I knew what I wanted from him… but I shied away. It felt inappropriate to discuss private parts with a man on the first day of meeting him.

I wondered if I would be able to move like he would want me to, rusty that I had become without much action. Letting him lead seemed the smartest thing to do and I did that happily, anticipating the glow that an hour of panting would bring to my face.

A few days of trying out different positions later, he asked me to lie on my stomach, legs crossed, face down and chin resting on the back of my hands. “Now breathe in and push your hips,” he commanded.

I pushed my hips; they went up along with the bum. The doggy-style pose popped in my mind, it felt weird. “No, no, why are you lifting it? Push it! Push it down!” he cried out. I pressed my thighs down. “No, no… not like that either.” I craned my neck and saw him shaking his head in exasperation. Well, I too was at my wit’s end about what to do with my hips. How else does one push them? And in which direction precisely does he think a woman lying flat on her tummy can “push” her hips? It would be really nice to see how a man does it.

A few awkward moments of silence followed. I could sense him groping for words. “Do you know the sex chakra?” he asked. “Umm… yes,” I mumbled vaguely. I had read about it in a new-age book on Tantric sex. “Okay! Pull your sex chakra from inside, and then release it.”

Aha, so this is it. Pull, not push, is the operative word. And he meant cervix when he said hips.

So there went my bum, bobbing up and down a few inches, as I squeezed my cervical muscles and released them on his count, his gaze fixed on my heaving butt cheeks. (My behind did its best to shrug off that feeling of being watched, unlike Kim Kardashian’s backside which loves being drooled at.) “Pull, hold, relax. Pull, hold, relax. Pull, hold, relax,” he went on repeating with a lilt. I am curious about how the whole scene would appear to a third person; some kind of a prostrate salsa routine? Him humming, me jiggling….

The thing is, this is what I had wanted him to make me do — it’s good for a woman’s insides I had heard — but froze at the thought of a cervix-vagina dialogue on the first day itself.

We have now fallen into a rhythm and the partnership is going great.

With my yoga teacher.

What did you think?!

The bigger the better? Scratch that

Thank god I don’t drive, or else I would have rammed into a car at the SSKM-Rabindra Sadan crossing that evening when I glanced up at the skyline and was transfixed by that huge billboard.

What is it? That white bulbous thing. A Kurlopillo? Some dairy product... a wave of double-toned milk maybe? The green signal was on and as our car zoomed into Harish Mukherjee Road, I was out of time to catch the brand name or fit the whole billboard into my line of sight.

This is not the route I usually take to return home from work, but that thing definitely needed scrutiny. Next day luckily, we were just in time for the red signal. I looked up and ‘that thing’ stared back at me.

A well-endowed male crotch covered in white briefs. That’s it. No shot of the face or the body it belonged to.

On the few days I have taken this road since (for further investigation of course), I haven’t spotted a single man — pedestrian or bus passenger — watching it with an inspired look, or for that matter any woman checking it out with an expression of “Mmmm... I must get those for him.”

The funny thing about this men’s underwear ad is that it does nothing for your she hormones — neither turns you on, nor makes you go eww. Such a dismembered, disproportionate display of manhood was, I thought, hugely unsettling, if anything at all.

By a long shot, it might have made Samantha Jones of Sex And The City happy. That woman can lurk around men’s locker room and leer at the bare-bodied players’ you-know-what!

Touchy feely

Talking about things below the belt, have you noticed what sends young city girls into a tizzy these days? Any hint of a peek at a One Direction (picture above) boy’s body in the band’s concert films, which the girls scan and analyse to the minutest detail.

At a recent screening of Where We Are, their Big O moment was “Harry coming back on stage with his fly open — OMG, that was SOMETHING! *DEAD*”. Ahem! Members of the t2 girl gang who caught the concert film with an auditorium full of screaming-giggling girls confirmed that no unmentionable part of Harry baba was even remotely visible.

The other climax point was “Liam putting his hand under his shirt throughout the interview, which really disturbed my sanity!” said another spectator.

Really, girl?