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Desi Honeymoon First Night Sex
Flowers on the bed are also worth a mention. Some flowers are beautiful: a single gardenia or frangipani for example. Petals must be scattered in moderation and swept up swiftly when on the wane, one can easily skid on a dead petal. Ropes and garlands galore can be equally worrying. A bed over-garlanded may seem more like an assault course. Do you climb through them, take them down first, or leave them, only to find a tired-looking heap the next morning? Chocolates must be removed at once or eaten: leaving them on the pillow and forgetting about them can be disastrous. And the little paper mottoes, usually from Ralph Waldo Emerson or Emily Dickinson, are never to be taken seriously, especially on honeymoon.
I was led through room after room, one more beautiful than the next: silver mirrored patterns on walls and ceilings, brightly coloured glass windows lit like jewels by the sun, beds draped with glorious rugs and bright coloured fabrics. I could hardly bear the suspense when at last they opened the door to show me what I thought promised to be the finest of all - the Vera Lynn room. Resisting the urge to weep with disappointment, I pointed out that though this could maybe appeal to a certain kind of English person, it was not ideal for a honeymoon couple. Army issue blankets do never a marriage make. My hosts got the point and in a trice I was installed in one of the most beautiful rooms in the hotel, glass and jewels and everything my heart desired. And all in the cause of my girls.
In Neemrana Fort, another fabulous fort-castle not far from Delhi, I was put in a nice room, which, I thought, could be made a bit more romantic with a little help. I draped the room with various scarves and textiles that I had collected en route. (Shopping to this extent could be more difficult on a real honeymoon - there are advantages to being alone.) I installed fragrant candles in every available niche and the transformation was complete as I sallied forth to dinner. After I had explained to my host that I was "on honeymoon" he insisted that I should be moved to the best room in the hotel. At once. I watched in dismay as the procession of startled servants, having dismantled my beauteous boudoir, marched to and fro across the dining-room bearing my rags and candles, which resembled the trappings of a hippie on the loose. In the end it was worth the humiliation when I finally retired to one of the most beautiful rooms I had ever seen: white muslin curtains printed in blue Mughal designs by Brigitte Singh; a sleigh bed piled high with cushions; little arcades to the side. In true honeymoon fashion I didn't sleep a wink.
My stay in the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, for example, nearly went badly wrong for just this reason. I had a suite to die for. It was glorious - spacious, beautiful, elegant and perfect for a city honeymoon like no other. Super luxury. While this great hotel buzzed below I was in a peaceful world of my own above. The next morning I went to Mass up on the Peak Road. The words of the lesson rang out like a personal condemnation. "Woe to those who walk in marble palaces. Woe to those who sprawl on beds of ivory." With the woes ringing in my ears I fled back down the Peak and begged to be given more humble lodgings. Luckily the manager restored my equilibrium and I managed another night in my none-too-earthly abode.
There are other, less obvious, reasons that you miss a man on honeymoon. Creepy-crawlies in the Far North Queensland rainforest almost spoiled my eco-romantic tree cabin at the Daintree Lodge, although to be truthful they were products of my lonely imagination. And it would have been exciting rather than nerve-racking to listen to the croaks and calls and tropical noises of the night à deux. I would love to have shared the blowing whales in South Africa as I watched from my heavenly room in the Plettenberg Hotel on my trip along the Garden Route. Putting the telephone to the window wasn't quite the same.
Which brings me to the real-life honeymoon. Maybe people have changed, after all brides and grooms are older now and more sophisticated. But I have often wondered in certain designer and boutique hotels, which are the international dernier cri, or muted whisper rather, how some men would fit in. Looking round the most perfect, immaculate beautifully designed room in the Amansara in Siem Reap in Cambodia, I longed, absolutely longed, to stay there. And then I envisaged my husband in those pristine, minimal, disciplined surroundings. Blonde wood and modern shapes, nothing save some graphic flowers allowed their manicured space. Imagined his tie and shoes, his general paraphernalia destroying the perfect harmony.
But when their catastrophic first meeting goes viral, social media becomes obsessed with their chemistry. The competition on the show is fierce...and so is the simmering desire between Ashna and Rico. Every minute they spend together rekindles feelings that pull them toward their disastrous past. Will letting go again be another recipe for heartbreak--or a recipe for persuasion...?
