Sapiosexually Yours

Sexuality and the City

Sapiosexually Yours

Illustration: Mudit Ganguly

S

apiosexual is a very erotic sounding term, that I’ve heard two of my friends use recently, to describe their orientation. On the face, it sounds like a lesbian branch in erotology. Many tongues, fingers, and moans appear between the words sapio and sexual. Then I Google it, to discover that it’s a term for people who find intelligence the most sexually appealing feature in their partners.

I think hard about this, as I idly wander through the web, avoiding what I’m actually here for… work! I have to write the screenplay of a saas-bahu drama right this minute, as they are shooting some scenes in the next few hours. The creative head and the production people are having babies, heart attacks, and snorting coke simultaneously. I receive yet another text that reminds me of a howler from Harry Potter: “What time are you sending the episode?” I idly change tabs, not giving a fuck. The episode will be shot, no worries people. I will send it just in time for the channel people to royally fuck each word – systematically cut lines ruthlessly, write in bold and red – ideas that they need to wank off from their peanut-sized brains onto my draft as “feedback”. It’s no wonder then that I begin to think about getting off on intelligence. It seems like a rarer find than a TV wife with a non-adulterous husband.

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I think about Pixie, my rampantly sexual 30-something BFF, who has literally been on a tour of South India, via her many men. I call her, ignoring a call from the EP. Pixie says, “ Well, you know, Tamil Nadu has been on and off for many years. He is generous and reaches places with his tongue I didn’t know were meant to exist for such pleasure! Then came Maharashtra, who was the most sensual lover, and the man I had been searching for, through so many lives. He taught me how to love and how to revel in the beauty of love. He was my Neruda poems, my Klimt paintings. Then came Kerala, who was the tallest, moodiest, and the sexiest man I have ever seen. He left behind the largest wound on my poor aging heart.

Telangana was a crazy, one-night eater of cake from my cleavage (long story; involves alcohol, cake, and drunk TV people who put cake on unsuspecting faces at wrap parties). Then came a Konkani-Kannadiga recently, who has a Lord Vishnu tattoo and some great moves. Am I missing any southern states?”

I sign off laughing at her sexual history, even as I muse that it’s hard to imagine that geography was never her forte.

My nerves tingled, as I sat drugged by his words; just hearing him speak, gave me an orgasm.

All of the above were men of valour, fought many wars and won over Pixie due to their physical-chemical diligence. It was the hormones that were doing the talking. The brain cells were doped on pheromones and it had nothing to do with anything even remotely intelligent. All primal desires laced with immense affection. So then who are these people who “find intelligence and the human mind to be the most sexually attractive feature in the opposite sex”? Sexual attraction and intelligent conversations are a great package, but does finding the mind sexy also ensure that you will find the body sexy too?

I think about all the men whose mind I find sexy and realise I hardly know any. The cons of working in the TV industry. The few I know I’ve friendzoned. I love to talk to them, but it’s most unlikely that I will sleep with any of them in this lifetime. I begin to see myself in very poor light, a cross between a man-eating Madonna and a lascivious Hugh Hefner with a bit of Khushwant Singh thrown in. Then it hits me. Yes, there is a man whose mind, I had madly fallen in love with. Yes, love. I don’t use that term loosely.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was my sapiosexual muse. I loved spending time with him, where we both pretended we were great friends, but he was the spider and I was the unsuspecting fly. He talked, I talked, we spoke of everything – films, space, music, life, trees, the water world, ’80s music; we also spoke of what we were feeling, the fact that time stops when we meet, that we would’ve been fabulous had we met each other in college.

He was the Clyde to my Bonnie, the Jay Z to my Beyonce. He would talk and I would watch him entranced. His fingers were long; I stared at them move enigmatically, as he spoke in a baritone. My nerves tingled, as I sat drugged by his words; just hearing him speak gave me an orgasm. So there came a situation that while I longed to suck his fingers, I was actually just making love to his brain. We met at bars and coffee shops… well mostly bars, talking constantly, just talking, drinking, and smoking. We spoke about things we hated, people we liked, and the fact that we were the last dying breed of truly intense, emotionally charged humans. For a person like me, who is mostly into sex, this seemed like a new position.

Talking and fucking the mind. Except in the end, the fuckee and the fucker are exhausted, but it goes nowhere. There is no small death, no release, no orgasm. The fucker just one fine day leaves the fuckee with a permanent mindfuck.

My phone pings again. “PLs MA’AM channel is watng lyk fr so loooong.” I toss my phone aside, open the screenplay and begin typing: “Rohit looked hard into her eyes and softly muttered, I know what you are thinking. She blushed and said, ‘No one knows me as well as you do Rohit!’ And then they hug.”

I write a soft-porn song sequence (shots set to the latest Atif Aslam number). I continue to ponder about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, even as I automatically type out a thrilling consummation for Rohit and Radha.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and I indulged in a year-long foreplay of words. Finally unable to resist the chemical lure of the body, we succumbed to a night of passion. I suppose it hit him then, that while his mind may have found a mate in me, his body was committed to his wife.

Ever since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I have sworn off men with blazing minds and have written myself out of the “sapiosexual” club. Being a truly intense, emotionally charged human has not served me so well. I would rather go back to being a truly intense sexually charged human. Sapiosexuals, may kindly fuck off. I like my orgasm served on the spot. Without a side order of mindfuck.

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