“Hold my bum and put it in your mouth” he instructs. I close my eyes and try to control my gag reflex as the sour taste of the drizzle sharply catches the back of my throat…
It’s Reena’s hen do, and we’re meeting her friend Kay for a late lunch at Dishoom, in Central London. I’m told that Kay wears a hijab (headscarf). I wonder if I’ll have to be on my best behaviour since my potty mouth can quite easily secure me a place of high standing within the “astagfirullah” club. The literal translation of astagfirullah in Arabic is ‘I seek forgiveness in Allah’ but it’s often used as an expression of disapproval or shame. Usually though, even my good deeds are punished with the likes of aunty Bushra who’ll mutter astagfirullah under her breath as I innocently tell her that sex toys are now up to 30% cheaper at Ann Summers – after all, I’m just trying to look out for uncle Amjad who needs a little more spice than aunty Bushra’s peach coloured Marks & Spencer girdle.
Don’t talk filth I remind myself as we park up and make our way towards the restaurant. One thing I’m not worried about though, is small talk. Unnecessary communication is Afreen’s department. Not one to understand the definition of precise and concise, she will literally talk until your ears bleed. I on the other hand have other plans. I’ll be using this time to assess Kay. She’ll be travelling with us to Reena’s wedding, so if I don’t like her, I guess I’ll have to find a way of nudging her out of the vehicle when it’s moving at 80mph. After all, accidents do happen.
Wowzers, she is tiny I think, as we’re introduced to Kay. At 5’10 with heels, I tower over her 4’11 miniature frame. As we take our seats at the table, I laugh at the thought of Kay fitting snuggly between Tamara’s gigantic boobs which radiate the heat of a fully functioning tandoor. Surprisingly though, it’s not long before we warm to Kay and I quickly drop the idea of pushing her out of a moving vehicle. “We have a spare ticket… for the strip show… if you want to come” I ask tentatively. The girls quickly echo the invitation. Kay casually shrugs and accepts the invite, winning our hearts in the process. Our evening is spent bonding over male nudity and watching Kay squirm in her seat as the host picks her as his target for the evening.
Reena’s wedding venue is Eastnor Castle, a magnificent Georgian castle situated in the foothills of the Malverns. It’s early April, and we’re hoping for two things: hot guys and good weather. We arrive a day early with the bride to-be in the hope of a relaxing stay at a hotel nearby. I’m immediately put on edge by the smell of cheap cigarettes as we walk through the dimly lit hotel car park. The sticky floor in the reception area doesn’t go undetected as I exchange what the fuck was Reena thinking looks with Afreen and Tamara. It’s essentially a pub with a handful of rooms upstairs. I miserably carry my luggage up the navy blue carpeted spiral staircase. As I reach my gloomy room, I silently pray that Reena gets explosive diarrhoea as she tries to consummate her marriage tomorrow. Ignoring the dust on the mahogany furniture, I charge towards the bathroom to assess the showering facilities. Aside from the foul urine smell, it’s apparent that the shower hasn’t been cleaned since the armies of King Harold and William the Conqueror clashed in the 1066 Battle of Hastings. It really is a hotel from hell.
As we later join the other girls in their room, I note that Reena still hasn’t showered. She blames her lack of hygiene on having had a wax yesterday, but we know that if she had it her way, she’d only shower once a fortnight. Taking my role as her bridesmaid seriously, I firmly remind her that she is getting married tomorrow, and her husband to-be won’t appreciate her smelly bits. Afreen and I resort to forcibly walking her to the bathroom and pushing her in to shower. She emerges half an hour later looking somewhat cleaner, albeit wearing a questionable outfit – it’s what she describes as her night ‘maxi’ – if you’re Bengali, you might know what that looks like, otherwise, let’s just call it a hot pink mess.
The next morning Reena, Kay and Tamara leave early to meet the make-up artist at the castle. As Afreen and I enter the bridal suite a couple of hours later, I can’t help but laugh at the sight of Kay standing beside the bed that almost matches her in height. There is talk of Tamara joining Reena and the groom in their bedroom overnight. We can’t quite figure out whether this is a joke or some weird Bengali tradition. Afreen and I exchange confused looks as we make our way to our room, trying hard to shake off the image of Tamara sleeping between the bride and groom.
Our bedroom beautifully captures the views of the botanic gardens and lake. The castle is simply exquisite and for a fleeting moment, I allow myself to think that I could happily get married here – until of course I digest the fact that it would require me to tolerate a man long enough to walk down the aisle. We quickly get dressed and head downstairs to sort out the cupcakes and wedding favours. We’d spent endless hours at Tamara’s house the preceding week preparing bridal cupcakes and putting together these fidgety favour boxes. For the odd sugar almond sweet that dropped on the tiled floor, we placed this in a special favour box for Reena’s evil sister in-law. Of course now that these favours are being placed on the tables, we can no longer identify the box containing the floor-kissed sweets. Oops.
