Читать книгу Sex & Samosas - Jasmine Aziz - Страница 7

It was a Saturday night sex party.

How could I turn it down?

Truth be told, in my infinite desire to get out of going, I could have come up with at least a dozen different reasons why I couldn’t, shouldn’t, didn’t want to go.

What exactly is a sex party? Does it involve naked people? Naked people on top of other naked people? Whips? Latex? What is latex? Okay, so maybe there was a small part of me that was actually more than a bit curious but how could it be better than the Saturday night I had planned at home with my husband in front of the television eating a bag of ghatia and wearing my fat pants?

I changed my outfit four times before I settled on a mocha turtleneck with beige pants. I clipped my mess of curly hair into a banana clip at the back of my head. When my best friend Mahjong arrived at my house she blurted out: “What are you wearing? You look like an overcooked spring roll. Change!”

“No way!” I insisted. “It took me forever to pick this out! And besides I like it, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing if it was still 1981. Come on, let’s go. Sorry I’m a bit late. I had last minute customers in my store.”

On the car ride over, I refrained from commenting on what Mahjong had done to her hair. She had dyed the top of her head bright red and left the bottom black. Her almond-shaped eyes were outlined in heavy black liner. She had found red mascara, God only knows where, and had applied it so thickly that I wondered how she could see through her lashes. On the side of her right eye she had glued a small diamond trio. “Like my bindis?” she asked.

“Those are bindis?”

“Yup. Funny eh, you’re the Indian and I’ve never seen you wear them. I wear them more than you ever have!”

“Screw you, Mahjong. I do wear them. I wear them when I go to functions.”

“Oh, functions,” she mocked. “Tonight’s a function. Why aren’t you wearing one now?”

Tonight was not a function. Born to two South Asian parents who were landed immigrants meant the only functions I ever went to were the ones where three quarters of the guests were either related to me or married to someone that was related to me. They were almost all events designed to celebrate the engagement of a couple, the marriage of a couple or the birth of the couple’s first child. Though this was a celebration of my friend Jenny’s wedding, I had a suspicion it wasn’t going to be like a typical Indian function.

The truth is I had never been to an Outside the Box party. I had only heard stories about them from Mahjong who is notorious for exaggerating.

“Is this what happens to you when you get out of your comfort zone?”

Mahjong cursed out loud as she cut off a van to get on the highway waving her middle finger over her head.

“Out of my comfort zone?” I shrieked, “I’m so far out of my comfort zone that I’m in another time zone!”

Standing on the porch of Isabelle’s house waiting for her to open the door, I had the sudden strong premonition that everything was about to change.

I looked at Mahjong and just as I was about to fake an epileptic seizure, despite having no history of the disease whatsoever, the door I had willed to stay shut forever suddenly flung open.

“Hi!” Isabelle’s smile was almost as wide as her cleavage. As joyfully as our hostess shouted her greeting, it was still hard to hear her over the loud rise and fall of women’s voices coming from just beyond where she stood. Mahjong instinctively pulled me into the foyer of Isabelle’s house, immediately handed her coat to her and with only a casual greeting to our hostess, headed towards the cackling crowd abandoning me. I slowly crept backwards towards the door. I contemplated becoming a permanent fixture in Isabelle’s entrance. I’m already brown, so what’s the big deal if I get mistaken for a bloated wooden coat rack, I thought. People could just hang their coats on my head; weather permitting I could hold umbrellas. No one would notice me.

“Hi Isabelle.” I reluctantly took off my jacket. I tried not to stare too openly at her heaving cleavage barely contained in her red and black leopard print bustier. I handed her a tin foil pan of fresh mini samosas I had picked up at a local Indian grocery store. My original plan to bring brownies backfired when I ended up eating more than half the batch in a hormonal fit the night before.

“Thanks, Leena! Oh samosas!” she said peering under the foil. “They look so good! Did you make them?”

“I made the chutney from scratch.” It was an old recipe of my paternal grandmother. My sweet Dadi would probably never guess I would introduce her secret coriander chutney to a bunch of drunken Westerners at a party to buy vibrators.

“Well I’m so glad you came.” Isabelle flashed her usual party-till-we-puke grin. She paused and studied me for a second as she felt my grip tighten on my jacket. In my reluctance to leave the foyer, I had inadvertently gotten into a tug of war with her over my coat, her massive breasts jiggling in her top from even the slightest yank on my jacket.

