Cleaning out the Chimney

Cleaning out the Chimney

Ahem, ahem. End of the year, and most people have resolutions. I decided to clear up my phone book. Yes, again. Somehow, each time after i do it, it gets cluttered again. So here, I decided to show you my list of the ones jettissoned.

I'm sorry, it's a kinda long list.

1. Andheri CA. We chatted on cyberspace, eons ago. Decided to meet up for coffee and a hook-up... sometime. Sometime never came. Spoke on the phone, tried to meet up, but never managed. Flush.

2. Ally Churchgate. Older man. From the period in my life when I was in a "I hate myself and I'm only fit to be used for sexual joy of others". Surprisingly, he turned out to be a nice old guy. But I'm back to liking myself now.

3. Anil Muscles. Oldish again. Chatted online and then on the phone. Only a couple of times. He lives far, far away, and I hate travelling to the suburbs.

4. Raj. Wild goosechase person. Supposedly, a flight attendant. With a name that can be found in any old Yashraj movie. Coordinated endlessly to meet, but always ditched in the end. So I got exasperated and decided to call it a day. Good riddance.

5. D/d's Ex. I liked him as a person. Till the shoddy way he treated d/d. Asta la vista, bab-eh!

6. Dilliwalla Traveller. Suppoedly a GK-II breed. Came down to Bambai for a dip. called on the phone and said he'd call back later, as he was getting another call on the line. Never did. Ho-hum.

7. Juhu Artist. Has to be said: was very interesting on chat. Bustling schedules, though, make it hard to meet. Plus, the Faraway Suburb Factor. Ta-ta.

8. Punewalla Visitor. Chatted with him both online and on the phone ages back. Another Andheri resident, so meeting never happened. Saw him recently at a party, and discovered he's in a relationship. Good for him.

9. Bandra Stylist. Freaky conversations about eating spiders and drinking blood. Date at Brijwasi, Bandra. Nice person, but scary. Saw him later in the newspaper. No regrets at all.

10. Call Centre Boy. lol. They're a breed apart. But this one was nice. Sweet, actually. Couldn't talk much English, but sweet nonetheless. But I'm not in that space anymore. I wish him all the very best.

Bored already?

11. Doc Matunga. has a boyfriend. Screws on the side. That's what you call an 'open relationship' in amchi Mumbai. Convenient. One night stand.

12. Doc Andheri. Sweet. Has old fashioned notions about emotional involvement in a one night stand. Ridiculous.

13. First Party Boy. Went back home with him, after my first GB party in town. Had an 'out-of-town reference' for him, from Delhi Ex No 2. was quite sad, though, when, after a night and morning of mindblowing sex, he never called me back. saved his number all this time for sentimental reasons. Mental reasons.

14. Byculla Boy. Mozzie. What they call 'pure top' in gay lingo. Awful. One afternoon stand. and good riddance.

15. Intrepid Reporter. Well, he tracks Bollywood sitaarein on a regular basis. used to come for yoga classes at a joint near where I live, and we made countless appointments to meet, but the story's the same. Not meant to be.

16. Dadar Parsi. Nice chap. Student. My Ex hit on him once, last Christmas, but when I met him later in person, I wasn't attracted to him at all. And besides, I can't stand younger guys. Not even for one-nighters, apparently.

17. K. Have no idea who he is.

18. Telephone Boy. Because he works for a telephone operator service. Met him in the course of a menage a troi some months back, and the boy professed clinging adoration for me. Freaked me out, and I ran. Fast.

19. Mac. Suburb too far away to travel to. And, anyway, once I met him in person at a GB party, I decided it wasn't worth the effort. Meaow.

20. Rahul. Together with Raj, the other favourite false name in gay circles. He works in TV, he said, and was quite charming on chat. Spoke on the telephone as well, but only once. The charm disappeared when I learnt that I had to travel to Powai to meet him.

