Talking dirty: Lust, longing and chee chee in Sri Lanka

by Shehan Karunatilaka Editor’s Note: Does erotic fiction have a geography other than desire? Do you expect erotic fiction from Sri Lanka to be  somehow about civil war? Think again. Lesbians, metrosexuals, frustrated middle aged men, even a lava lamp are part of the first collection of Sri Lankan erotic fiction. Desire happens in book stores, movie theatres, and beaches. Its editor Ameena Hussein says it does not “claim to be of any, if at all literary value” but it is still “a milestone in Sri Lankan writing in English”. Here is an excerpt from the short story Veysee from Blue: The Tranquebar  Book of Erotic Stories from Sri Lanka edited by Ameena Hussein, published  by Tranquebar Press/Westland, New Delhi.  You start talking to her because you’re bored. You’re at Ranil’s house drinking and he gets her on line for you. He tells you she’s fourteen, and has big tits and talks like a seasoned slut. You give her your mobile phone number. She starts calling you. Her name is Suba, and she’s actually sixteen. You’re actually thirty-two. You should have outgrown this years ago. Every other day, she calls you after school and you sit in meetings while she talks filthy. [caption id=“attachment_182614” align=“alignleft” width=“380” caption=“Reuters”]  [/caption] You’ve come to a curious time in your life. You’ve lost faith in love affairs and pornography pleases you more than the prospect of a partner. You honestly prefer masturbation to sex and it begins to scare you. The computer at the office is flooded with porn and you’re the only one who knows where it is. The juniors are afraid of the machine and so is your boss, though he pretends he isn’t. In Sri Lanka sex is distributed unevenly. You get it in abundance if you’re rich or powerful or beautiful, or any cruel combination of the three. You don’t get it if you’re ordinary, pleasant or good-natured. You don’t get it if you’re rolling in self doubt and it shows on your face. You don’t get it if you’re someone like you. Obviously, things aren’t happening these days. You’re trying to convince yourself that it’s just a lean patch and you’re done with relationships. But the weeks are turning to months and the months threaten to turn into years. You count the women you’ve screwed and compare them with the women in Hustler. You count how many women you haven’t screwed and it drives you nuts. Or drives you to grope for your nuts gazing at Hustler. Everyone else is getting it. Even Mohan in accounts. He’s shacking up with his secretary who is as gorgeous as he is fat and ugly. Sathi the promotions director claims he screws all the foreigners who visit the hotel and the sad thing is he’s probably telling the truth. He eats raw pig fat and his belly stays flat. He spends fortnights in the sun and his skin stays olive. So you call Suba and start flattering her. You use words like ‘princess’ and ‘sexy’ and ‘sweetheart’. They all work. She bores you with her family. She tells you she’s going to be a pop star and that she’s already written songs that are sure hits. She could even write a song for you. You cut to the chase. When can I see you? you ask. My father won’t let me, she murmurs. You debate for a while. You hang up. Later that night she calls you. Right after Baywatch. You sit out in the garden and feel yourself under your batik sarong. You haven’t kissed a boy? You tell first. Have you kissed? Mad? Of course I haven’t kissed a boy. No . . . o . . . ha . . . he . . . he . . . You’re silly. I mean a girl!!! Her inane drawl excites you even more. You drop your voice to a whisper. I can kiss you. All parts of you. Even soft parts. Chee . . . what are you asking? Let me touch you. And so on. Your words like kithul honey on fresh curd. You hope your desire will stick and lure her to you. After two weeks of banter all that sticks is your foreskin to your Y-fronts. Yet the sensation is enthralling. She has carved a niche in your fantasies. She looks like the girl off the teledramas, or so you convince yourself. Now you can use words like ‘payya’ and ‘huththa’ in your conversations without blushing. She purrs without shame. Knowing that you know she is faking. And so on it continues. She is the first thing you wake up to and last thing you fall asleep to. It’s freaky because you’ve always hated the way phones invade your privacy and hijack your time. Your last three relationships broke down because you couldn’t notch up the required telecom points. And now the cellular phone is the nucleus of your existence. You hang it next to your car CD player and poke in your hands free set as you drive to work. You eat, sleep and urinate with it. And you listen. To her talk about her school sports meet. To how she hates her big sister. To how she loves Enrique. You know it’s pitiful, but the heaviness of her breathing and the image of her teledrama legs wrapped around your scrawny butt spurs you on. You ask her if she’s keen to hook up. Finally, she says yes. You call Ranil. He who introduced you to Suba. He says he got it from a friend of his who was a DJ at Achcharu FM. You feel a pang of something and suppress it, aware that it could well be jealousy. Bitches call those buggers all the time, he says. Gata Badu. Can’t screw but can have some fun. Why can’t screw, you inquire. These are small bitches, they can’t get out of the house, all you can do is talk and jerk. You are very pleased with yourself.

 Shehan Karunatilaka’s most recent novel is Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Matthews_, winner of the 2008 Gratiaen Prize._