I feigned a fake laugh, finally surrendering my coat.

“You look nice.” I suspected she was just being polite.

“Would you like me to take off my shoes?” I asked stalling for more time.

“Don’t be ridiculous Leena. Keep your shoes on. Go on in and enjoy yourself.”

There was no getting around it. It was time to face down my fears. My mother had filled my head with stories of bohemian Western culture since I could first remember. She was convinced that behind closed doors, Westerners engaged in satanic type rituals that were not part of my culture. I was Indian, according to her despite what my North American passport said and I’d never been allowed to mix with the besharam before school, after school or during the day in school. I did however manage to break free of her judgmental eyes while away at university and never once saw someone drink chicken blood or partake in group orgies with goats as she often warned me I would if I hung out with heathen ghoras.

I heard a loud scream of joy as soon as I entered the living room behind Isabelle. From the pitch alone I could tell we had arrived late and the alcohol had already begun to flow. I needed a drink too.

“Yippee! It’s Leena!” screamed Jenny, the bride-to-be and guest of honour. She was sitting in the middle of a group of at least a dozen women. Someone had covered her long blonde hair in a silver plastic crown with blown up condoms hanging from its side. She was wearing a pink penis necklace and was drinking from an oversized black plastic penis. I suspected from the glazed look in her eyes it had something other than water in it.

I’d met Jenny in high school. She hung out with the pretty popular types while I spent my lunches under the stairwells. That is until the head bangers found my spot and the smell of their drug soaked clothes drove me to find another hiding place. I hadn’t seen her in years until I met her again at Isabelle’s birthday party. She always seemed warm and sincere. I wanted to believe she liked me.

I stepped over and around two girls on the floor to hug and kiss the bride and smiled nervously at a few unfamiliar faces. I instantly found myself longing for Mahjong like a safety blanket. Suddenly I was so grateful for her quirky style; her dyed red head should jut out like a matchstick above the sea of smiling faces.

As I looked around the main floor my eyes landed on the dining table in the adjoining room. At first glance I could see black canisters with Japanese figurines on them, several bright pink containers, a few game boxes, a large white feather on a stand and small silken black bags neatly stacked off to the side.

My eyes spotted a set of pink fuzzy handcuffs and a plastic whip next to what looked like a child’s paint set with the word edible blazed on the front of it. I tried not to seem overly interested or like I was staring, but at the same time I couldn’t figure out exactly what the two Japanese characters were doing on the long canister in the centre of the table. Was that his leg?

I could see the outline of Isabelle’s large black marble island in her kitchen with what appeared to be an enormous spread of food. Only food in the kitchen; check. No naked people; check. So what was I so worried about? I doubled checked that there was no one there that might know my mother and tell her that I was at a sex party before moving forward. I ventured in looking for my safety blanket.

“Grab something to eat. You must have a drink!” Isabelle’s large breasts bounced like they were nodding in agreement with her.

I surveyed the long island. I saw plates loaded with homemade cookies and peanut butter and cream bars. Next to them were apple dome tarts with cherries provocatively place on top. There was a loaf of sourdough, the centre carved out and filled with spinach dip. The pieces from the centre of the loaf had been arranged in two round circles at the base of the bread creating a phallic image. And just in case anyone wondered what shape Isabelle was trying to simulate with the loaf, one of the girls had drawn a long white trail out the top of the bread with sour cream.

“That looks like my boyfriend Zach!” one of the young ladies said dribbling cream out the side of her mouth.

“I dated Zach in high school and he ain’t that big!” the pretty brunette next to her said.

I waited for the two of them to break into a fight, but instead they turned and high-fived each other snapping pictures of themselves with their mouths open near the front end of the loaf.

I spotted a big bowl of tortilla chips with salsa, guacamole and homemade cream dip next to it; each bowl had a phallic shaped spoon in it. I saw a plate of mushroom caps that looked less embarrassing than the rest of the food. After I had picked up three and put them on my paper plate, a girl next to me whispered, “Those nipples are really good! She stuffs them with cheese.” I looked down at the serving tray and realized that I had plucked the brown mushrooms from small beds of rice that had been shaped into breasts, the caps forming the nipples. How was I supposed to eat them now? With no one else around me I grabbed three kinds of chips, salsa, guacamole, a nonsexual piece of bruschetta, the only two brownies that did not have dyed coconut simulating pubic hair on them, one peanut square, one chocolate chip cookie and one of the bars with the apple on top. The cherry one made me blush too much. I paused and added a carrot for good measure careful not to place it anywhere near the mushrooms on my plate.

