Principles of (not Falling In) Love

Principle 1: (Do not) Book a lonely vacation

I first met HIM in Jordan. In August. Jordan is a country in the Middle East. Sandwiched between Syria in the North, Saudi Arabia in the South, Iraq in the East, and Israel in the West. Unlike its neighbours, Jordan is not an oil-producing country. So, it does not have an oil-rich economy. It is, what is known as, a lower middle income country.

Why did I travel to Jordan? Well, I have been to the Middle East before -- to Dubai and Abu Dhabi for instance. But after I was body-shamed on social media, I yearned for solitude. I wanted to get lost. I wanted to disappear.

The reason I chose Jordan was its history. One of the oldest societies in the world, the earliest human habitation in Jordan dates back to almost 2,00,000 years! Its ancient city Petra was the capital of one of the many Arab kingdoms. Petra's ruins, 2300 years old, still remain almost intact, unravaged by time.

But that was not the only reason I chose Jordan. Petra was not my destination. I wanted to lose myself in the turquoise blue waters of the Red Sea. And situated on the banks of the Red Sea is Aqaba, Jordan's only port city. And my destination.

Principle 2: (Do not) Be ready to meet an annoying stranger at the airport

There are no direct flights from India to Jordan. The easiest way to reach Aqaba is to go via Dubai, or Abu Dhabi, or Kuwait City, or Bahrain. From there, another connecting flight will take you to Jordan's capital Amman. From Amman, a 6 -- hour 338 km drive through the Desert Highway (also known as Highway 15) takes you to Aqaba.

There are domestic flights between Amman and Aqaba too. But I had read so much about the Desert Highway and how fascinating the ride is, that I decided to book a cab from Queen Alia International Airport in Amman.

That was where I first met Him. At the Immigration Counter of Queen Alia International Airport.

My immigration check was over and I had collected my luggage. I went over to the Prepaid / Postpaid SIM card kiosks located right outside the immigration counter. And stood confused.

There were 3 kiosks of 3 separate service providers -- Zain, Umniah and Orange. All 3 providing identical services for the same price. I could not make up my mind which prepaid SIM card to buy.

"Go for Zain, they have the best coverage," said a voice behind my back.

I turned around and saw Him. A tall, handsome, clean shaven, relatively young man, carrying a laptop bag on his shoulder. He had no luggage. And He looked Indian.

I said nothing. Since childhood I have been a rebel. In spirit as well as in action. I don't like being told what to do. Certainly not by a stranger. I went over to the Umniah kiosk, showed them my passport, and asked for a prepaid SIM.

"Bad choice," the voice said again. "Umniah has dodgy connection, especially if you are going to Aqaba."

I felt mildly irritated. This is not how I had foreseen the beginning of my vacation -- with unsolicited advice from a stranger. I frowned and replied, "I will take my chances."

"As you wish," He said and went past me outside the exit door. I got the new prepaid SIM installed in my phone. It cost me 10 JD (Jordanian Dinars).

Next stop was the prepaid taxi kiosks. And the charges were exorbitant. The lowest fare was 150 JD. One JD is equal to 117 Indian Rupees, so the entire ride from Amman to Aqaba would set me back by almost 18000 Indian Rupees!

I kept thinking whether the desert ride was indeed worth that amount of money, whether I should have booked a domestic flight instead. And then I heard Him again.

"Hi there!" He waved from the driver's seat of a car inside the parking lot. I was surprised that He was not in a cab.

"Going to Aqaba I suppose?" He smiled and asked.

"How do you know?" I replied with another question.

"I overheard you saying that Aqaba is your destination at the Immigration Check In," He smiled again. "I was right behind you in the queue."

Huh! An eavesdropper. I wasn't impressed.

"Why don't you hop in? I am going to Aqaba, might as well give you a lift," He said.

"Thanks, I will take a cab," I declined Him politely.

"A cab ride will burn a hole in your pocket. And you have no one to share the fare with," He continued to persuade me. "I can see you are travelling alone."

"My problem. None of your business," I had to retort a bit rudely now. This guy was getting on my nerves.

He took off His sunglasses, extended His right hand out of the driver's window, and said in a softer tone, "Alright, lets start over. I am sorry I haven't introduced myself yet. I am Raj."

I hesitated for a second, but decided to accept his handshake. Not doing so would have been rude. "Hi, I am Payal."

