The First Time (Love in No Time #1)

by Bitsi Shar

  Wady wore his non-nativity well—in the way he spoke his English, wore his silk neck scarf and his bomber jacket with the perfect brown felt collar, and smelled like he couldn’t decide between his ten different colognes so he sprayed on a little of all. He was the epitome of Punjabi “sho-shaa” as they say in Delhi—showing off that which you want others to know, be dazzled by even though the clothes on your body might be borrowed! Maybe Wady wasn’t this, as I would know later, but his name pointed to the seriousness of the hangover or shall we say affliction that was two centuries old. But he was a sweet boy who really wanted to act cooler than he ended up projecting. The scarf didn’t do it for him. It gave him a middle-aged, army colonel look. Maybe he thought that the colonel look was cool or at least the ladies would like it. The army look might speak to his virility even when he knew it wasn’t a conversation piece for any occasion, private or public. There was nothing virile about Wady, at least not in the way he giggled, cracked jokes, or drove his diesel Fiat car at less than thirty-five miles an hour in a hundred miles an hour zone.

  “C’mon Wady, you can do better than this, you slow poke!” he chimed into and interrupted my thoughts.

  I immediately seconded the encouragement with “yes, you can, yes, you can!” (I know Obama stole my line!).

  He looked at me with eyes that held some kind of warning: “you guys need to sit back and enjoy the slow ride, ok my dears?”

  I didn’t know whether he was being sarcastic, facetious or just slimy smooth! He obviously knows something about us because why would he be here, driving us to a bad place where bad things happen? I am sure Mr. manicured beard has said something to his hobbit friend. I am sure my status has been discussed or even the impossibility of me being a girlfriend given that I am his best friend’s sister. This kind of knowledge makes or breaks friendships in men. This kind of knowledge requires absolute confidentiality and “lips are zipped.”

  “So who is your date tonight, Wady?” I stop guessing to ask a different question.

  “God, I wish you hadn’t asked, hon-bun.”

  “Why?” I am not even considering that he just called me “hon-bun.” I am not sure where that came from.

  “Should I tell her?” Wady looks at my man.

  My man shrugs. “Why not? What is not to tell?” It is not as if she is a supermodel whose name you cannot reveal as part of any contractual obligation!”

  Wady smirks and then looks back at me as if he is trying to gauge my current mood before he replies.

  “Okay, c’mon who is she? An ex-girlfriend you cannot stop thinking about?” I persist a little evilly this time.

  Both men look at each other and then back at me. They have clearly picked up on my curiosity. He shifts in his seat to give me his full attention. Uh-oh! This is not good.

  “Why would I throw an ex-girlfriend on a pal? There is a reason why she is an ex—past, done, over, don’t care.”

  And Wady chimes in—“I would never go out with his ex. She has pimples all over her face and wore the most horrendous clothes ever stitched by the worst seamstresses of the world!” He makes the face that translates his disgust more vividly. But then he winks at my man. There is a look shared. Uh-oh! Are they throwing me off here?

  So I wouldn’t ask too many questions. “Wady, are you joking about the pimples?” I ask.

  “Yes, she was not that bad. But I am not kidding about the clothes though. That was the biggest turn off for me. But our man here obviously likes pink on purple quite much to have dated her for that long a while.”

  “That while? For how long did you date?” My voice is slightly squeaky now. I almost don’t want to know the answer but somehow couldn’t keep the question from popping.

  He is sensing my unease for he turns quickly, looking me square in the eyes again. “Not for long. Less than 2 months.”

  “That’s long enough,” I say petulantly. Months are better than years, I know. But I am in no mood to back down.

  “No, its not.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it is not, babe.”

  “Whatever.” I unlock my gaze from his and look out the window instead, at the passing sodium lights.

  “Ms. Sharma . . .” he begins and I cut him off.

  “Oh, stop with the Ms. Sharma. I have a name. I am sure you called her by her name!” I finish with a huff. I am not sure where this came from but got added on to a perfectly formed irritable sentence.

