Sal, bursts through the kitchen swing doors, trips over a waiter and almost lands head first in my delicately poised frozen kiwi daiquiri. I wonder if she has just spotted a pub hating, orange moral-policer and has rushed in risking her life to warn me. Wait a second, she’s got that glow and then, she pulls out a wedgie and not so discreetly adjusts her knickers. She’s not risking anything but her apparent modesty. Before I can finish saying ‘ did you just have sex?’, my answer swaggers in. Her current ‘boyfriend’ ( it’s beyond annoying how Sal calls him that after 3 in a half dates) has a toothy grin so wide, it could put jaws to shame. He’s just done it and in public.
I don’t get public sex. There’s no time for foreplay, you keep most of your clothes on, the hidden corner you use for the act is filthy (the tiny smelly toilet of an aeroplane- please! I wouldn’t even use it for peeing most times) and you are permanently on the lookout. Sal downs my frozen drink and reveals that the hurried uncomfortable feeling of being caught while you’re trying not to touch anything too disgusting is precisely the thrill.
So we’re back to the lure of the forbidden fruit for my generation of thrill seekers. Doing it where you’re not supposed to or allowed to makes it irresistibly exciting to the rule breakers and has very little to do with the actual act of sex. Now that appeals to the rebel in me.
In the era of pink chaddis versus the saffron lungi, if it’s ok for Varun Gandhi to spew hate in public then it we should be more than ok for Sal and her so called boyfriend to make love in public.