21. Punjabi Munda. Decidedly hot. Decidedly young and immature. Would love to have a one night stand, but when he spoke continually about Squeeze and Bed and threesomes and foursomes, I decided I feel very old at 24. Think I posted about this, earlier.

22. Finance Consultant. When I heard his profession, I licked my lips in anticipation. Plus, he worked not too far away from me. However, like so many others, he seemed elusive to actually meet in person, since he kept on cancelling dates. When he suddenly asked me out on the weekend without ever meeting me, I decided it was a sad state of affairs, and called it quits.

23. Shrek. The ex of an acquaintance. Well, I met him online before the acquaintance did, but they started dating, so I pulled away. Met him ages afterwards, and he came over for his one-night stand with videos, toys and condoms. Nice night.

24. Liar. Because I met him online twice, on separate occassions, under two separate names. And he lied again, saying it wasn't him. Because he pissed me off by being rude on the phone and I decided, no screw is worth all this trouble. So the phone got slammed down on him.

Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy..!

'Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy..!'

Lovely Christmas with family, though I did disappoint friends by not hanging out with them. But now that Santa's over and done with, there's more apprehension in store. New Year's is fast coming up, and I have absolutely nowhere to go.

So it's time to make a sad face, I suppose.



Last year, of course, was GB. Horrible little Chaat-Masala, beside the Bombay Stock Exchange, and there was Ex and I, jostling for space. I had a Santa cap on my head, and was glad when I heard a couple of appreciative comments from strangers in the queue, while waiting to go in. That's the leonine ego for you. The disc was crowded to beyond capacity, and the Ex and I had a horrid time trying to dance in the crush of bodies. But it was also strangely exhilarating. How can I explain, that's a part of the GB charm for me - crowded, yes, but you're still so free to do your own thing, to dance with the man you want. I have a silly grin on my face right now, as I remember that night.

But that's over now, of course, and the Ex is gone. Last Christmas, the Ex bought me a bottle of expensive cologne (of which I still have some left, by the way), and he showed me the display window at Damian's furniture store near Bandstand. That's a legendary window, he told me, as we held hands together. And now he's gone. I hate being alone, but I don't regret leaving him. We couldn't have been able to work, I think.

End of flashback.

My best friend d/d is not going to be in town. He'll be in Goa, with the rest of the gang, and I'm not going because (a) I won't get so many days' leave from work, and (b) I can't afford it. So here I am in Bombay, stuck with no boyfriend and no best friend. Scratch out that 'no best friend' part. There's Chimneypot, but she has work on 31st night, though she said she'll meet me around 1 am on the 1st. What's the alternative? Hanging out with family? Going to GB alone?

Boy from Hyderabad will be in town, though, and maybe I can go to GB with him. How strange that would be, though. I've never met Hyd Boy in person: only chatted with him online and on the phone... and New Year's Eve seems so... big. Graphics Designer is still stuck on his crush. The Gujju Expat I've been kind of flirting with for the last two weeks will be in Ahmedabad with the rest of his Gujju folk. True, Natureboy will probably be at GB, but he knows that I hate the other guys he hangs around with, so it's a problem.

Closetalk has a major problem on his hands, and may well turn out to be the wall-flower on 31st night.

Yikes.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

This is the official Christmas post, so of course it has to be naughty. And, it has to be pic heavy, since it's a gay man writing about what he lusts after at Christmas. So I scoured the net, looking for some pictures that were interesting, peculiar and just plain HOT. To start off with, wishing all the gay men and women in Bombay, and I do use 'gay' in its wider meaning, a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!



I guess it's the time of year when we also feel a bit more insecure. Happy time of the year, true, but it's also the time when you want to be holding hands with that someone special, gazing up at falling snowflakes, and yadayadayada. Which brings me to the next pic - a laugh riot, if you're feeling naughty like me...



Onto the fun factor. Imagine cute old man. Imagine presents. Imagine red cap. Imagine HOHOHO! Now imagine all of them in bed. Funny? Depressing, actually. ;-)



Which finally brings us back to the sin factor. Naughty or nice? The verdict is, undoubtedly, naughty. The naughtier the better. For me and you, both.