  “Stop the car, Wady,” I hear him say.

  “Here? We are on the freaking highway, man!” Wady is almost shouting.

  “Ok, so get off the highway and stop, man.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to get in the back seat.”

  “No, I don’t need you in the back seat with me, thank you very much.” I snap without looking at him. He ignores me.

  “Wady, find an exit and stop for two seconds, now.” Wady snorts, I think but soon he is slowing down. Before the car could stop fully, he is out the front door and sliding next to me in the back. Hell, I am damned if I look at him with that glaze of tears in my eyes. No way, man. The inside of the car is too quiet. I am damned again if I attempt to break this silence. I know both men are looking at me now not knowing what they must do in order to change the mood.

  Finally he speaks—“Wady, drive and don’t look over your shoulder no matter what you hear or don’t. Am I clear, man?”

  “Sure, whatever you say.” Wady knows when not to enter which battles. I sneak a look at Wady. He grins and I grin back at him! This boy-man is something else. He could easily flip his friend and the night would end and we would all move on. Instead he is backing out to turn on to the highway once again. He begins to hum, rather badly. He is breaking every tonal law that I know but its his way of tuning out the backseat, giving us the privacy demanded of him earlier. But I am being stubborn and continue to look out the window. The tears have returned to their ducts because I feel no wetness on my cheeks. I hear him squish closer to me on the vinyl seat till his thigh is pressed against mine. I jerk at this touch but his hand snakes out to hold my thigh against his. I squirm. His hand stills me. Now I am sitting with my legs slightly apart—not what my mother taught me! His face is so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my neck and in my hair.

  “What?” I snap and turn around in my attempt to be offensive. Defense was not the best option here. But I realized that he was closer than I thought, actually inches from my face and lips. My heart skips a beat before running off in his direction, leaving me all huffy and puffy. But I still refuse to be stared down. He decides that he will not be stared down either.

  And I saw him slowly move closer to my lips and slowly breathe into me: “She didn’t matter, doesn’t matter. You do.”

  I feared that if I moved even an inch I would touch his lips. I wanted to touch his lips—no, no, I didn’t. I knew I would never be able to stop if I did, even if by accident. So I just stared up at him, seeing his eyes slowly crinkle in amusement at my lack of articulation. “You have very beautiful eyes, you know, Ms. Sharma. They always say what you don’t with that delectable mouth of yours.”

  “And now,” he paused, “I am going to kiss you, ok?”

  And then his lips are on mine, lightly increasing the pressure so I am forced to part mine to allow his mint-laced tongue to enter and tangle with mine. He burrows in deeper, sucking harder on my tongue as I am sure he would my nether parts if I allowed him to! He sucks on my mouth till there is nothing to suck anymore. But all the suction fuse our lips so tight that plucking them away would hurt, I knew. Sure enough, as he slowly withdraws our lips separate with a loud, wet whoosh. I drop my head on his shoulder and he immediately cradles it with his head, laying a kiss on my temple. His shirt smells of spices and oranges and I want to burrow deeper into him. But then I remembered my lipstick and kohl and how badly this could stain a white fabric. I try to move away from his shirt. But he keeps me where I am, not worrying about what I was wor
rying about.

  “Are you done canoodling, you love-sick kids?” Wady’s voice intercepted our love-fest. I giggle and feel him smile in his chest.

  “For now, you pervert.” “And how come we are still not there? Is you sense of direction failing you like your failing eyes?”

  “No, you unseeing bastard, my eyes are better than the day I was born. My concern was you and how you might just explode in your pants if you didn’t get in the back with Ms. Scarlett and at least got to kiss the poor girl!” Wady’s eyes twinkle like a rabbit’s in the dark.

  He continues, “Shame on you for preying on little, doe-eyed virgins—you really have no conscience, do you? Or if you do, it is probably in your small dick? Just FYI for you sweetheart!”