"Nice to know you Payal," His handshake was warm and friendly, firm but soft, reassuring and comfortable. "We are both from India. May I request you to share the long ride to Aqaba with me?"

His insistence should have made me suspect His intentions. But it didn't. The only response I could give was, "How come you are in a car and not in a cab?"

"Well, I live there. In Aqaba," He reached into His wallet and pulled out a visiting card. "My family owns a car dealership there."

I looked at the visiting card. His name, address, and the name of a Ford car dealership was mentioned. As well as His contact number and email ID. But it wasn't reassuring enough.

"Um... I don't know..." I was looking excuses to avoid His invitation.

"Look, its broad daylight now," He probably sensed my reluctance. "And if it comforts you, I could give you my driving licence and car registration. You could take pics of those and send to your family and friends."

He pulled out His driver's licence and car registration and put them in my hand. I was taken aback a bit by this gesture. It wasn't too bold or grand, but unexpected nevertheless.

He had a Jordanian licence and His car was registered to Aqaba Governorate. I took pics of those on my phone but didn't send to anyone. None in my family knew about my solo trip to Jordan. And I intended to keep it that way.

Principle 3: (Do not) Accept a lift from the stranger

I warily kept my luggage in the boot of His car. It was a massive Ford SUV. Must be from his own showroom, I thought. Jordan has left-hand drive, so He was seated on the left side at the front. I took the right seat and fastened my seatbelt.

"Nice car, very spacious," I tried to initiate a conversation as He began to drive.

"Thank you. Its the latest model of Ford Explorer Platinum," He replied with pride. "I took the 1st one that came to my showroom."

A Ford car dealer. He must be rich. His car looked rich. He had Oakley shades on, and an Omega watch on His wrist. He LOOKED rich.

"So, which city in India are you from, Payal?"

"Gurgaon. Its near Delhi," I replied, not sure if He knew much about Delhi.

"Aha! Gurgaon, the Millennium City! Is it as awesome as they publicise it to be?" He asked.

"Nope. It has the worst traffic congestion in India," I said, "and its roads turn into rivers after just 2 hours of rain."

"Really? I haven't been there. Ever," He expressed genuine surprise. "I have been to Delhi, though. On many occasions. In fact, I am just returning from a business trip to Delhi."

I was curious now. Was He in the same flight as mine? "How long have you been staying in Jordan?"

"Well, my parents migrated from India when I was a child," He said. "But I completed my Bachelors from Delhi University. Then I went to Kellogg School of Management in the U.S. for my MBA. And now I look after the family business."

We started chatting a bit more about our backgrounds, families, His days in Aqaba, my days in Gurgaon. I was gradually opening up to Him without realising it.

He was easy to talk to. A glib talker. Always put you at ease. Never uttered a wrong word. Charming and polite. Cultured and erudite. I started liking Him more and more.

By now, we were outside Amman and had reached the Desert Highway. The 1st word that escaped from my mouth was, "Wow!"

"Yeah. Its breath-taking, isn't it?" He seemed equally excited. "The colour of the sand changes after every kilometre. I have driven thousands of times on this highway, but have never been bored."

He was right. The colour of the desert did indeed change after every 10 minutes or so. From yellow, to golden, to dark brown, to light orange. Miles of desert on both sides of the highway -- golden yellow on the left and orange on the right. I had no idea that deserts could be so beautiful. I started taking pics.

The long metal highway swerved and curved like a black snake in the middle of this golden yellow landscape. The sky above was blue, pure pristine blue, with tiny white clouds floating like cotton balls. There was no sign of any pollution anywhere. Nor any trees.

"Which hotel are you staying at? The Hilton Double Tree?" I was so engrossed at watching nature's beauty that His question somewhat startled me.

"Um... no. I have booked an empty apartment on Airbnb," I replied. "Its cheaper and offers more freedom than a hotel."

"Wow. You have guts," He blurted out. "Alone on your 1st trip to Jordan, and staying alone in a vacant apartment?"

I didn't reply. I knew I had come here to disappear. To spend time alone. There was no need to explain my decision to Him.

"Are you here for business or pleasure?" He was curious now.

"Neither," I replied and didn't want to elaborate.

"Lonely traveller, seeking solitude. Are you?" He asked playfully.

I looked into His eyes. Or rather, His Oakley sunglasses covering His eyes. Did He make a wild guess? Or was it just an impromptu remark? I kept mum.

"Sorry," He said, "Mea Culpa."