Coffee in the closet

Coffee in the closet

Good morning, and I'm still sleepy. I haven't had my morning cup of coffee yet (plain white, not mochacinno anymore, as I must look good in the bathing suit in Goa for New Years!) so I tend to be a bit drab. Happens to the best of us. Well, maybe not to peacocks and d/ds, but I did say, the best of us...

;-) I'm still bitchy though.

Anyhow, so since I'm drab and blah right now, I'm merely going to pick on odds and ends that I got from converations I've had, dreams I've dreamt and journeys I've taken, since I last posted.

***

Phone conversation the other day with d/d, and he said it was a fickle sign of gay life that every 1 year of a relationship here was actually worth 5 years of heterosexual coupling. That explains why, when we come across couples who have been together all of two years, we gasp and giggle and pass envious looks, and that's why when they break up in the third year, we shrug and decide it was in the coming, any way.

Yes, of course, d/d and I have lost in love repeatedly, and that explains our sour grapes.

***

How strange it is to work with gay men in the office. You know that he knows that you know he's gay, and he knows that you know that he knows you're gay, but you're never going to say a word about it ever. There's one guy in my office I slept with ages ago, when I first hit Bombay, before I joined my current job, and I see him everyday. We do our best to keep out of each other's way, but when we do bump into each other, we do the Polite Smile Getaway trick. Then there's the other gay man in my office, who smiles at me with saccharine sweetness and an extra zing to his hiiii when he passes me in the hall, and gives me the once-over with his eyes. Older guy, sweet I suppose, but not my type - cute but unattractive.

***

And of course, there's the funny bit in being gay at the office, per se, but pretending not to be. So when they see you at some party dancing closely with a girl, you have to hear silly jokes and see stupid smiles when you get back to work the next day. And you have to smile and nod, and be careful not to utter a word because you don't want to give the game away, but you're grateful for some sort of extra closet-space anyway.

Welcome to the closet.

Wedding bells

Wedding bells

The other day, I went to a wedding with my Chimneypot (nee Nutcracker) and we even did the Wedding March. It was great fun, as we'd tanked up on ruby red sparkling wine before that, and the sumptuous high was aided by the simply delicious caramel chocolates that had been placed beside each guest's plate. And yes, I truly adore Christian weddings now...!

But Chimneypot was a bridesmaid, and so she was always going away now and then to ghus-phus with the other bridesmaids. After trip No. 3 or 4, she says very shamefacedly, "They all think you're my boyfriend. They keep asking me if you are."

CT, bored, as this has happened countless times before: "Yawn, yawn. Yes, and the maid of honour has got such a SEXY boyfriend."

Chimneypot, whining now: "But they think you're my boyfriend...!"

CT, intrigued now: "So let's pretend...! Let's play that game."

Chimneypot, interested a bit: "Should we?"

CT: "Of course we must. Now join me in bitching about that ugly mug of a maid in honour."

Chimneypot, giggling over her fourth glass of wine: "She walks on those frikkin' heels as if she were an ostrich!"

CT, giggling now too: "She certainly has the legs of one!"

Chimneypot: "And that fat arse of hers could fit a football yard in. No wonder she got all the boys in London, when *Blushing Bride* didn't!"

CT: "I'm in love with her boyfriend. Can I kill her?"

When we proceeded to join the Wedding March, you could see my office mates' eyes pop, and even Blushing Bride was suitably surprised, though she knows I'm gay. We ate our dinner together, standing in a corner, and yapping. I went out of the hall with Chimneypot when she wanted to smoke, and when we came back, Ugly Maid of Honour was peering intently at her dress for signs of upheaval. When the DJ started playing Rouge later at night, Chimneypot and I did the dirty dance, forgetting that we had some middle class Aunties staring at us.... and I'm not just talking about Ugly Maid of Honour here.

