So I went to the closing party for an art exhibit in Bombay that was curated by a close friend of mine. The paintings had all been moved to the interior of a swanky night club, and the lighting was perfect…tables of stone floating between miniature rivers filled with rose petals…all the bohemians were out…flashing their butch hair cuts, their tribal hand bags, their 70’s beards, and the cameras flashed on cheshire-cat grins of hopeful artists and their cutting edge productions….in one painting there were some startling giant bananas painted with tiny dancing disembodied female legs….this was my favorite. It was priced way over my head but at least I got the brochure with mini photos inside. So all is going perfectly….wine is flowing….and so is the rather expensive beer…and its the right moment to grab someone who is a worse dancer than I am…and use them as a disguise while I jump around like a woman posessed…..hmmmm…..only one problem…..some idiotic fucker from France has been hired to play some gormet music….
it basically sounded like computers having surrepetitious abortions…only really really loudly. I said to the guy next to me…”how the hell am I supposed to dance to this music.” He raised an eyebrow. “Well its “minimal techno” darling” he tells me. I look at another Frenchman that seems like a nice guy. He’s absorbed by the sounds of the clunk clunk beep. I feel I must be getting old if this is really supposed to be the new “music.” Whatever. Enough beer and the computers sound like they are commiting suicide….another beer and I really don’t care…..me and my friends have resolved to jump up and down on the spot and another friend has gotten so drunk that he’s convinced he’s a Bolshevik and has been invented some kind of obsolete russian folk dance and is scaring all the nearby women away by clapping his hands at them and going “ahhhh”
I grab a gay friend of mine and twirl him around….all is well….all is good vibes….except….out of the corner of my eye I spy a little sleeeeaze…..He looks kind of like a wolf….only I actually like werewolves and this guy looks like the kind of werewolf that doesn’t want to bite anyone…he wants to hump everyone..more like a weasel……..his poofy 80’s haircut is bobbing up and down….I can’t tell if he is European or American…whoever he is…..he is looking around with an expression that worries me….because somehow the sound of computers having abortions has made him want to breed….
The evening draws to a close and I am, luckily not introduced to him….
The next day, bleary-eyed and hidden behind my shades I go to say goodbye to a friend who is leaving town…the one who curated the exhibit…Suddenly the weasel arrives… I am introduced to him…the weasel says in a swaggering voice “I never forget a pretty face.” I cross my fingers and display my wedding ring to its best advantage while he continues to ask me questions in that “DO YOU FANCY ME? WANNA FUCK?” sort of voice….ugh…soon he is asking me where to get a nice massage….I answer politely…but soon I gather that it isn’t “THAT KIND” of massage he is looking for. He is also considering visiting the Osho Ashram and has even called them up to enquire after their “orgies.” They told him they couldn’t promise anything. The evening progresses….he lingers in our little group….I am getting unnerved….I try not to be rude….he seems like he must be a kid….just out of his BA probably…. first time in India? ….yes…try to be nice to the little turd….. after a number of uncomfortable exchanges that are really too pathetic to mention, he caps off the evening by leaning over to my husband and asking him if “YOU HAVE ANY WOMEN FOR ME?”
He leaves, finally…..after trying to seduce me, enquire after orgies with Osho and places to get “massage” and of course inviting my husband to pimp some women for him. And the whole thing just left me with this irritated feeling that I had when I was in London studying and ran into some Indian lads, fresh off the boat for their degrees “abraaad”.
Anyway I know its completely typical but I find it really disgusting when horny little boys go travelling to foreign countries and treat all the native women like a garden of all-you-can-eat “I love you long time” desperate deep-throating tarts…
During my first week in London my husband (then fiance) had taken me to some university pot luck where he came accross another Punju who leaned over slyly, oggling all the white chicks, and spat “oye…gori patayi?” And when white boys come looking for a piece of ass in India they have the same expression. Testosterone poisoning turns boys into semen zombies…..I mean, what the hell is wrong with these guys? If they can’t get laid in their own countries (East and West) why do they think the female species is suddenly going to part their legs in a foreign country?
In the end, the fantasy of the exotic foreign punani is not what it appears to be. These guys aren’t really looking for women…they are trying desperately to reimagine themselves as potent sexual beings, which they obviously are not in their own countries. They are trying, in the sleaziest way possible, to “find” themselves, that is- to create a myth of debauchery and “hard core” experience for themselves. The real problem for these insects is that in their own countries there is social accountability, which, for all our post-feminist rhetoric, means that yes— there are men who will find it uncool in your own community if you start treating their women friends, sisters, girlfriends like sidewalk hookers. But hey— in other countries, among other ethnicities and even classes….women are fair game…this kind of attitude belies the fact that these are the kinds of men who respect women only through virtue of the fact that they are property of/ or protected by male social codes that deny random jerks access to them. In their own country a male gaze follows them, a gaze that censures, a gaze they accept as legitimate prohibition, a gaze that they imagine will not follow them to foreign locales.
THe moment they arrive in a foreign country their eyes grow wide and hungry….centuries of “rape and pillage” programing stirs in their cosmopolitan DNA….They go out and have brief, unsatisfying sexual encounters with women who they often do not even like very much….still…they have to….so that they can have that brief, even more satisfying, post-coital ciggarette and make a phone call “back home” to report….”hey bro……I just screwed a russian…” This is the moment where the hunt becomes worth while….where the young tribesman reports back to just one or two members of his clan that yes, he, has tasted the forbidden fruit, has marked himself a real man, and will safely be able to reconcile himself years later to a life of unhappy sexless marriage with the knowlege that one day, while sipping his scotch whisky, he might reminisce with his geriatric comrades about a foolhardy youth full of booze, prostitues, and minimal techno.
Here’s some minimal techno for ya. If you like it you are a sad little monkey. Ok it might sound good if Yoko ono were using it for some avante garde art installation involving albino bats and hanging forks but in a night club…its absurd. Besides if the French like it…well…you know the French…
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