A vampire’s life, contrary to the general perception these dumb, ignorant media folks spread, is in fact, pretty boring. It is basically a loop of waiting and tremendous self restraint. A normal human has the entire 24 earth hours to time himself, to engage in whatever activity he wishes to, whereas I, only get the few hours of darkness to keep myself alive. The rest is spent in utter boredom.
To suppress this boredom, I decided to become a writer. After all, what is more fulfilling than to be appreciated by people? But the problem is, that I am not a good writer. I do not know, how or what to write, so that I can be a bestseller. After many hours of brainstorming, (for I am pretty slow for a vampire), I stumbled upon the ideal solution. Sex. I shall be write erotica. If there is anything, humans love it. The shortcut to success, the instant recipe to fame!
But then, a problem surfaced. I have never had sex. How can I write on something that I havn’t yet experienced? Doing it with a human seemed out of the question, for it was fraught with all kinds of complications in case of bleeding. Thereby I proceeded to the option that most young people chose for their, erm, education, p0rn.
After 75 days, during which, I watched almost every porn movie that is there to be seen, I sat down to write. But words failed me. I decided to read a few books, to get a hang of how to write.
Naturally, I was biased in my selection. Raiding a bookstore in the wee hours of the night, I straight away headed to the vampire section, where I purchased my copy of the best selling Twilight series.
Back at my apartment, I sat down to read it. I was pretty fascinated by the legend of Edward Cullen, and the image of Bella concocted by the author aroused within me sensations unknown. And that was it, then. I decided, made it my goal rather, to have sex, at least once, with every physical type of woman on the planet, irrespective of the complications it posed.
I’d prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance, I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing.
Okay?
Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realize when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Hugh Hefner. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim - and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision - I’d obviously set my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective.
-----------A month on from then--------------
I am forced to concede that my writing would have been better served by writing more and researching less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn’t entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very practical benefit. If my collection of memories isn’t as comprehensive as I’d have wished (variations on the theme of plainness are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), mental snapshots of the women I was able to cop are, in their quantity and variety, more than sufficient to save me the price of a subscription to "Maxim."
But, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell.
Not least for the adventure it amounted to, a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Champa Devi who’d just days before - and for the first time - come to New Delhi from Mumbai on a month-long vacation.
We met in a bar. I was standing alone, having already fed for the night, casing the action, when I heard, right behind me, the sound of a sharp quick fart - like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word "humongous" could accurately depict - a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China.
She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized the opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn’t yet scored.
In a brief conversation - during which it occurred to me that she’d be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds - Champa Devi told me she was a cashier at a Sabka Bazar (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it offered); that she had once played a highway truck in a school play, and that her parents had tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks after her birth.
Then she invited me to her hotel room.
(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.
"That’s it," he nudged the customer slouched in front of him. "Right there - that dude. That’s the definition of drunk.")
At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, the first thing Champa Devi did was crack open, and intake, the complete contents of a package of Uncle Chips in one go. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don’t recall) a container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size tub of Strawberry icecream.
Finally she put an A.R. Rahman CD into her music player.
Now it’s not that I mind A.R. Rahman all that much, but the more appropriate musical accompaniment to the night’s activities would have been the theme from 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'. The thing was - and my insistence that we leave on no more than the bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor - I could not for the life of me find Champa Devi’s vulva. I’d heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. What was compounding the problem? Simply put, Champa Devi’s body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field of hazards and challenges it presented. I’m speaking of the twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn’t believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I’d located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I’d inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What’s more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Champa Devi’s anatomy.
You’re thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded like the swift currents of a babbling brook. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I’d located Champa Devi’s stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.
I was at last at the pleasure grove.
Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal other men would certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived, however. After effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more. Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing power of Champa Devi’s pelvic motion. It was really disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep inside myself for a stick-to-itiveness that I wasn’t at all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest within minutes, I managed, this time, to more or less stay put and, let me tell you, like clinging to the back of a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating as skydiving from 10,000.
In the morning, Champa Devi, cheery and humming to herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a time-delay Polaroid of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I am in it. That’s the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in Delhi now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine could possibly surpass her night with me.
Having completed my mission and worried she’d suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by and supportive of her decision.
As I departed though, I did sense from her expression that she was maybe a little ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I’ll never know just what the thing was.
And Yes, it certainly isn’t something that I regret.