;-)

Strange. I guess heteros will never understand that *thing* which gay men and fag hags have. We're special for each other, to each other. I'm not sure I get the whole picture myself.

Picture this

Picture this

There's been so much furore/squibbling/speculation about the famous pic and the famous boxer shots, that I thought I'd make it the subject of a post. Phal calls it the "scandalous pic", Guppie says I look like a slut in it, and d/d frankly calls me "nanga" when he comes online and sees me there.

;-)

Terrible, actually, but the fact of the matter is that I just don't have a decent picture online to seduce the other hopefuls.

I have five pictures online. The first picture is a closeup of my face some eons back in the college canteen, where I flash my pearly whites. Killer smile, but the online connoisseurs say, it makes me look chubby. Aaa, it's a throwback to my college days when I weighed in a at a hefty 77 kg, so I suppose the connoisseurs are justified in that take.

Then, there's the picture from last Christmas, when I visited the Sunderbans with family. This one shows me straddling (love that word!) a boat, and smiling gleefully, hair windblown and all. But of course, this was winter, so I was wearing a chunky woollen turtleneck, so even though I was a very svelte 62 kgs by the time this pic was taken, I look well... hefty again. Damn.

If you thought I was going to be third time lucky, you're sadly mistaken. This one has me on Marve beach about three years back, so it's a facial close-up of The Podge once again, albeit with gleaming Pepsodent smile. To make matters worse, it was raining that day on Marve, so I'm wearing my hooded jacket and smiling, looking like Darth Vader who's slipped off the diet wagon. Not very seductive, you understand.

Onto number four. Hyderabad. This is studious me. Thin, yes. Not a close-up, yes. Great view of the Charminar framed behind me. But... sigh. I'd gone to Hyderabad that time with friends for a job interview, and the pic was taken after the interview, so there you have me looking quite undernourished, completely shabby spectacles, shirt looking quite worn, your neighbourhood courier guy. Compare and contrast with the pictures other cute men have online, all polished and studio shots or sexy sleevless tees, and I lag hopelessly behind in the attractive segment.

Which finally leads me to the "nanga" pic. By this time, I'd had enough. So, I roped in a helpful friend who's moved out of Bombay since then, and went over to his place to make use of his digicam. What followed was an hour long session of posing in black cord shorts, underwear, sheets and even curtains. We experimented with lighting, played with composition and tripped on style. When we examined the pictures later, it was a laugh riot. I hit my friend on the head and told him he was completely hopeless, and he agreed. The only bit of salvageable material was the (in)famous "nanga" pic.

Actually, when you come to think of it, there's nothing much too scandalous about it - especially when you check out all the pictures other hot men have. It has me in this funny inverse pose on a staircase, wearing the black cord shots, and yes, nothing else. I'm smling beatifically at the camera, but let me assue you, it was bloody torture holding that silly pose for the full five minutes my pal was taking with the snap, and I was cursing him silly under that smile. I labelled the pic on gay.com, Chocolate?, and yes, I've had a lot of associated corny comments thrown my way, by prospective mates when they see it.

But here's the rub: I may not look hefty in that pic, and I may even be exposing some saleable skin there, but... my hair's not like that anymore. At that time, I'd decided to experiment, and shaved my hair down to a buzz cut. Punk from Gay Bombay? ;-) And so, now, whenever I get those corny comments about chocolate, I have to hurry and add, that my hair is quite 'normal' now, and not like in the pic - at which point, they look confusedly at the other pictures and shake their head perplexed.

Losing battle, but o, I do plan to get buzzed soon.

Typ(o)s

Typ(o)s

So like I've explained before, the top three questions in any gay chat online are:

1. A/S/L?
2. Have place?
3. What are you looking for?

There's also a fourth here, actually, which springs into use when you don't have a picture of the other person to check out: What's your type? And this is where that great big phenomenon called the Gay Sort comes in.