“Leena!” Mahjong screamed as I entered the living room. “We’re sitting over here.” She pointed to a spot on the floor by the end of the sofa. I hurried over toward her. A young girl sitting near us passed over two cushions to make us more comfortable. “Thank you,” I mouthed to her. Was she as new to this as me? I had never seen her before but from her French manicured hands, expensive shoes and purse I could tell she was one of Jenny’s friends. She smiled back then directed her attention to the paper in her hand. Before I could figure out what she was reading, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up to see who it was.

Towering above me was a large woman with auburn hair, her smile kind and inviting. She had green eyes the same shade as my guacamole. I became so distracted trying to remember the last time I ate Mexican food that I hadn’t noticed she was trying to hand me the same piece of paper that the young lady who passed us the cushions had been studying. Mahjong nudged me roughly, snapping my eyes away and forcing me to focus on the paper and pencil the woman had put in my hands. Suddenly all I could hear was a sharp-pitched wail coming from Mahjong’s throat.

“For fuck’s sake! I love it!”

I scrambled mentally to make sense of what had happened trying not to drop my plate of food while juggling the paper and pencil at the same time. The tiny pencil had a small plastic purple penis nestled on the top. Mahjong began to perform fake fellatio on hers.

“I know this guy!” she said extending her long tongue around the top of the pencil until the penis disappeared from sight. I heard the women all around us respond in uproarious laughter; someone from behind me poked me in the head with their penis pencil. I hid mine under my plate of food. “I’m taking this to work!” one woman screamed. “I can’t wait to see their faces when they ask me for a pencil to take their order!”

“Last call for alcohol before the presentation starts!” Isabelle called out. “Anybody? Drinks?” Several glasses went into the air including Jenny’s plastic penis which caused another eruption of laughter.

“Have a drink, Lee,” Mahjong whispered to me. “I’m driving so I’m not drinking and I figured you’d need to more.” I glared at her for a moment. She smirked and within seconds I acquiesced. Mahjong went into the kitchen with a few other girls and came back, handing me a large stein with liquid too dark to be beer. “It’s a rum and Coke. Heavy on the rum.” I coughed initially at the sharp taste of booze and then downed a quarter of it without tasting it as soon as I regained my composure. Mahjong smiled as she popped the top off her bottle of juice.

“Okay ladies,” the auburn haired woman in front of the table said, sharply clapping her hands to emphasize her point. “Can I have your attention please?” It took a few minutes for everyone to settle down. “My name is Clarissa,” she said, smiling at everyone. “Those are your order forms, or as I like to call them, your menus, so that you can choose what you like. And for those of you who have never been to an Outside the Box party before please remember that you will get what you want tonight as I have tons of stock in the sales room ready to go home with all you horny women!” There were several loud screams, a general explosion of whistling from all around me and someone poked me with their pencil again.

Sales room? What the hell does that mean? I had no intention of buying anything. I wasn’t some liberated Westerner; the kind my mother said was responsible for sexually transmitted diseases, global warming and overpriced rice in North America. No, no. I was a respectable, thirty-two year old second generation Indian girl married to a good Indian boy. I did what my mother said and cleverly hid from her and her large network of spies the things I didn’t want her to know. I had nothing to feel guilty about aside from a few light beers or the occasional store-bought curry I tried to pawn off as homemade.

Okay I was guilty of lying to my mother about the nature of the party at Isabelle’s house. I told her that Mahjong and I were helping make centrepieces for the wedding. I remember when my mother first met Isabelle. It was at my engagement ceremony at Uncle Varki’s house. My mother must have envisioned the person responsible for bringing her beloved son-in-law Manny to her to be a dignified woman with a refinement accredited to those astute enough to understand the subtleties of a proper match. She was visibly disturbed when she saw Isabelle wearing a pink leather jacket with sequins over a black lace camisole that barely covered her breasts. It was so see-through Uncle Varki dropped his plate of food twice. Despite the fact that Isabelle’s appearance put her off, my mother, in true hypocritical fashion, was full of praise and compliments to the greatest matchmaker of all time.