"What's that?" I didn't know what Mea Culpa meant.

"Its Latin. It means 'my fault'. I asked you a personal question and I apologise," He replied.

He really meant it. I have heard countless apologies over the years, but never met anyone who actually meant it. The term 'gentleman' had always felt more of a dictionary word to me. That day, on the long drive along the Desert Highway, I felt the presence of a gentleman for the 1st time in my life.

He was good company too. Great even. Had lots of stories to tell. Like how it is impossible to find a domestic help in Jordan. Arab women, especially Jordanian women, do not work as domestic helps. They consider it below their dignity. Jordanian government 'imports' maid servants from Bangladesh and Philippines.

We kept talking and chatting throughout the 6 hour ride. Luckily, there was no traffic congestion. He informed me that traffic jams do not occur in Jordan. The entire country has just 10 million people.

In between our chats, I caught Him glancing periodically at my breasts. Not that it made me uncomfortable. I was used to it. Guys have been staring at my boobs since the day they sprouted. And over the years, I have mastered the art of differentiating between a good glance and a dirty glance.

His was the good glance.

The sun had set by the time we reached Aqaba. Darkness had set in. The landscape had changed dramatically from desert to rocky. Now I had to find my destination apartment.

"Building 26, Area 6, behind Carrefour supermarket," I told Him. He seemed to know the locality like the back of His hand. We reached Building 26 in less than 10 minutes.

As I unloaded my luggage from His car, His hands gently brushed against my boobs. Momentarily. For a fraction of a second. Whether it was intentional or not, I could not tell. But it did not feel bad.

I thanked Him for the lift. As He waved me goodbye, He stuck out His neck from the open window of His car and asked, "If I were to turn up at your doorstep tomorrow morning with a bunch of flowers, what would you say to that?"

"3 things," I retorted with a smile. "First, I am not a flower girl. Second, you should not try to flirt with me as we are still strangers. And third, I will slam the door on your face and throw your flowers in the trash can."

"Feisty! I like it," He laughed and drove off.

I called my landlord from my phone. He was waiting for me. He unlocked a 2nd floor apartment and helped move my luggage in.

I took a cold shower, watched TV, had some sandwiches that I bought at the airport, and crashed down on bed. It wasn't until the next morning that I thought of Him.

Principle 4: (Avoid) A Memorable First Encounter

I was busy making my breakfast the next morning when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and was amazed to see Raj standing with a huge bouquet of flowers.

"Oh my god! You really meant it!" I exclaimed.

"Meant what?" He asked as He entered.

"Turning up at my doorstep with flowers this morning as you mentioned yesterday," I reminded Him.

"Well, I am a man of my words. Good morning," He handed me the flowers.

"Listen, I appreciate it. But I don't need these," I told Him. "I am not into flowers as I have told you already."

He smiled, "You also told me that you will slam the door on my face. Since you haven't, you might as well keep the flowers."

I wasn't sure of His intentions, but the sudden visit and the flowers were unexpected. Even though He had given me advance notice. I went to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast and placed the flowers in a water jar.

We kept chatting the whole time I was in the kitchen. He stepped in to help me make breakfast. Our hands brushed against each other. Mine against His shoulder, His against my thigh. It was subtle and sweet, and I started liking Him more and more.

As I was pouring coffee, I felt His warm breath and the smell of His aftershave on my shoulders. I was wearing a short nightgown. Even though Jordan expects both men and women to dress conservatively, I could wear whatever I wanted in the privacy of my home.

He was standing right behind me. Too close. So close that I could hear Him breathe. So close that His aftershave smelled stronger than the Turkish coffee I had just poured. I stood frozen in anticipation. Was He going to do what I expected Him to do?

Yes. He lowered His face and kissed my shoulders. Once. Twice. Thrice. I let out a gasp. Then He gently moved my hair and kissed the back of my neck. I purred like a kitten.

He took a step forward and rubbed His front against my back. Gently. Sensuously. I knew the difference between a good touch and a bad touch. This was a good touch. Something I had longed for all my life.

His hands gently moved up to my 34DD boobs and started playing with them through the nightgown and my bra. He cupped them in His hands, lifted them up, fondled and caressed them. Then He started drawing circles on my nipples. With both hands. Through the clothes. Round and round.

The world felt very small. I had never been touched like that before. On my nipples, yes. But not so delicately. Never so sensuously. My nipples reacted instantaneously to this attention.

