By Anya Akhtar
Copyright ©2024
“You have never dated anyone?”
Past relationships are a rocky territory to discuss but what if you never had one and you were always the person who has had flings? Does that make you more appealing or sad?
I had fled from my daily life to the hills. They say that everything is calmer and more pleasant in the chilly winds of a hill station. I wanted to believe that, but I was sitting beside my next heartbreak.
It had been a month of volunteering at his workplace. 4 long weeks of wondering if I was living in a story in my head or was he feeling butterflies too. Butterflies and the heightened desire for a forbidden relationship. Throughout that time, I could never understand what his intentions were. He was older than me and spoke better than me so I naturally assumed that maybe I was not communicating my desires well enough. I had to prove to him that I was as mature and smart as him. I was not a kid and he was not my teacher. Oh yes, I was volunteering in a school where he was the English teacher.
After eons of hoping he asked me out and dropping hints of wanting to meet him without the other teachers, he told me that my guest house was on the way from his place so he could give me a ride back. We were out with fellow teachers as it was my last day at work. The teachers hooted. One came aside and reminded me that he was a good 20 years older. I told her that he was just like a mentor to me. A mentor, I wanted to learn a lot from.
As we were driving away, he drove ahead from my homestay. I pointed out that I was a couple of lanes behind and he looked over with his eyebrows raised. I laughed and said that he better not kidnap me and he replied that his intentions weren’t as bleak.
For about 4 hours, we were driving everywhere. We were arguing about books, reciting cringe poetry we had written years ago (his were from his 20s and mine were from a couple of months back) and discussing our past relationships. Then he asked me the one question that I was always too embarrassed to answer.
“You have never dated anyone?”
“No, living in the city isn’t as glamorous and explorative as people believe.”
“So you are single?”
“Are you single?”
He smiled. He didn’t answer the question. He smiled.
Even for a girl who has usually never stuck to the “never sleeping on the first date” rule, I had certain morals. A taken man is never okay. A taken older man who might have a wife is certainly not an exception.
“You didn’t answer. Are you single?”
I repeated. This was a breakpoint. A whole month of longing could go away based on his answer. I hoped he would lie. Then I prayed that he didn’t have to. Longing is notoriously destructive.
“I am. I have been for the past 2 years.”
While I did feel relieved, my nagging brain wanted to know what happened 2 years ago. If I had waited for a climax for this long, I could wait longer and hear a story that had a different climax. He told me about the girl before. A girl who is currently a doctor in chemical engineering. A girl for whom he fell in love with literature. A girl who was now married to another doctor while he was driving around with a volunteer from a metropolitan city who is set to leave his town in 48 hours.
I love a good story. If I can’t have one then I would like to imagine myself in one. Imagine the kind of love, my one-time men have fallen for. I wondered why it didn’t work with the girl he clearly had written some poems about. I wondered if I could do something to bring them back together. The idea that I could fix a love story always turned me on.
We continued driving around. Got ourselves a great bottle of whiskey and two tumblers. Parked near a fiery river and chugged down the whiskey that did nothing to cool down the burning need inside. I didn’t want to make the first move. He was older, he should know better.
“So you have always done casual?”
My legs were kicking the cold water and his thighs were pressed up beside me. They felt warm. I took a sip from my glass and looked over.
“I never understood what casual meant. I didn’t see them as my boyfriend but I did always want to keep in touch with them. They were my friends and I always knew a little too much about them. Cared about their interests. I still send Instagram posts of things they might like.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t tell me what casual means, sir.”
His hand that was tracing my thigh finally pulled my head towards him. My legs which were kicking the water, went around him as I pulled myself closer to him. It took a month but my hands were finally roaming his back. Pulling out his white shirt from the rugged blue jeans. Ruffling up his salt and pepper hair and feeling the prickle of his stubble on my chin.
We were drunk and slobbering and I called him, “sir” throughout. He took sometime making his dick hard and laughed that time and age has been cruel. I made a joke about how I like his age. He made a joke about how he likes mine. I was too drunk to care that we were both trying to live a fantasy that we would keep secret for decades.
Sex near a river is not as exciting as how I had imagined it to be. My knees had grass burns the water around made it chillier than normal. But as I was on top and his hands squeezed my tits, I felt like I had reached the most beautiful part of my story. The echo of spanks and the bruising kisses were like a comforting dream that I didn’t think would be a reality but it was. He was there under me, behind me and on top. He was there and his hands were all over me. His fingers which had typed poems about his girl before were inside me, making me moan and cry out. He had magic hands and I wondered if I knew enough words to tell him that.
We went back to his car. Sitting and looking at the river still flowing mighty outside. I was too tired to think of a coherent thought, his shirt was unbuttoned and he was taking deep breaths. My hands were combing his hair and his were strewn across my lap. I wanted to ask, what he meant by “casual” again. Would he kiss me again if I asked? My lips were still sore but I could go at it again if casual meant that he wasn’t interested in Instagram posts. My words were too scared to find out. The happy silence would be a better finish than finding out.
He drove me back. Didn't text me the next day. I justified not reaching out by saying that he is older and should be the one who cared. He met me the next day to say bye with all the other teachers. He gave me a fist bump. Before the flight took off, I texted him again. I hate that Instagram tells you when a message is seen. I have never been in a relationship before and he didn’t want to change that. I hope his fingers write a poem about the metropolitan volunteer who learned a lot from him.
About Anya Akhtar:
Anya is a law student and an aspiring teacher. She writes a lot and is interested in films. Maybe that is why she sees her life as a collection of stories.
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