Starting in the 1600s, when the English first found India, family tradition has it that at least one male member of every generation has gone off in quest of Indian cunt; a kind of coming of age thing.
Others went off to subjugate, to teach those damn natives what the white man's superiority was all about; but not us. Not for us pseudo patriotic thoughts of going forth to conquer for King or Queen, while building personal fortunes, or thinking in derogatory terms of black, brown and yellow natives. All that twaddle was left to the other classes.
We are straightforward working class people, with simple goals in life - like fucking Indian cunt.
Nothing written anywhere, but passed on by word of mouth - I first heard murmurs when I was eleven. By the time I came of age I had heard all about it. Not from my parents (my father and I had a nodding acquaintanceship, my mother was just too quiet and too strait laced and I am an only child), but from numerous cousins, uncles and aunts.
We, of the English working class, have a strong sense of family. We stick together and meet frequently - at family gatherings and of an evening at the local. And we talk, oh yes we talk.
I still speak in the manner I learnt at my mother's knee - even though I went and got myself a bleeding education. I am still working class and damn proud of it. But scholarships galore and before you could say Bob's your uncle, I was a doctor and not just any old doctor but a bleeding neurologist.
Dealing with people is not my forte, but I have an insatiable curiosity; so I found myself a research position at the Institute in Queens Square. When I have to get up and speak I still find puzzled looks on some of the faces in front of me. As if education and a working class accent do not go together. The devil with them, I say; that is if there is a devil, and if there isn't, then who cares?
But back to our quest for Indian cunt - goes back a few centuries. It started when my ancestors signed on as hands on sailing ships and the first Indian cunt was encountered - most likely a prostitute's. Later, when the East India Company was established we were there helping with this and that. And that is when the legend really took off - of Indian women and their superior fucking.
Who knows if any of it is true, who knows if Percy who spent thirty years in India was the greatest fucker of them all? (For that matter who cares? It all sounds good). Family legend has it that Percy (1830 – 1860 in India, and who died eight years later of consumption, but with a smile on his face, in England) was the ultimate, the pope, the emperor, the man who had all the moves that everyone who followed, followed, to a T; and if they did, they then sank their pipe and buried their desires in prime Indian womanhood, to be resurrected to a higher level of fucking. Hallelujah.
And it is his moves that I followed in 1992 when I went to India. Actually, it is more like his moves that I should have followed and didn't or more correctly – couldn't.
Just out of school, scholastically accomplished, I wanted more out of life than more of
that
education. I wanted more education of the right kind. Of life. Or so I thought at that time. Of the stuff that would quiet my rampant hormones. The kind I was sure I would find in the arms of an exotic creature – gloriously brown skinned, black eyed and oozing sex from every pore.
I was young but I was not naïve, at least not in the ways of fucking. I had started to plough my way through prime British womanhood soon after puberty struck and by the time I finished school I had acquired a modicum of expertise in fucking. Not because I was a natural gifted lover, but because older women, hairy cunts and all, love to teach young colts how to pleasure them and I loved to learn, and what the hell, family tradition had laid down that I had to be a gifted fucker.
So in 1992 I thought I was ready to follow Percy and Will and Clarence and all the other ghosts of my ancestors down India way. Ready to discover what it was that had driven them crazy with lust and then had them die with perfect knowledge and a perfect smile on their face.
Dead wrong, about my preparedness that is.
I was not prepared for the filth, the stench, the emaciation, that passes for modern India. Where were the pristine sugar cane fields of lore where Percy held willing nubile Indian women up against swaying green stalks and banged their cunts till they cried uncle? The ramparts of forts where Will bent young wives of soldiers and jammed his manhood up their posterior apertures? As a matter of fact, where were those exquisite women of folklore?
All I saw were dirty, emaciated working class women who lived in slums – Indian working class women according to our family folklore were the most uninhibited and hence the most passionate fuckers. And what little I saw of women of any other class, they all appeared to be wrapped up in the business of marriage - either married and hence inviolate or getting ready to be married and hence inviolate.
Okay, so I had this thing figured out all wrong. I did not know the language, had not bothered to really apply myself and had entered the whole enterprise with romantic notions of sexy nymphs throwing themselves at me, the moment I set foot in India. All right, so I was naive. For crying out loud I was only eighteen. And one month was definitely not enough time. You see, I was actually on my way to work on a distant relative's sheep farm in New Zealand and really could not afford to stay in India any longer.
So I screwed up. But I still had a few years. I mean a generation is twenty five years. Is it not?
The last successful screwing of Indian womanhood by a family member happened in 1982. He was a British Airways employee. She was a dusky flight attendant from a small town in South India and lonely in London. He had validated it by travelling to India and nailing her voluptuous frame in Claridge's hotel in Delhi. Actually, validation had taken place earlier at the airport where he had banged her, standing up against the wall, next to the urinal, in the first class lounge's unisex bathroom. What we were given to understand, by him, was that he could have had her anywhere. She was like putty in his hands.
Interestingly, this putty like creature, upped and went her own way shortly after this encounter and when last heard from had settled down happily with a husband and kids in a small town in South India. And he, who was a repository of family knowledge of fucking Indian women, a veritable encyclopedia of the techniques used by those who had gone before, had ironically actually gained access to her cunt by pure chance and good fortune. And never had he gained admittance to another Indian cunt.
But the way he told it, he would have you believe that he had used his intimate knowledge of women, and of Indian women in particular (and this he had gained from family folklore), to bang her. Maybe all this so called family knowledge was hogwash? But who cares, the important thing was fucking; fucking prime Indian cunt. The end, not the means.
By the way, he was Uncle George (named after the King, who was reigning in 1950, the year he was born, and his parents were running out of names as he was their eighth offspring).
Sorry, all this is neither here nor there. All I meant to say was that I had till 2007.
