I’d just started university. I was breezy and easy!
I don’t know how it happened, but I fell into the Indian crowd — with feelers out in other genres. I was having fun. I loved flirting, and I had a mouth like a filthy whore.
In one lecture, the lovely guy next to me spent the session sketching a picture of himself coming between my tits. The detail was incredible. No faces — just tits, a dick, and a lot of jizz. He passed it to me and said it was something he wanted to do with me.
Me?
I looked at it and told him that my small little titties had never even met — I’d have to get my armpit skin involved. Alright, alright, my game may not have been on point. It’s just the way I think.
I started asking him: how would it work? Would we be lying down or standing… freestyle?
He laughed and left.
I often look back on that moment thinking: Why didn’t I just say okay? And then figure it out in the moment?
I didn’t really know when boys liked me, and I don’t think I really knew how to tell them I liked them either. My longest relationship up to that point was with Wotsit boy.
In halls, I lived with two Caucasian girls, one Indian girl, and one Caucasian boy. I was a latecomer — so they’d already done the whole effort bit. They had friends on other floors and in other buildings.
The Indian boy often asked me to join him to meet his mates. He was in second year, so knew the lay of the land a bit better. He introduced me to his circle — all Indians.
I found out later they’d invited a number of first-year Indian girls, essentially matching them up with the second-year boys. It was like a dinner party of arranged situationships.
I started seeing one of the second-year boys. Early on, there were things that didn’t sit right with me. When I tried to bring them up, sometimes I was constructive. Other times, I’ll admit — I was batshit crazy.
But it became clear, really early in the relationship, that I was the problem. Not for doing anything. For saying something.
For pointing out things that made me feel uncomfortable.
I was really clear about who I was from the beginning. And to be fair, he did accept it — well, inconsistently.
I was inconsistently acceptable.
When I voiced concerns, the girls would jump in:
“He’s a good guy.”
“You’re a bit difficult.”
“You just need to adjust.”
Apparently, my boyfriend did well to control his ego when I challenged him. Their guys, they said, wouldn’t be able to control their pride.
So if I got annoyed at the fact he was late to pick me up, I was difficult. But if he got annoyed with me for something similar?
I was meant to be grateful.
“He’s responsible.”
“He’s stable.”
“He’s a good timer — you’re so lucky.”
My twenties were such a weird time — I guess they were for everyone. I was just trying to do what I was supposed to do, while staying true to my authentic self.
It was impossible. I always had to tone myself down to fit in. Even then, I was usually still the most outrageous one. The eyebrow, the long pause after a comment, or the eye twitch — all blinking in agreement that I’d gone too far. Again.
When he told me he loved me after six weeks, I broke up with him. It didn’t feel authentic. I got uncomfortable and told him I’d need a minute. This wasn’t supposed to be serious. I was a fresher.
I asked if we could pause. Break up. Both play the field. Maybe get back together later — when I was ready for something more real.
He said no.
We could break up and play the field.
But he wouldn’t want to get back together after seeing me with other people.
Frankly, I was annoyed. I thought I was being grown up.
Later, I talked to my new uni friends about it.
At university, I rarely contacted my old friends from home. I was too poor for a mobile. None of us had one. I kept their landline numbers in a little notebook I carried around — I still remember some of them off by heart. If I wanted to call them, I had to use the pay phone in the communal corridor.
We were scattered. Different halls, different cities. Reinventing ourselves. So, in their absence, I relied on my new friends.
Big mistake.
I told them he’d said he loved me after six weeks.
And I’d broken up with him.
There was an audible gasp. One girl clasped her hand over her mouth.
“He told you he loved you and you broke up with him?”
“Don’t you want someone to love you?”
“So what if it’s been six weeks? Love isn’t time-bound!”
I didn’t dare tell them I was pissed off with his response. That it didn’t feel right. That I felt overwhelmed and suffocated. That I didn’t know if I even wanted love right then — and if I did, surely I’d feel something more than giddy confusion?
I started to doubt myself.
Didn’t I want love?
Wasn’t that the whole point?
Was I broken?
Maybe I needed a lesson in how to receive love.
These girls had got into my head. I was difficult. And even though I was difficult — I’d found someone who still loved me.
So, I got back together with him.
Because he loved me.
And I wanted to try and be less difficult.
Maybe this was it?
The girls seemed to think so.
That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Right?
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