  Wady’s amused, bruised expression was to die for—so we did—died laughing in the back of his car till he grinded his car to an annoyed halt at our destination, two hours after we left the house! I wasn’t complaining because the length of the ride allowed me to feel more amenable towards the man who had decided to make me forget his ex-girlfriend. My love of dancing and being at the disco for the first time with my guy no less were making me beyond amenable. Wady guides his car into a parking lot right behind the elevators, switching the ignition off.

  As I start to open my door, he said, “Wait, not yet.”

  “What, why” we asked back in unison.

  “We need to prep ourselves for a great night, don’t you think?” Wady giggles (yes, he did that a lot!) at our confused expressions.

  “God, you guys are really novices at this lifestyle, eh?” Lifestyle? Coming to a disco is a lifestyle? I guess Wady was a pro then since this was my very first time.

  “Ok, Mr. Pro enlighten us on the lifestyle you lead and how might we partake in its grandeur?” We say in union—a stunning superimposition of thoughts to words; words that are said precisely in the same measure. Our eyes lock registering the uniqueness of this moment and in a way of our compatibility before we both laugh out aloud. It is a gleeful laugh—as if we had somehow realized we belong to each other!

  “Ok, love birds you guys are making me diabetic with all this eye-balling, gooey stuff. I was expecting this crap from you—well not you—but her. But you are worse than her, dude. What happened to you, my friend? You weren’t like this with her . . .” And bam, we were back to her, his ex. Wady couldn’t stop his involuntary comparing of me with her. I guess it was his way of making sense of what he was watching happen in the back of the car. I feel him glare at Wady.

  “Man, you really don’t have filters. Now, I need a drink. You are not making this night easy at all for me, you idiot.” Wady grins again, not looking at all apologetic.

  “Right, so here goes—Grey Goose or Monk?”

  “What, you have liquor in the car?!”

  “Of course, I never go anywhere without it. You never know when you might need to tank up, like now. Thank god for me, I think of everything!” He exclaims with a flourish, passing around three Styrofoam cups. I decided on some Rum and Coke. Yes, he had a fizzless bottle in his car. The boys decided on Vodka neat.

  “What no lemon wedges or ice cubes?” I needled.

  “That is just not right, if you are entertaining in your car. This is not the way to go, friend.” I wiggle my finger at Wady.

  He caught hold of my finger and said, “Missy, if you were out on a date with me, I would have hired a butler, a chef, and a sommelier to satisfy each one of your obnoxious demands. But since you like losers, this is the best I will do for you. He is such a novice and I am such a pro. Trust me—before the night is over you will know for sure and I will be waiting for you with open arms.” He spreads is arms wide to mark his verbal point but hits the root of the car and the grey goose splashes onto his passenger seat, enough to make him jump a little and in the process splash himself more with the vodka. He immediately begins to giggle and continues giggling till I slap his hand to stun him into silence. He does before quickly downing his vodka. He then adjusts his blazer before swinging out of the car to open my side of the door. He extends his hand and as I lean on it to get out of the car, he circles my waist with his other hand pulling me to his side. He grins at my semi-quizzical expression before bending down to kiss my forehead and before taking my arm to lead me to the elevators, knowing fully well that my man would follow to immediately disengage us in order to claim my arm for himself. Wady knows how to push his buttons in a good way. He likes me and I him. So this was going to be good for all of us. I like having his friends near me, to like me, to hold my hand, to side with me, to make me feel good about us moving forward.

  Good friends mattered because that meant I was with a good man.

  Oh! An astonished sigh escapes me as I see his pleasureland. A 70s style giant crystal ball hung from the low-mirrored ceiling. The rotating light globes on the four walls threw multi-colored light onto the crystal ball which in turn threw these back in diamond shapes on the dance floor and along the walls. I could make out some dark shapes along the walls almost fusing into one another—heads and mouths pasted together. I didn’t want to look and I am sure they didn’t want me to look either. This was their alone time, incognito catching up on all manner of lost smooch time. The two men lead us to a sofa in the middle of the ballroom, if it could be called that. Rather a small closet like space dressed up like a discotheque.

