First times
A big brother helps to the joys of life
Cyril ayya was a good friend to me from my teen years. Ayya means big brother in Lankan, undertoned with respect and loyalty. I had a great affinity with Cyril, who cared for my well-being. Four years older than me, Cyril understood the world around us better. The youngsters rallied around him. Early on, I figured that he never took advantage of his friends. He’d often call out my occasional brash behaviour, advising me to tone down my cocksure actions. I knew that he did it with good intent. There were times when I was in trouble, he bravely came to my rescue. Like when I was waylaid by a mobster or taking me home when I was pissed drunk.
There was a huge trust bank between me and dependable Cyril. He lived in our neighbourhood, and we hung out together, me often reaching out for his counsel.
Now, let us not get into too much detail. When I was around seventeen, I lost my virginity in a tryst that I had not planned for. I was not in love with that beautiful soul who’d remain anonymous to protect her identity. It happened in haste, not in an ideal situation, with unexpected circumstances leading to it. I was not prepared for it, physically and emotionally. Despite my immaturity, the experience was unique and lovely. We will leave it there.
Past that episode, I never knew a boy-man could get such pleasure in the world of adults. Now, the brash me wanted more of it. But I could not get more because these liaisons were frowned upon in Sri Lanka. There was no freedom between sexes, everything was done hush-hush. I was frustrated.
Cyril, the man of this world, the big brother with wisdom, is the one I could turn to now, I told him of my plight, knowing that there was no problem Cyril could not solve.
This story is about that experience. My first ever visit to a brothel in the seventies in Sri Lanka in my home village. An anecdote edged in my mind, now filled with nostalgic sentiments.
Cyril and I walked past his home on sandy Jonikwatta Street onto Temple Road and passed the Buddhist temple that led to a huge paddy field in Dalugamgoda, a quiet village in our suburb. It was serene, just the two of us with nobody around, bar birds chirping. We walked in that large space of a green paddy field towards a simple house at the edge of the field. The sky was dark blue, and the time was around 5 pm. I followed Cyril like a lamb, knowing Nirvana would soon descend. I was excited, but I was also nervous. But with my absolute trust in Cyril, I knew I was in safe hands.
We entered the house surrounded by coconut and banana trees. A dark, tall man sitting on a chair at the house's entrance welcomed Cyril. He was bare-chested, wearing a white sarong. The man in his fifties smiled at me and asked Cyril whether I was his brother. ‘No, uncle, he is my friend,’ replied Cyril, and both exchanged pleasantries.
A few minutes later, Cyril paid this uncle twenty Rupees in ten-rupee notes. Smiling, Uncle took the money, pocketing it in his waist. Cyril called me aside, “I have paid for you, too; sit on the veranda until I come back.” Tapping me on my back, Cyril entered the house through the door, leaving me with the man. Cyril seemed a veteran of this grown-up men’s business.
I sat on the veranda, talking to the ‘uncle’. He seemed chilled. I had many doubts, being my first time. The gatekeeping uncle was a man of this world and was fun. He was welcoming and inquisitive. He asked me about my studies, where I lived, and whether I was related to this one and that one. It was small talk, killing time, looking over the large paddy field before us. But I was impatient to go in, not forgetting what I came here for at an age when your system is running on testosterone — that thing I wanted so badly to experience again.
For many a moment, I tried to figure out what Cyril was up to behind that closed door while this uncle was going on, talking to me, leading me to give him silly answers.
Fifteen minutes later, Cyril came out of the door smiling. He sat on a bench on the tiny veranda opposite ‘uncle’. Uncle motioned me to get up, ‘Son, you can now go in. It is your turn’. There, I was about to experience my first ever experience in a call house, a brothel as you call it out here in Australia.
Cyril winked at me, a nod of encouragement. Being young and being the first time in a brothel was terrifying and exciting. For a minute or two, I wanted to call it off and go back home. My bravado vanished despite Cyril backing me up and Uncle looking at me with smiling, showing his white teeth. I was uneasy about what to do next once I entered that door. Who’d be there waiting for me? Will ‘she’ reject me? Do I have the experience? What am I supposed to do once I go through that door? I was a nervous wreck. But part of me was feeling gung-ho, rearing to go in. My heart beat faster — a huge conflict inside me between my body and soul.
Was I an under-age lad, unprepared for things that only bigger lads could do? But Cyril’s nod gave me hope for things to come.
I went in through the door, moving the coloured curtain aside. A woman in her twenties was lying on a mat with two pillows. Smiling and continuing to lie down, she blurted out. “Oh, this little boy, they have sent a small boy to me. You are so thin”. I was shocked. I did not know what hit me. I felt small and inadequate. I thought I was a grown-up man, but now a sudden downgrade of my status in society. “OK, boy, close that door”. I closed the door and nervously pulled my T-shirt over my head, waiting for my next command in that dimly lit, scantly furnished space.
Unannounced, the smiling woman erupted into a popular local Lankan song හා හා හොරේ දැනුනා දැනුනා as I was removing my bell-bottom pants. It meant, literally translated, ‘I know what you are up to; you cheat’. Oh! my God, I felt like a thief. So nervous that I became tense. I went into lockdown. It was the most popular song, blasted on local airwaves day and night. But for me, hearing that song's lyrics was a huge trigger of fear of being exposed. Of being angst and frightened.
Fortunately, the woman understood my plight. She was patient. She stopped singing and made many an effort to make me comfortable and confident in what I came out to do. She introduced herself, giving out her name, Kusuma.
About twenty minutes later, as I was leaving, Kusuma asked me to visit her again. Previous experiences apart, this was my first time. I felt good, thanks to Cyril.
It was getting dark, past sunset. I came out of Kusuma’s grip, thanking her, out of the room, to the veranda, opening the door. I met a smiling Cyril outside. He thanked the uncle for the services. Uncle asked us to come back another time. Cyril and I left on the same route, retracing the steps through the paddy fields and the neighbourhoods in the dim light to the barks of street dogs. For the first time in my life, I felt like a grown-up man. I walked on air and felt I was taller.
A related snippet;
Back in the day, when I hung out with friends, I’d return home by 9 pm to study and adhere to my mother’s nighttime curfew. Admiring my self-discipline, Cyril jokingly predicted that I would become somebody in time.
Where are my characters today?
My friend and teenage mentor, Cyril Stanley, lives a simple life in retirement in Sri Lanka. I met him a few years ago. My love and respect for him have lasted more than half a century.
I, the boy-man who confided growing-up issues, conflicts, sexuality, and numerous other problems in Cyril, left Sri Lanka a few short years after this encounter. I hope I have lived up to Cyril ayya’s expectations of me.
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