*I dated a Punjabi man for several months. We were both in our 40’s. The first time we fucked was on our second date, with the sex good if rushed and insincere. However, our second time constituted a noteworthy if bizarre lovemaking round, an affectionate and unique experience that I still think about from time to time.*
We were seated next to each other, at my dining table, eating a meal he had prepared in my kitchen. The green salad was fine, and I guess I wasn’t supposed to use his cucumber raita as dressing. At least not as much as I put on. He had baked some really tender and flavorful chicken thighs that were marinated in a spicy masala sauce, and that had really won me over. He talked about how stressed he was that his son hadn’t talked to him since his divorce 6 years ago, and that every attempt he made to reconcile fell through. I couldn’t empathize due to my lack of children, but I could see the wear on his face, the pain in his sharp, hazel eyes.