The buds hardened and swelled up. Big and round, like red cherries. Perfect to fondle, perfect to play with, and perfect to suckle. The more He flicked them with His fingers, the more reactive and sensitive they got.

This merited retaliation from my side. He was standing so close that I was unable to turn around. So I moved my right hand towards my back and grabbed His crotch.

He was so hard! His clothes could barely conceal His erection. My touch only made it worse. I could literally feel His steely hardness waiting to tear through His clothes and poke out. It was time.

I unzipped His pant. He unhooked my bra. I fumbled through His underwear to pull out His cock. He lifted up my nightgown and pulled down my panties to my thighs. I was already wet. He was already hard.

I wanted to turn around and look into His eyes. I wanted to watch His cock standing erect in all its glory. But He wouldn't let me. He kept me sandwiched between Himself and the kitchen counter.

I bucked and writhed, trying to push Him away to make room for myself to turn around. He pushed His cock between my legs and whispered in my ear, "Feisty! You are just my type."

And then He suddenly loosened His grip and moved a step back. It gave me enough space for me to turn around and face Him.

"Raj, we hardly know each other. Do you really want to do this?" I looked at Him in cross-eyed haze.

"Do you love me?" He asked softly, "because I love you."

"Love? We have just met. We are still strangers. How can you call it love?" I replied meekly.

He grabbed my butt and lifted me on the granite top of the kitchen counter. He lifted my legs onto His shoulders and touched the tip of His cock on the tiny opening of my pussy. I almost melted with desire.

His dark brown cock twitched and stood upright. Its tip was glistening with moisture -- His pre-cum mixed with my wetness. His crotch was clean shaven and so were His balls. 2 big heavy dark brown balls, which made me hornier than ever.

"Do you love me?" He repeated the question while rubbing His cock against my clit. I was in a haze -- a confused state of lust and fear, torn between desire and anxiety -- and could not reply.

He lowered His face and buried His mouth in my cleavage. He took my nipples in His mouth, one by one, and began sucking on them like juicy grapes, ripe and ready to be eaten. All the while rubbing my clit with the tip of His cock.

I wanted Him badly inside me. I could not hold patience anymore. I grabbed His dick and placed it on my sloppy drenched pussy.

He did not shove it inside. He kept staring into my eyes, and rubbed His cock on the opening of my vulva. But He wouldn't push it in. He wouldn't fuck me.

"Do it," I groaned and ordered Him. He didn't oblige. He kept pushing and teasing His thick rod on the opening of my vulva. Without actually breaking through.

Oh god! Why wouldn't He fuck me? Never before had I been denied sex. Ever. In fact, it has always been the opposite. Men have always been too eager and quick to screw me even when I didn't want to. Raj was the 1st man to hold back even after receiving my go-ahead.

"Do it! Please!" I pleaded now.

"Not unless you tell me that you love me," He replied coldly. His voice was colder than the granite countertop of the kitchen and the metal band of His Rolex wristwatch.

I sighed in despair. I realised He had some old fashioned notions about when sex should happen. Not unless you are in love. It increased my respect for Him. As well as my desire for His cock.

"You have velvet lips," He whispered in my ear.

"But you haven't touched them yet," I replied.

"I am not talking about 'those' lips," He knelt down on the floor to face my open legs. "I am talking about 'these' ones." He touched my wet warm pussy.

He took out something from His pocket, and started applying on my pussy lips. It felt cold and creamy. I looked down. It was a lipstick!

He was applying lipstick where it has never been applied before. It was a dark red shade. He finished and handed it over to me.

"Its for you," He said, "Wear it every time we are supposed to meet."

He sat down on the floor and licked off all the lipstick He had just applied from my pussy. I moaned and cummed loudly and profusely. And sprayed my juices all over His nose, lips and chin.

The red lipstick mixed with my white juice had turned pink. It was all over His face. I didn't know whether I was His 'type' or not. But He certainly was the loveliest guy I had ever met.

Principle 5: (Never) Go on an adventure together

After our 'imperfect' encounter in the morning, Raj eft my apartment, but promised to return that evening for a dinner date. He asked for my Jordanian phone number and I readily shared it with Him.

A feeling of emptiness engulfed me as soon as He left. I had never been loved before. All I had seen and experienced in my life so far was lust. From neighbours, colleagues, and middle aged men. He was the 1st man to have professed His love for me.