why i don't give a shit about carnival and confirmation that i'm not a lesbian

PART 1suragkund fair owns punahou carnival.way, way better than malasadas PART 2

Situation 1) A few days ago, my aunt hinted at why she’s been so cold. She was walking out of the room, turned to me and said, “In India, we don’t show our legs.” The sweatpants I was wearing cover my freaking knees when I’m standing up. They’re loose and made out of thick cotton, not spandex.

Situation 2) The clothes washer refuses to wash women’s underwear so I had to wash mine in the sink and hang them on the shower curtain to dry. The cleaners refused to go into my bathroom with them hanging up and I got chewed out by my aunt for displaying them so lasciviously.

Situation 3) I talked with some college seniors last week; they were a group of five or six cute girls who were really nice and pretty cool. Only one had been kissed. They told me that they would have to be a virgin until they were married because sometimes, “they check.”

I don’t understand the relationship between Indians and sex. Scattered across the country are ancient temples covered with sculptures of gods and goddesses doing the dirty in all sorts of crazy ways. I went to a museum today and saw an 18th century tapestry of milkmaids waiting to be “plundered” by Krishna. It’s the land of the goddamned Karma Sutra and yet ninety-nine percent of unmarried women are virgins.

Subsequently, getting an aruvedic massage last week was puzzling.

So I walk into the massage room and the woman closes the door and grunts, “change.” I don’t see a towel or robe anywhere so I point to a room divider and ask if I should go behind it. She obviously knows no English but repeats her monosylabic command. She’s holding up what appears to be some sort of green bandage with ties on each end. I awkwardly hesitate for a few more seconds until she begins to look impatient and then strip in front of her. She affixes the paper bandage like thong and points to the massage table.

I sit. She stands on a bench in front of me, belly button at my eye level. I am horrified and caught between the impulses to run away and to giggle. She says a prayer with the oil and then starts rubbing it into my head. She gets more oil and repeats. I am told to lie down.
She places a cold compress on my eyes and I sit in damp darkness. I can hear her jiggling with a pot of oil over the stove. I lay there for a few more minutes and suddenly feel the drizzle of oil on my forehead. It’s hot. Really hot. It kinda hurts. I grit my naked ass teeth and bear it.
Post oil dripping season she begins the “massage.”

She pours oil all over me and rubs me head to toe in both long sweeping and short repetitive motions as I lay there petrified and slightly ticklish in my green makeshift thong. It was as awkwardly sexual as it sounds. I almost told her to stop, but was afraid that I was going to offend her. I mean, it was technically an ancient healing ritual and all and it probably my fault that I was feeling sexually intruded on. (wait… isn’t that almost the argument slutty rape victims use?)

Finally, it’s over and she directs me towards a shower. I say thank you a few times before I realize that she isn’t going anywhere. I turn on the water and she scrubs perfumed guacamole all over me. She then tells me to sit and pours a packet of flaky white substance that both smells and looks like laundry detergent onto my head. It suds up and I feel as If I’m in some kind of lesbian willy wonka washing machine. I don't think I like it.

I leave feeling odd not having shared a cigarette or at least spooning for a while.