  Wady pats his lap, daring me to sit on it. His evil smile directed at his friend, who in turn stands beside me with the deepest scowl on his face. I am between a rock and a hard place. Ahem! Yes, hard is the operative word. I lightly slap Wady on his wrist, jerking my hip in an outward motion, kind of coquettishly asking him to shift to his left so I can squeeze into this space. He continues to smile evilly as he shifts a leg but his body remains in its original space! Before I can strategize again—for this was space war that was unnecessary—my arm is taken and I am gently but purposefully jerked backwards and sideways at the same time. My man sidesteps and then sits down next to Wady and then pushes him to the side as if Wady was kind of weightless like a small throwaway cushion. As he did so, he smiles evilly too.

  I sigh loudly as I stand privy to this cock-war that is harmless but definitely amusing. I shake my head in reprimand as two pairs of eyes look back at me as if asking for a report-card on masculine behavior vis-à-vis a single, pretty girl (yes, I am talking about me!). Wady continues to grin stupidly but my man’s eyes change. They become darker and hooded, enough to send a shiver down my sweat-beaded spine. He reaches for me without breaking eye contact, pulling at my hand with enough force to land me in his lap. As I adjust my bum on his now clenched thigh muscle, his arm comes around my waist to hold me motionless as I feel his lips stick themselves to my slightly sweaty blouse. My back arches immediately. I can feel him smile as his lips stay stuck to my back. I wiggle a little to break contact and the sensations that have now travelled to my core enough to jerk some fluid between my legs. Oh, dear, this man was doing everything wrong in the feel-right way and I was fighting every prim-virginal upbringing in me to accept what he was promising to do more if I was game.

  “What would you like to drink?” I look at him sideways and his lips brush my cheeks. Another rush of fluid between my legs. Shit—at this rate I will be weeping soon and would need a bathroom break!

  “What do you suggest, I drink?” I throw back at him, twisting a little on his lap to look at his face. Our lips were now almost touching, as breaths began to leave our bodies in short gushes.

  “I think you should continue with rum and coke. I wouldn’t want you to mix your drinks.”

  “Ok.” I breathe.

  His eyes scan my face before he turns to Wady to say, “Can you make yourself useful and get us drinks?”

  “No. I can get her a drink but you are on your own, my friend.”

  “You are such a dick,” he counters with enough good-natured sarcasm he could muster before sliding me off his lap to get the drinks himself. He brushes my hair away from my t
emple to kiss it again. I look away. So he wouldn’t catch the arrest in my breathing and my glazing eyes. Wow! Every single, small intimate gesture was being magnified in the dark. The dark was now feeling more like a private bedroom than a public space for entertainment.

  The place was filling up. There were a few people on the dance floor too. The music was still slow and ballad like. Everyone was really dressed for the night out. Men in their crisp cologne soaked shirts of all manner of color shades—brown, black, blue, mauve, pale pink even and the women were something else. Tight cholis accentuated generous breasts above a trim waist. Jeans or short skirts completed the sexed out ensemble. Everyone wore their hair loose. Faces were either heavily made up right down to smoky kohl eyes and bright red lips or just natural (a lip gloss completed the affect).

  I spot a rather stunning couple (you know they have a great sex life just in the way they hold or snuggle into each other, in this vertical expression of a horizontal desire) take the floor. The man is very brown almost as if he had worked very hard to get that tone of color either on a court or a running track. His biceps rippled as he held his woman. His very long legs encased in a slightly faded dark blue levis looked stunningly muscular, again a visible affect of long hours of paying attention to one’s body parts for the sake of self or maybe the lady love he was holding flush against his very yummy body.

  Now, the ladylove was drawing her own attention. She was tall, pale, and with shiny jet-black hair that fell almost to her waist. Not sticky thin but lightly voluptuous. Her skinny jeans accentuated the butt quite generously while shaping her strong legs well. She knew how to sway her bums in this noticeable way. Every man and woman was looking on with different motions filtering through their body parts.