“Ladies! Ladies!” Clarissa said clapping her hands loudly. “Back here! Remember me?” The noise level in the room slowly subsided. I became increasingly more uncomfortable with the seats that Mahjong had picked. We were too close to the front which meant every pair of drunk and sober eyes would see my reactions first.

“Okay, let me explain some things for those of you who have never been to a party like this before. There will be some information passed along to you that might shock and surprise you.”

Information? What could she possibly say that was so shocking? I knew there were probably more than three sex positions but what was the point in trying different ones? Missionary worked for when I was tired, sideways meant I was the only one who could see my rolls of fat and I only used doggy style when I wanted to plan out my grocery list but didn’t want Manny to see my face in case he figured out what I was doing.

“Who here has been to an Outside the Box party before?” she asked. Several hands went into the air including Jenny’s, Isabelle’s and Mahjong’s. “And who has not?” I put my hand up barely past my shoulder. “Well that would make all of you virgins,” she said with a mocking tone and a monstrously huge smile.

“Ha! Virgins!” Jenny said as she tapped the heads of each of the ladies, including me who had their hands in the air.

“You’re a virgin!” a dark haired, long-nosed woman behind me slurred as she pointed at me and laughed.

Clarissa cleared her throat to speak. “I always like to start my presentation with a few true and false questions that I want you ladies to feel free to answer out loud. Are we ready to start?” There was an array of excited shrieks. “Okay, let’s start with an easy one,” she said studying a battered piece of paper in her hand. “True or false, most couples stop masturbating after they are married?”

The women were silent for a brief moment and then Jenny yelled: “False! That’s when they start doing it more!” Everyone with the exception of me began laughing. I heard a few of the girls at the back high-five each other. How could they be so cavalier about touching themselves? My mother always told me masturbation would make me blind, deaf and shorter; none of which made for a good bride.

Clarissa redirected her gaze to the paper in her hand. “Correct that’s true. Now here’s another one, true or false, masturbation is a healthy and natural way to learn about one’s own sexual responses and capabilities.” I pulled on the fabric of my turtleneck and avoided anyone’s eyes. This just wasn’t a subject I felt comfortable talking about. For God’s sake, I blush when I set my cell phone to vibrate.

“Masturbate! Don’t hesitate!” the petite young girl next to Jenny said.

What in the hell was I doing at this party? I felt the first bead of sweat start to trickle down my back.

“Correct. That’s true,” Clarissa said with a smile. “Okay, next question on that similar subject, true or false, women who masturbate with a vibrator become indifferent towards intercourse with men.” The women had only slightly hushed when one of Jenny’s friends shouted: “Screw that! I love my BOB!!”

I looked at Mahjong who could read the question in my eyes. She leaned in and whispered in my ear “Battery operated boyfriend” as she wrote it out on the back of my menu.

“Ah, I see,” I mumbled. I had no idea what she meant. From the moment I walked in I felt like I had checked my brain with my coat and nothing anyone said made any sense to me.

“Not so fast ladies…” Clarissa said. “Actually if you’ll turn to your order form, you will see the last item is our $120 toy. Now this toy won’t make you indifferent towards men, it will however make you care less if you don’t have one, or if the one you have doesn’t pick up his socks!” There was another rousing roar of laughter. This time I joined in more as a result of the rum hitting my bloodstream than actual comprehension. “That toy is the best one I have ever seen in fifteen years of working with this company and he shall henceforth be known as The King.” I followed the lead of the girls around me and searched out the item she was referring to. I wrote the word “Raja” next to it, drew a smiley face and put the pencil back under my plate. I was never one to not pay attention in class; when all the other girls were out on dates or having sleepovers, I was studying or writing papers to maintain an A average. Heaven forbid I fail a class and have my mother remind me that no one wants a stupid bride.

“Okay, true or false, most couples rarely discuss their sexual relationship openly with each other.” Several women started whispering but no one answered. Clarissa repeated the question.

I could still see the huge smile on Manny’s face when I told him a few weeks ago about the party. I expected him to react with horror, shock or disgust but he didn’t. He’d even heard of the parties and knew more about them than I did. What I hadn’t anticipated was how he would light up like a firecracker when I told him I was going. Why was he more excited than I was? What did that say about our sex life?

