Twenty Things Not To Say On A First Date.

Art Work: Siddha Kannur.
Art Work: Siddha Kannur.
  1. ‘’You look thinner in your pictures. Are you sure that was you?”
  2. ‘I might be emotionally damaged. Do I look emotionally damaged?’
  3. ‘…and that’s the story of how I got arrested, and had to be locked up for a day.’
  4. ‘ Is it okay if I call my ex to join us for a drink? He’s totally cool!’
  5. ‘I have a girlfriend.’
  6. ‘ I think I forgot my wallet at home, do you mind taking this one?’
  7. ‘OMG. I know this boy who’d be perfect for you. You guys are so alike!’
  8. ‘So that profile picture of yours from 2007; where was it taken?’
  9. ‘Is this a date? I thought we were just hanging out.’
  10. ‘What’s your profile handle on Grindr?’
  11. ‘Are you really sure you want to eat that? Those carbs are worth three day’s worth of workout.’
  12. ‘…so my son is only a couple of years younger than you are. I think he went to your school.’
  13. ‘I think I might be falling in love with you.’
  14. ‘ So do you stay alone at home? ’
  15. ‘Do you mind if I use your phone? I have to tell my roommate that I’ll be home in fifteen minutes.’
  16. ‘I think you look exactly like my brother.’
  17. ‘Haha, so this guy I went out on a date with two days ago said that…’
  18. “ I don’t think I am the kind of guy who’s looking for anything serious.’
  19. ‘Honestly, I cheated on my ex. And the one before that. And the one before that.’
  20. ‘So that girl in your profile picture. Is she single?’

Number Ten: The B-Schooler.

Art Work: Maitri Dore.
Art Work: Maitri Dore.

It’s a balmy day. The kind of day when your shirt sticks to you back, but not in the way it does in perfume advertisements. I can think of a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t be stepping outside, but I have a date that I can’t push any further unless I want to be pushed out of the boy’s contact list. And why would that be a bad thing? Any suitable boy that you let go is a boy wasted. Instead, I do the most practical thing I can think of.

I call him over for lunch.

Continue reading Number Ten: The B-Schooler.

Number Nine: The Part-time Actor.

Art Work: Maitri Dore.
Art Work: Maitri Dore.

A stormy July night. The clouds are heavier than a Naipaul novel. It’s almost 11 pm. And he’s almost here.

I am sitting at my favourite coffee shop; only this time, we are living another day, another boy. Another boy who is late, another boy who loses a crucial brownie point. Just when I feel like I’ve been stood up, someone taps me on my shoulder. It’s him.

The man is impishly cute, with short hair and shorter stubble. ‘Did I keep you waiting?’ he smiles like they do in the movies. It’s shy but unsettling. Maybe it’s the light? It’s always the light. I smile back at him. Who cares about brownie points anyway?

Continue reading Number Nine: The Part-time Actor.

Number Eight: The Celebrity Stylist.

Art Work: Raul Miranda
Art Work: Raul Miranda

4:02 pm

It’s a busy Thursday evening, and I am waiting at a busy intersection. I am not very busy, and I dawdle on my phone as I wait. He’s two minutes late;I was told a place, and a time, nothing else. A car pulls over, and a man pulls me in. It’s Eight, a busy celebrity-stylist who, as he assures me, seldom kidnaps his dates to whisk them off to mysterious faraway places.

He studied at a textile school in Canada and lived there for five years, but ultimately left behind a dozen acquaintances, a start-up job and a live-in girlfriend to move back home. I nod away, without batting an eyelid. I could ask him why he came back. I could ask him what happened to the girlfriend. I could ask him whether he’s sure about his sexuality.

‘Where are we off to?’ I ask him instead. You can’t blame me for being suspicious. He had been strangely cryptic on the phone. He laughs, and tells me he’s got a fun evening planned. His favourite band is performing at one of the more upscale mills in town, and he’s been dying to watch them ever since he got back from the Great North. Would I like to get a drink before?

‘Where do I sign up?’, I ask him.

He laughs again. But first, we have to take a slight detour.

Continue reading Number Eight: The Celebrity Stylist.

Number Seven: The Undergrad.

The Undergrad.
Art Work: Siddha Kannur.

