How The Middle-Class Makes Love

Love and Sex

How The Middle-Class Makes Love

I’

m standing in the buffet line at the wedding of a friend’s brother, waiting for the chance to show Rogan Josh who’s boss, while simultaneously trying not to die because of the 1,000-yard stare from the server attached to the spoon. My Oliver Twist-esque plea, “boss aur ek piece dena”, is met with a sharp glare and a piece of mutton the size of a baby’s pinky begrudgingly shovelled into my plate. Behind me, four of the groom’s friends, who had been drinking whisky-Pepsi out of a 600 ml PET bottle, and doing a piss poor job of hiding the fact, talk in hushed tones, while looking at the chicken tikka masala as if it were displaying some wanton, attention-grabbing cleavage.

Tonight’s topic for debate on “Four Buzzed Guys at a Buffet” is the impending consummation of tonight’s marriage, with bonus commentary about the groom’s sexual proclivities. Friend number one starts off with a monologue about how sex is the only good thing that comes out of marriage; friend number two chips in with sage advice about love and sex; number three, the most verbose of the quartet, makes an observation about the heights of the bride and the groom, and goes on to pitch in about the logistics of the act.

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