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The general type they meet are pleasant, not very demanding, always grateful. Their sexual passion is like a plateau, doesn’t soar to any heights, but lasts longer. As usual, they want the best value for money. They aren’t interested in building personal rapports. They’re punctual, stick to the time allotted, payment is prompt, tip well, take extra care, arrange for transportation, usually prefer a five-star hotel.
Punjabis are the worst. They are so happy to be in the company of a blonde that they’ll want all their friends to know about it. They are hairy, and very demanding; brash in bed, rash in dispensation. “Do something nice, something new,” they would instruct sitting on a couch sipping rum. A Sikh trader who lives in the capital’s posh Defence colony, called a friend to brag, “Guess who I am with?” He promised that the next time “the two brothers will do it together”. He even made Diana chat with his friend, prompting her to tell him, “I’m having the best time of my life.”
In general, Indian men are either emotional fools or misogynists. The former are keen to talk about themselves, their life-history, struggles and quests. Like sleeping with the white girl was like a dream come true, a reward for all the struggles in their lives. They are also inquisitive about Uzbek girls—asking them about their parents, siblings, family, lovers, religion etc. The latter don’t talk much. They order the girls around, do this or that, as if they own them. Usually passive, they want the women to do all the work. They treat them with disdain but love clicking selfies. Skin colour is an obsession. A local businessman apparently told Ruby, “I have enough money to hire you for the rest of your life. But you Russians are like candy—too sweet—can’t have you everyday.”