We had been married for just over five years. Our sex life was fine. After all, we had sex …. occasionally … when time allowed and fatigue wasn’t an issue … or a great television season … or I didn’t feel extremely fat. The truth is we fit in sex when it was convenient to our busy schedules. Between Manny’s hockey practice and my general lack of desire, sex easily slipped off the radar after the first year or so we were married. It just never seemed as important or pressing as tending to the garden, cleaning out the attic or taking up scrapbooking.

No one offered an answer to Clarissa’s question so she answered it herself. “The answer is true. Most couples rarely discuss their sexual relationship with each other. It seems the longer you’re with the same person, the less you talk. Moving on, true or false, approximately 50% of all women have never had an orgasm.”

“No, no, no!” Jenny said covering her ears and causing the plastic penises and condoms to rattle around her hair. “That has to be false!”

“Is it?” Clarissa asked cocking one perfectly plucked eyebrow and waiting for a reaction. I hastily stuffed a piece of bruschetta into my mouth, chunks of salsa jumping from the bread like passengers on a sinking ship trying to escape death. I then scooped up the escapee tomato pieces with the tortilla chips, the sound of crunching doing a lousy job of drowning out my own thoughts. I looked over at Mahjong with my mouth stuffed and feebly smiled accidentally spewing small bits of tortilla dust and tomato in her direction. As close as we were, my sex life was something I managed to avoid talking to her about. How could I tell her that I had never had an orgasm? What difference did it make anyway? Sex with Manny was nice; it was pleasant. There is nothing wrong with pleasant. It’s not like I hadn’t thought it was odd before that I had never had an orgasm, it just didn’t seem to be that pressing of an issue.

At my marriage ceremony, my Aunt Jumma took me aside to give me a sex talk providing me with the same advice she had been given on her wedding night. “Listen to me Leena. I tell you vat to do na? Sex is wery simple dimple. You just let him do vat he need do and you count to forty in your head.” She looked me square in the eye with a seriousness that chilled me. “Heyna? When it be ower, den you make dahl.” There was no talk about love, no talk about emotional connections or technique, just the basic understanding that sex is the man’s domain, and mine was the dahl.

“It’s true that approximately 50% of the female population has never had an orgasm,” Clarissa said. She sounded stern, the playful glint in her eyes momentarily gone. I thought she was staring directly at me. I felt the heat in my body rise. Even a mocha-skinned person like me could turn pink with the right provocation. Before she could catch me blushing, I looked away, stuffed two mushroom caps in my mouth and chased them with a large swig of rum.

I was sure every woman in that room owned a vibrator, had multiple orgasms and open communication with their partner. I had never masturbated in my life, never had an orgasm and the only thing Manny and I really communicated about before I left the house was whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher. It was mine.

“That means statistically, there is probably someone here who has never had an orgasm. And if you think you’ve had one, I can definitely guarantee you haven’t. The good news is that if you have never had an orgasm, don’t worry, you will. Today’s your birthday!” Peals of laughter exploded all around me. I was only half-aware of Mahjong muttering: “Now that’s what I call a happy birthday” under her breath as she doodled pictures of penises on her order form.

If it was true, who else fell into that category besides me? I longed to look around, to catch someone’s eye, to feel a certain kinship with another woman but I was too afraid.

“Here’s another question,” Clarissa said. “True or false, the clitoris retracts under the hood just before the point of orgasm?” Suddenly it was silent save the sound of ice clinking in someone’s glass. I fidgeted with the pillow under me. The vinyl cover made a rude farting sound against Isabelle’s hard wood floor.

No one would have noticed if I hadn’t snorted out a laugh through my nose trying to cover it up which only echoed the sound and made it worse.

Clarissa repeated the question before she finally revealed the answer. “That is true.” She pointed to a large fake diamond ring on her right hand. “See this ring? Okay, for the rest of the night we are going to pretend that this ring is my clitoris. We’re just pretending.” There was a bit of nervous laughter but for the most part all the women stared at the large bauble. She dropped the ring down to the front of her pubic area. “Now let’s pretend I’m getting some loving.” She wiggled the big diamond up and down. “This is the hood that protects the clitoris.” She cupped the fingers of her left hand over the top of the diamond. “So here I am getting my loving, and just at the point of orgasm, the clitoris retracts.” She pulled the diamond ring toward her hiding it under the cup of her left hand. “At this point, the clitoris is so over-stimulated that it hides. It then needs to be gently coaxed back out.” She curled the diamond ring slowly out from where it was hidden by her other hand, blowing gently down on the large stone. “Then Blam! There’s your orgasm!”