Chloe Brown is a chronically ill computer geek with a goal, a plan, and a list. She's come up with seven directives to help her "Get a Life", and she's already completed the first: finally moving out of her family's mansion. She's ready to enjoy a drunken night out, ride a motorcycle, and other adventures. But it's not easy being bad, and Chloe knows just the man to help her complete her list. Redford 'Red' Morgan is a handyman with tattoos, a motorcycle, and sex appeal, who paints at night but hides his work. When she enlists Red to help her rebel, she discovers what really lies beneath his rough exterior.
Twenty-eight-year-old Niki Randhawa has always made practical decisions. Despite her love for music and art, she became an analyst for the stability. She's always stuck close to home, in case her family needed her. And she's always dated guys that seem good on paper, rather than the ones who give her butterflies. When she's laid off, Niki realizes that being practical hasn't exactly paid off for her. So, for the first time ever, she throws caution to the wind and books a last-minute flight for her friend Diya's wedding. Niki arrives in India just in time to celebrate Diwali, the festival of lights, where she meets London musician Sameer Mukherji. Maybe it's the splendor of Mumbai or the magic of the holiday season, but Niki is immediately drawn to Sam. At the wedding, the champagne flows and their flirtatious banter makes it clear that the attraction is mutual. When Niki and Sam join Diya, her husband, and their friends on a group honeymoon, their connection grows deeper. Free-spirited Sam helps Niki get in touch with her passionate and creative side, and with her Indian roots. And when she gets a new job offer back home, Niki must decide what she wants out of the next chapter of her life-to cling to the straight and narrow like always, or to take a leap of faith and live the kind of bold life of which the old Niki never would have dreamed.
Your mother never suffered acne, Max. I need to go ahead and start at thebeginning, I feel. If you come across that photograph of her, know that theraised red splotches across her cheeks, neck, and forehead diminished for themost part by the end of our honeymoon. I don't know if this will makeyou feel better or worse, but she wouldn't leave our hotel room downthere on Tybee Island--the El Dorado, which might've been swanky back in1940 or thereabouts but couldn't exude any flair other than constantmildew by 2001, while your mom and I hid out for two whole weeks, which wasenough time, evidently, to conceive you. I know that, in time, you willgoogle my name, and your mom's--especially after this latest incident.You will find a mug shot of her all swollen-faced and raw. Know that she gotbailed out right after the wedding reception, and that your uncles and auntsand grandparents on my side of the family dropped all charges. Know that itwas me--me!--who talked sense into everyone. I'd be willing to bet thatby the time you read this you will have heard my name connected with otherwords like "ne'er-do-well" and "reprobate" and"son-of-a-bitch." I understand. I won't deny occasions whenthose words might connect with my being. (I just got out my old English bookfrom my one semester in college and found out those words might be called"appositives." Or "synonyms." Or maybe both. I found outthat you don't need Google to get stuck in a vortex, as long as you keepturning a book's "leafs," or "pages.") In mydefense, I don't know why your mom had a pistol strapped to the insideof her thigh during the entire wedding ceremony, even if it was one of thosetiny, tiny pearl-handled .38 pistols marketed toward women. I blame herbrother--who would be your uncle-Cade. He never liked me. He stood up in themiddle of the rehearsal dinner the night before and lifted a glass to say,"Here's to marrying out of your station," which made everyoneon his side of the family, the Pryor side, laugh hard and nod and clink theirScotches, while everyone on my side sat there wondering what a station mightmean. Listen, Max, my side of the family might not be as savoir faire as yourmothers, but goddamn we could buy them all up with the money we got overthree generations of selling "authentic" hillbilly slingshots atevery Stuckey's, fireworks outlet, peach stand, Petro truck stop, Southof the Border, pecan stand, and roadside attraction between about Missouriand West Virginia, Kentucky to Florida.
She shot my brother, Benny, who is your uncle. She shot pow-pow-pow-pow otherpeople, my groomsmen--one guy who was my roommate that first semester, JimmyLester, plus everyone else who ended up working at Joy Novelties. No one gotseriously injured--lots of bullets to knees--but I bet that if one of myrelatives had shot her relatives, more serious charges would've ensued.The whole reason for the arrest and subsequent mug shot had to do with herparents, your maternal grandparents, wanting only, I believe, to either delaythe honeymoon or somehow bombard your mother with evidence about how thismarriage should've never taken place. 2ff7e9595c
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