My phone buzzes rudely one sweaty afternoon. ‘Hi,’ texts Seven, a Final Year Architectural undergrad who stays only a suburb away. I reply similarly. We’ve been at this for weeks, monosyllabic conversations that end before they begin. I am bored, and it’s time to finally take the plunge. I ask him whether he wants to meet. He’s busy with his dissertation thesis, and can’t step out. Can I come over?

I think about it. I’ve never met him, and this could be a really bad idea, like the time I decided to fry an egg in the microwave. Exchanging sweet nothings through text messages is one thing, but meeting someone new in the confines of their house for the very first time? Hello, How-do-I-get-out-of-this-hot-mess? What if he turns out to be an axe murderer? What if he robs me off all my money? What if he’s an imposter? Or worse, what if he’s not as pretty as his pictures?

I ring his doorbell in exactly twenty minutes.

Continue reading Number Seven: The Undergrad.

Number Six: The Socialite.

Guysexual 6
Art Work: Maitri Dore.

We are outside a dingy watering hole somewhere in town, Six and I. We bond over Instagram pictures and I simper over his Bengali ancestry and his upcoming PhD in something I don’t remember. He looks around and tells me he’s never been to a place like this. I think of saying something clichéd, like ‘There’s-a-first-time-for-everything’, but I don’t want to sound clichéd.

‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’ I usher him inside.

At least I can say that I tried.

Continue reading Number Six: The Socialite.

Number Five: The Intern.

Art Work: Siddha Kannur.
Art Work: Siddha Kannur.

We make a plan to flirt dangerously over unlimited wine at a fancy wine bar somewhere in town, him and I – Five, a self-proclaimed diva and a fashion intern who dresses to kill. The boy seems to take that bit very seriously – he’s wearing something you would see on a model at a fashion show. Suspenders and a broach over a crisp button-down navy blue shirt. Paired well with refined wing cap brogues, a shade of dark chestnut, with tan shoelaces- wait, is he wearing a bow tie?

Yes. He’s wearing a bow-tie.

Continue reading Number Five: The Intern.

Number Four: The Greek God Executive.

Art Work: Siddha Kannur.
Art Work: Siddha Kannur.

We decide to meet at the local art festival, one fresh February afternoon. The festival is being held at an unused car park in the city’s heritage precinct, because art festivals usually happen in unused car parks on fresh February afternoons. It’s the usual scene: Trapeze artists and exotic dancers from the interiors of India boxed and exported to a makeshift stage by the driveway, compartmentalized art that no one understands but still wants a picture with, a motley crew of artists staring listlessly in space while their art stares right back. There are always pretentious people doing pretentious things – I unknowingly tug at my plush argyle sweater and brush at my vintage Ray Bans.

Four, a marketing executive from the city, is fresh-faced (quite like the February afternoon we find ourselves in) – lean and muscular, with gorgeous Greek god features. The sun is out, and his two day stubble looks like an airbrushed 5’o clock shadow, tugging lusciously at his well-defined cheekbones. He’s wearing smart chinos and a crisp shirt that would he would look better without. When you are next to him, you lose about three inches of height and gain fifty pounds instantaneously.

Continue reading Number Four: The Greek God Executive.

Number Three: The Performance Artist.

Art Work: Maitri Dore
Art Work: Maitri Dore

A warm March afternoon. We are somewhere in the dregs of 2011 – the world is sepia-hued and hazy, like a fading photograph from a long-forgotten album. It’s what great stories with great beginnings are made up of, ones that we could have saved on our Snapchat rolls, but sadly, that doesn’t exist yet.

I am sitting with him, at on old-school drinking hole in the suburbs. It’s full of screechy sixteen year-olds with the weight of the world on their shoulders. The restaurant reeks of college gossip, and stories of what your best friend did behind your back during Biology lab. But I am unconcerned. Three is tall, gangly and has a rather large set of ears (note to self: If this were a modern-day adaptation of Red Riding Hood, it would have been better for him to hear me with), but he has an expressive face, like a dancer’s. He’s a friend of a friend’s, and I’ve had a crush on him the whole of 2010 (in gay years, that’s a lifetime, but more on that some other time.) I don’t notice the eyebrow-piercing, or the bottled up insecurities – it’s too early, and I am too infatuated.

Continue reading Number Three: The Performance Artist.