So all I had to do to have an orgasm was get a big diamond ring like hers? Nothing made sense. I felt more lost and unsure with every word.

Clarissa looked confident without a hint of smugness to her. She had at least eighteen women fixated on her pubic area and yet she didn’t seem at all fazed. She was a heavy set woman, close to the size of my mother and most of my Aunties with large round hips, a wide belly and robust breasts squeezed into a white lace top. I marvelled at how comfortable she looked.

Clarissa surveyed the women in the room. I must not have been the only one with a daft expression on my face. “You see ladies, you all know what I’m talking about without actually knowing it. This point, where the clitoris is hiding under the hood,” she emphasized by hiding the diamond under her hand, “this is the moment that you have all experienced at one point or another. It’s the moment during sex that you are lying there thinking…hmmm…it’s not going to happen tonight…so….what should we eat for dinner tomorrow? Maybe chicken? Or you’re thinking I should probably get to the laundry. And my point is?” She waited but no one said a word. I started to get anxious sure that she was about to impart the most important piece of wisdom of the night on us. “My point is, your orgasm is where ladies?”

No one spoke. Surely someone knew the answer? I sure as hell didn’t.

Finally one woman in the corner said, “Under the hood?”

I wanted to laugh as I felt the second wave of rum hit my bloodstream but felt too self-conscious.

Clarissa shook her head. She waited and when no one produced an answer, she slowly drew her finger to her head and pointed. “Your orgasm is up here,” she said tapping her temple for emphasis. “It doesn’t really matter what you have going on down here,” she pointed to her pubic area again. “You have to be up here.” She moved her hand up toward her head. “Or there’s no orgasm. Your orgasm is in your brain.”

Some women started to whisper among themselves. I yearned for Mahjong to make eye contact because as the rum started to tear down my barriers one by one, I was eager for my secret to finally be revealed. When I looked over at her she was drawing pictures of gaping mouths with long curling tongues hovering over the penises she had doodled on her order form.

“Again, I reiterate,” Clarissa said, “if you’ve never had an orgasm, today is your birthday!” Several of the women in the room laughed. I took a deep breath and polished off the stein trying to make eye contact with Mahjong again.

“Mahjong,” I whispered. “Are you paying attention?”

She looked up at me through her red eyelashes. “I have two of everything she has on that table.”

Mahjong could talk about sex anytime, anywhere. She was frank and honest when it came to everything in life, often to my embarrassment or social discomfort. She was born Mae Wong but at some point during our time in high school she said her name to someone who didn’t quite catch the correct pronunciation and responded, “Mahjong? Like the game?” The name has stuck ever since.

I still remember the day we met. It was on the fifth anniversary of my father’s death, which was also my 17th birthday. A boy from school named Glen asked me to go to the movies with him. My mother said that dating was something only the besharam did. It was a conspiracy brought on by condom companies to sell their products and make Westerners more promiscuous than they already were.

When I told Glen I wasn’t allowed to be alone with him, he cleverly disguised our date by including me within a larger group of kids already going to the movies. My mother, unaware that there would be boys present, acquiesced. The movie started and not two minutes into the playlist Glen slipped his hand onto my knee. The feel of his hot fingers on my leg startled me. I pushed his hand away. Ten minutes later he put his arm on the rest between us and brushed his hand against my right breast. This time I was so alarmed that I screamed out loud.

“Relax Leena,” he whispered in my ear. “I actually like your exotic looks. I’m the only one in school who does.” I couldn’t process what he was saying because I saw the silhouette of his hands approaching me in the flickering lights of the movie theatre. Glen attempted to lift my sweater up and slide his hand under the fabric despite the fact that I was clawing my fingers into his palms. My nails were so deep into his flesh I was sure I was going to draw blood and have to find a way to explain the stains to my mother.

“Stop it!” I whispered and then with more panic and insistence, “Stop it! Glen, no! Stop that!”

