Fidelity: The Final Solution

In Jesustan, they have an answer for everything. And if they don’t, they will invent one in short order, of this much you can be sure.

At a little desi do the other night, the very, very luscious Mrs. R was going on about her husband’s long and lamentable record of martial infidelity. I volunteered my services, as any gentleman would have done, to help her settle the score; this only served to send her off on another round of hysterical sobbing, this time even more inconsolable than the last. Mrs. E., the only gori present, intervened in her usual quiet, efficient way: “don’t worry”, she told Mrs. R. earnestly, “there is a way”.

Yeah, sure. Short of amputation, there was no way Mr. R was going to keep his killi out of the nearest available honey. Fidelity, as we all know, is one of those great problems humanity has grappled with since time immemorial. Sultan Shariyar, of The Arabian Nights, lopped off his Queen-Ji’s head, as have many others since. All to no avail!! More recently, Lorena Bobbitt went for her husband’s killi with the garden shears – she served time; he ended up becoming a porn-star. Taliban clerics hid all the local maal inside mobile tents, only to discover that the Pathans simply turned to buggering the pretty little boys of Banno’s market en-masse. Foiled again!!!

Some, like the nomads of the Pamirs, gave up fighting the inevitable centuries ago. Marco Polo tells us that their hospitality extended to the sharing of their wives and daughters with visitors. National Geographic claims this was intended to widen the gene-pool of their communities, a dubious argument if there was ever one, since I doubt very much that the smelly peasants of those parts either knew or know what a gene is. More likely, the village Panchayat just bowed to the inevitable, and decided to do away with the main consequence of proscribing infidelity, i.e. deceit. Personally, I think my neighbors in New Delhi ought to do the same thing; it would certainly make the lives of Mr. S and Mrs. K, and Mr. P and Mrs. J, and Mr. Q and Mr. N. a lot less complicated, not to mention that of Mrs. N and Ram Lal, the gardener.

But Mrs. E wasn’t suggesting either resignation or rebellion, it turned out: just a little bit of shopping. In Jesustan, it turned out, several fine models of male chastity devices are available on the market. The British manufacturer Tollyboy retails what one discerning consumer described to me as the “Rolls Royce of chastity belts”. For a mere matter of $637.00 or ∈479.00,exclusive of taxes and shipping, it ensures both fidelity and comfort. Tollyboy’s ingenious MB 100 model incorporates a “component into which the penis is inserted; it is then engaged internally into the crotch guard, which is then locked to the waistband. In this design the penis is held pointing downwards and backwards between the legs, which prevents an erection but allows the wearer to urinate without any problem - except that he has to sit like a female. Once the sheath is locked into position the penis cannot be handled. The belt is 100% effective in preventing intercourse”.

As is fitting in a free market, a number of competing models are also available for those who must balance the need to protect the family jewels with fiscal prudence. Northbound Leather, for example, provides “an adjustable leather waist band locks at four points - two at the waist, on the crotch strap, and at the hinged cage. The stainless steel penis cage is hinged at the bottom. When locked closed, the cage contains the penis in the vertical position. A full erection is possible, allowing touch, but no stroking. Four brass padlocks are provided”. Unlike users of Tollyboy’s high-end wares, those who use products manufactured by Northbound must suffer the indignity of an embarrassing bulge, but the difference in price is substantial. Models SKU 6059 and SKU CH1 sell for just $ 191.11, a price at which, the manufacturer claims, “fidelity can be fun”.

It all made me think of the sad story of my friend P, from Canada, and his search for a khoti (she-donkey, beast of burden, wife). Like all sensible Punjabi mundas in Canada, P was a bit dubious about the chastity of the local chicks, and with good reason. He decided to turn to saada Punjab, where the ganna grows tall and the kudis are pure. P knew, though, that things had changed in saada Punjab, too, and that he needed some way to make sure the goods being sold were, so to speak, as described. Since a test-drive was out of the question, this being saada Punjab, I used my formidable intellect to devise an alternate line of investigation. After he visited the prospective khoti’s house, I suggested, had finished drinking the tea and eating the samosa and jalebi he would be offered, and had made sure Daddy-in-Law-Ji’s bank balance was in order, he needed to take the girl aside and whip out his killi. If she knew what it was, I pointed out with my usual impeccable logic, she wasn’t no pure kudi.

At the first place P visited, he was almost taken in by appearances – until the kudi thwacked him across the face, and demanded to know why he was showing her his penis. Despite her demure appearance, she was obviously no pure kudi. Cancelled!!! Ditto the second place. Ditto the third. And ditto the ninety-third. It was starting to look as if there weren’t any pure kudis left even in saada Punjab, when P visited this prospect in a tiny little village across the mountains, across the Ravi, across the Beas, etc., you get the idea. The samosa, jalebi and bank-balance stuff went pretty much as planned, and P, not without some trepidation, took the girl aside. To his astonishment, though, she didn’t smack him across the face at first sight of his penis. When he recovered from the shock enough to ask her what the object in his hand was, she replied that it must be some kind of khilona, or toy.

Bells, Applause, Marriage!!! And then, on his wedding night, Pinky pulled down his silken Fab-India pajamas, and asked his wife what the magnificent organ before her was. “I told you before, ji”, she replied, “it’s a toy or something. I’ve never seen one before”. “No, my love”, Pinky said, his chest and his erection both swelling, “this ain’t no toy, it’s a penis”. “No, ji”, she replied, “what the barber’s son had was a penis, this is just a toy”.

P hasn’t talked to me a lot since.