which is more often than not. See we’re not confused, we know whom we hate and whom we like. We’ve reserved the term slut for appendages that are dipped into every pond, river, lake. And talking about sizes, we do overlook the male size as long as the size of the rock, house , car and everything else can be bigger, flashier than the shutterbugs.
Had lunched with the well heeled ladies this afternoon. The sisterhood bond over a rump steak and iced tea. Once out of the door, it frightens me if I too am the end of the gossip stick. Its amazing how lurid details about peoples sex lives flow forth over straws and paper napkins. I do believe women bitch far more than men, men discuss jock and chaddi straps and swap stories of the supposed swinging women who am sure do not even know of their existence. Bitching takes all dimensions. The afternoon’s conversation veered towards homely women, some from my very backyard who are deflowered by so many gardeners I doubt there’s any nectar left. I thought I was built of sterner stuff since I looked slightly flushed with the conversation.
Of diamond merchants, builders wives, all well named women in society who pose for the shutterbugs with the right Fendi bag matched by the wrong outfit and even more ghastly shoe. Why must they all run out and buy the same bag in the same colour. I guess the stores have figured out how many of those bags to order as they have done the census on the fashion clueless, moneyed ladies .
I question what prompts these ladies in the right societies to stay in such marriages, compromise is the word. Give up all this and move to where, Virar and do the smelly armpit local train travel. Yes I have questioned why don’t they leave, been told time and again, its part of the silent marriage contract. In the Hindu marriage contract they get nada (Spanish for nothing) if they step out of the laxman rekha, yes all they are left with is the husband’s nada( Indian pantaloon string) in their hands, which wont buy them groceries forget the Gucci.
Had lunched with the well heeled ladies this afternoon. The sisterhood bond over a rump steak and iced tea. Once out of the door, it frightens me if I too am the end of the gossip stick. Its amazing how lurid details about peoples sex lives flow forth over straws and paper napkins. I do believe women bitch far more than men, men discuss jock and chaddi straps and swap stories of the supposed swinging women who am sure do not even know of their existence. Bitching takes all dimensions. The afternoon’s conversation veered towards homely women, some from my very backyard who are deflowered by so many gardeners I doubt there’s any nectar left. I thought I was built of sterner stuff since I looked slightly flushed with the conversation.
Of diamond merchants, builders wives, all well named women in society who pose for the shutterbugs with the right Fendi bag matched by the wrong outfit and even more ghastly shoe. Why must they all run out and buy the same bag in the same colour. I guess the stores have figured out how many of those bags to order as they have done the census on the fashion clueless, moneyed ladies .
I question what prompts these ladies in the right societies to stay in such marriages, compromise is the word. Give up all this and move to where, Virar and do the smelly armpit local train travel. Yes I have questioned why don’t they leave, been told time and again, its part of the silent marriage contract. In the Hindu marriage contract they get nada (Spanish for nothing) if they step out of the laxman rekha, yes all they are left with is the husband’s nada( Indian pantaloon string) in their hands, which wont buy them groceries forget the Gucci.
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