“Don’t make me call the usher on you!” I heard a voice from the row above us shout. “Cause they will hose you horny bastards down!”

“Doug was right.” Glen growled at me, finally giving up. “Indian girls are all stupid virgins!” Then he threw his middle finger up in the air to the person behind us, and without one look back at me turned to Debbie Anderson sitting on his right and began to grope her instead. They left after the movie in the same car stranding me at the theatre.

I stood in the parking lot uttering every Hindi curse word I knew my mother would hurl at me when I tried to explain what happened. As I contemplated which would be worse, showing up three hours later than my curfew because I walked home or showing up in a police car because I got arrested for hitchhiking, I heard the voice from the row behind us shouting at me to get my attention.

“Where you heading?” she asked.

“I live on Elm drive,” I said, wiping tears from eyes.

“I live right near there. Want a ride? If you’re worried about stranger danger, I assure you I’m strange but you’re in no danger.”

“What’s stranger danger?”

“You’ve never heard the term stranger danger? Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”

“She told me not to talk to anyone.”

“Well that’s good advice too. My car is over here. Come on. My name is Mae.”

“I’m Leena.”

“Well Lee,” she said extending her fingerless gloved hand, “I’m happy to meet you.”

“Did you come here alone?” I said suddenly aware that she was all by herself at the movies.

“Yup. I don’t hang with the high school bunch much. I’ve seen you in school before.”

I didn’t want to tell her that I’d seen her too, mostly hanging out alone, wearing weird clothes and always smelling like some strange kind of herb. It didn’t really matter though. That night she was my salvation and for the next fifteen years my truest and dearest friend.

Clarissa clapped her hands to bring the ladies back to focusing on what she was saying. I fidgeted with the pillow underneath me causing it to quack and burp against the wooden floor. I felt even more uncomfortable and self-conscious. I looked at Mahjong. She had started to doodle vaginas on the opposite side of her order form. When she caught me staring at her, she smiled and lifted the purple penis to her lips flapping her tongue around the top of it.

“Okay, where was I ladies?” Clarissa said when the noise level had subsided. “Oh yes. Your orgasm! It’s all up here,” she said pointing to her head again. “I can’t stress that enough. You have to play the movie up here or it won’t happen. I don’t care what it is, just make it work up here and your orgasm will come…no pun intended!” Clarissa didn’t wait for anyone to laugh, she redirected her attention and everyone else’s in the room to her tattered piece of paper. “True or false, it can take between ten and fifteen minutes for a woman to reach orgasm.”

Almost every woman in the room shouted true in response and Mahjong lifted her head long enough to say “Fuck that, I need an hour!”

“True or false, approximately 80% of all males reach orgasm within two minutes of entering the vagina.” Clarissa had barely finished asking the question when Mahjong shouted, “It’s true! But he never gets a second date from me!”

Clarissa smiled. “You’re right, it’s true. And what a difference! Ten minutes for us and two minutes for them. That’s a whole hockey period! Or at least it can feel like one!”

Maybe that was the reason I never understood hockey, no matter how many times Manny tried to explain it to me. I would hear the word “icing” and all I could think about from that moment on was cake.

“Moving on, true or false, approximately 50% of couples experience sexual difficulties.” Suddenly everyone was quiet again. As the rum floated through my veins toward my brain I reasoned that with Manny our sex life might not have been a wild adventure ride but at least it was worth the price of admission more than half the time.

I felt heat rise in my chest as an unstoppable flood of memories from my past threatened to overtake me. My delectable suppressor was gone; not a drop of rum left in my stein. As I looked down at the last piece of ice floating at the bottom of my glass I heard Clarissa direct the question again to someone in the room. I was surprised to see her staring at me for the answer.

“I’m sorry?” I said choking back my own saliva. “What was the question again?”

“True or false, approximately 50 % of all couples experience sexual difficulties?”

Mahjong instantly rose to my defence.

“Why don’t we ask the bride-to-be that question?” Eventually all the women focused on Jenny. I heaved a deep sigh of relief as Mahjong put her hand on mine and squeezed it.

“Yes, Jenny!” one of the drunker girls said. “Tell us about your sexual difficulties with Johnny!”

“Your fiancé’s name is Johnny?” Clarissa asked. “So it’s Jenny and Johnny?”