As the wedding commences, Afreen and I are tasked with leading the bride down the red carpeted stairs. Whilst we wait at the top of the stairs, I look down below to get a glimpse of the groom and his family. I’m casually scanning the room for hot men when my eyes freeze on the groom’s face. I suddenly panic. Why the fuck does he look like Jackie Stallone?? How has he managed to look 30 years older than his age?? We all attended the same college in East London and whilst he did look like a gangly Brown boy, what the actual hell has happened to him since college?!! I look at Reena’s beautifully made up face and then down at this Brown Jackie Stallone with a Donald Trump tan. I just don’t understand. As we start walking down the stairs with his bride, I notice how miserable and moody he looks, almost as if he doesn’t want to be here. As I edge closer to him, I see that the orange colour is more prominent on his cheeks – he is wearing tangerine coloured foundation. Once I’ve got over the initial shock, I feel a little bad for judging him superficially, and rather ashamed of my reaction. He’s probably a nice guy I try to convince myself, but for once, both my heart and mind are in sync: NO. There is something about his energy that I just don’t like.
Other than a slight altercation with the evil sister-in-law over the lemon drizzle cake, the reception is going rather well. As the two token Pakistanis at a Bengali wedding, Afreen and I struggle to convince the golden oldies that we really don’t understand their language. Sadly, my knowledge of the Bengali language is limited to “ami tomake bhalobashi” (I love you) and “amar nunu chaat” (suck my dick), neither of which seem quite appropriate for this particular occasion. The wedding fortunately ends on a high and we’re back in the bridal suite trying to pull Reena out of her extremely heavy bridal dress. As Tamara and Afreen pull her wedding dress over her head, Reena bends over to expose her pink lace knickers. I can’t help but to grab the broom in the corner and try shoving it up her exposed arse, as a preview of what’s to come when her cherry is popped tonight – yes, she is a virgin.
Once the bride and groom are in their honeymoon suite, we settle by the fireplace in the drawing room, surrounded by medieval amour, tapestries, Italian furniture and fine art. The night guard who I’m convinced is a ghost, offers to light the fire whilst Afreen and I head upstairs to make tea. As we return with the tea in hand, we see Kay and Tamara nestled up against a wooden panel. I raise an eyebrow as Kay whispers that the bride and groom’s bathroom is on the other side, and they can clearly hear the conversation. Feeling not even an ounce of shame, I pick up a slice of lemon drizzle cake and join the party.
The running tap suggests that they’re trying out the fancy bath tub. Getting Reena in the bath is of course a small miracle in itself, but I’m hoping he’s not trying to pop her cherry in the bath tub. Merely seconds later, I freeze with horror as I hear his words “hold my bum and put it in your mouth”. My lemon drizzle cake makes its way back up as I try to control my gag reflex. The image of this Brown tangoed Jackie Stallone instructing his wife to hold his bum and put his little wiener in her mouth is simply unbearable. Why would she need to hold his bum? I wonder. Does his little jalapeño spin in clockwise direction like a handheld fan? Is it really that small? I try hard not to imagine what his bum looks like, but I’m failing miserably – and it’s not a nice image. Reena soon has us all in hysterics as she says the dreaded words that no man wants to hear: “is it in?”. Suddenly though, the mood turns sour. He starts raising his voice in frustration, because it seems she doesn’t know what she’s doing. The fun is knocked right out of us as she starts crying. I get the sudden urge to hold his bum and stick a cactus plant through his back passage, but we know that it’s not appropriate for us to step in, so we head back to our rooms, unable to make sense of what’s just happened.
As a Muslim woman, I find the patriarchal arrogance of many Brown men deeply disturbing. Screw around, insist on marrying a virgin, and when she isn’t bringing it like a Hugh Hefner Playboy bunny in the bath tub – make her feel like absolute shit. It’s fair to say that this whole virginity obsession irks me – on both sides of the debate. Our Eastern values dictate that we don’t engage in pre-marital sex for a number of reasons: religious teachings, the risk of pregnancy before marriage, oh the shame – “what will people think”, you’re a cheap whore if you do, and my personal favourite: “no man will marry you”. Compare these values to the West where a more casual attitude is taken towards sex, and we soon find ourselves in a bit of a pickle.
My issue isn’t whether you’ve taken a vow of chastity or engage in pre-marital sex – it’s the judgement that comes with it. If you do engage in pre-marital sex, it’s likely that you can’t openly discuss it with your family or even with some of your friends from the Indian subcontinent out of fear of being branded a whore. But equally in the West, you’ll find that telling someone you’re a virgin will be met with “Are you serious – you’re a virgin at this age?!”. Chances are, you’ll be too embarrassed to express your truth, so you let people assume otherwise. Basically, you’re a whore if you do, and a whore if you don’t.
You’ll often hear men like Reena’s husband moan about Asian women pretending to be virgins when they’re not. Yes sweetheart, they do. You can push your 3.7 inch little wiener into your mama’s home baked cherry pie and no one will bat an eyelid, but a Brown girl can have her character assassinated merely for not being able to make round chapattis, let alone her sexual activity. The real question to ask is why a penis is considered so important that it can change who a woman is? Hymen is a tissue, so stop making it a bloody issue. Whether we have cobwebs, cucumbers, or battery operated boyfriends between our legs – it really ain’t your business.
Until next time…
The Accidental Lawyer
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