Jenny smiled. She seemed to revel in the dreamy satisfaction of how people reacted to hearing their names together. Though Jenny had completed her degree in business at university and had interned with a top-ranking company, she chose not to take a permanent position in marketing but opted to work as a receptionist for a downtown law firm when she graduated. She wore very provocative clothes to work and enjoyed watching the young clerks fawn over her vying for her affections. She never let any of them get farther than a kiss on the cheek. The moment Johnny was hired to the firm with rumours of being fast-tracked for partnership she made her move like a well trained panther securing his undying love, a two carat ring and the promise she would never have to work again - all within eight months of his arrival.

“We don’t have any sexual difficulties,” Jenny said slurring her words. “We fuck like rabbits all the time! He’s an animal!”

“Woohoo!” several of the girls to the left and right of Jenny said at the same time.

“Well I’m happy for you. But the answer is true. Most couples experience sexual difficulties at some point. Communication is the key.”

I had heard it so many times before: Communication is the key. Communicate your needs to another and then they will know what makes you happy; communicate your goals at work and you will rise to the position you have longed for; communicate your feelings and others will listen with open hearts. When I communicated my needs to my mother, she told me to shut up and stop being so sensitive. When I communicated my need for more money at the accounting firm where I worked, my boss told me they were experiencing cut backs and instead gave me more work to do for the same pay. When I communicated feeling insecure about my body and the extra weight I had put on after we got married, Manny simply said, “All couples get fat after they get married.” The extra weight he gained on his long frame only made him look healthier while my extra poundage made me look shorter, dumpier and frighteningly close to a brown troll.

“Okay, last question.” Clarissa said. “True or false, when the G-spot is properly stimulated, a woman can ejaculate one to three quarts of liquid.” I looked over at Mahjong who had a devilish smile on her face. She winked at me, sat back against her pillow and quietly watched the women around her gasp in both horror and amazement. I was one of the women gasping in horror.

“Has that happened to you?” I whispered to Mahjong.

“It was a freaking tsunami the first time. I thought I peed all over the guy and the dumb jerk got all cocky and wouldn’t stop smiling. But let me tell you Lee, it put the ah in ah-mazing!”

How had I known Mahjong all these years and somehow I never knew this? She shared details about each of her lovers from girth, width and duration but this piece of information was news to me. In fifteen years of knowing her I could recite the nicknames she gave to all her lovers from Andrew Apple Balls to Thick Dick Victor. I could tell you her shoe size, how she cheated on her exams in university and which one of the Spice Girls she would have sex with but somehow this was a subject we had never discussed.

“The answer is true,” Clarissa said. “The first time it feels like you have peed all over your partner.” Mahjong had a smile on her face and an I told you so look in her eyes. “But let me take the time to explain this because it’s important.” Clarissa positioned herself squarely in the middle of everyone’s gaze and looked down at her pubic area drawing everyone else’s eyes down at the same time.

“The G-spot is on the outside wall right here,” she said poking her belly just below her navel. “If you put your finger inside you and crook it like you are motioning come here, come here you will be pressing against it.” She looked back down to her pubic area and made a circle with her other hand over the hub of her bottom belly. Then she bent her finger as though it was stimulating the circle from the inside. “Now as I continue to stimulate this area, it goes from about a dime-size to a quarter-size and with clitoral stimulation… well let me put it this way, you’ll have to change the sheets!” She smiled broadly.

“I’ve heard about them but I’ve never had one,” a woman with bright red lipstick said. “Is it pee?”

“No,” Clarissa said. “Everyone thinks that it is but it isn’t urine. It’s natural and it will feel unlike anything else you’ve ever felt. It’s really quite incredible.” She resumed her position by the side of the table, directly in front of me.

In under an hour’s time my mind had become flooded with too much information, some of it getting lost in the cloud of rum that had firmly settled into my blood stream.

“There is one thing I can’t stress enough ladies,” Clarissa said resting one leg over the other and leaning against the table. “You need to know your bodies better than anyone else. If you don’t enjoy sex with yourself, how can you expect someone else to?”

Suddenly there it was in a language I could fully understand despite the fog of rum: If you don’t enjoy sex with yourself, how can you expect someone else to?

When I had arrived at the party, I had no idea what to expect but after hearing Clarissa state it so plainly, the words formed an inescapable truth I could no longer hide from. I knew from that moment on, there was no turning back.