In case you had no idea before, gay men can be divided neatly and without much of a whimper, into 'sorts'. As the gay interior designer/ decorator explains, he looks at the entire exercise as a folder, with its own little partitions, A-Z, which have little leaflets bearing the biodata of several personable and not-so-personable young and old men. So when he feels like he's in the mood, he flips the folder over to type 'A' and dials a man. Simple and sweet.



What are the types, then? Well, the porn sites online delineate gay men according to body type. So, we have a) the bears, big and swarthy, with oodles of body hair, b) the twinks, fresh and bratty and below 19 years of age, c) the hunks, who're between 20 and 35 years old, call the gym their second home, and don't have too much body hair, d) the matures, who're the oldies above 40 years, and so on and so forth. There are also several subcategories here, for example, the bearcubs, who're not so hairy and not chubby at all and quite young, and the cute guys, who're in the same age group as the hunks, though they may not have the rugged muscles, and they make up for that lack with a certain twinkle in their eyes or their smiles. For the thinking man alone, beware.

;-)

And then, there are the other types, that personable young gay men like d/d and I decide upon, over a glass of chilled white wine and a story about an ex. There's the penguin, who's the very nice young guy but who fcuks your love life completely because he's not in the same emotional space that you are, and it's so much more fun to blame the other guy than it is to blame yourself. There's also the cute, but unattractive tag that fits some guys - the classic guy who's perfect for a relationship, has excellent taste, but you're simply not sexually attracted to him. There's the underage kid, who's really not that underage at 21-22, but then you hate the idea of being in a relationship with someone who's always going to be the 'younger one' and for whom you'll have to be the 'mature guy', so that there's no hope in hell that there'll be anyone to handle your tantrums when they come. There's the other twenty-one year old skanks, whom you despise, because they get all the attention at every damn gay gathering, just because they're twenty-one and you're twenty-four, though they're more or less on the same cuteness scale as you.

And a million others.

So that, when you get asked that question, What's your type?, you have a vast array of answers to choose from. And yet, I wonder if it's ever possible to choose. I never can, actually.

Take me for instance. I would probably fit the bill as the cute guy between 20 and 30 years old, who can also be a sort of bear cub. But what's my type? Tough question. The guys I've dated have been all sorts, really. Bearcub, muscle-hunk, penguin, cute but unattractive, underage kid, yadayadayada. So, very often, the Great Folder Theory just comes a cropper.

But the importance of classification is very often not for rigid swearing-by. That's never the case, even in science, the motherlode of classification theory. You need the theory as a sort of yardstick, and sometimes, for nothing but to measure how you've changed. Types are not meant to remain as the be-all and the end-all, as in I slept with a bearcub when I was eighteen, so that means I'm always attracted to bears, but rather to see how you make that progression from a bear to a penguin.

In case I forgot to say so earlier, Welcome to the Zoo.

Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio

Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio

I went on a date this evening. An utterly unexpected date, for which I had to be cajoled to go. I made the person I was going to meet think that I was this completely horrible person who judges people solely on the basis of their online picture profiles... which is not completely untrue, but then...!

And I actually had a great time. The person in question, whom I shall call GA because of his black Giorgio Armani tshirt, was funny, intelligent and quite attractive. We had the most mundane date ever - burgers at MacD's and then he smoked outside Barista's - but then, this wasn't really supposed to be a date in the first place. We just planned to 'meet up' - because, in spite of me acting like a first rate bitch online, GA came to my side of town all the way from the suburbs, even though he had to get back to Juhu by 10 pm for a night out with his pals. I was flattered, if nothing else. And that 'nothing else' quickly became a lot of 'elses' when, getting inside the cab that was to take him back to Juhu, GA leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I stood there, quite stunned to respond, because for all I knew, a million and a half people on the street had seen that brief kiss. Whoa!



Of course, on the way back home, I've promised myself that I'm not going to make mountains out of molehills. I'm not going to imagine a big and bright future with GA after just one great date. That's the easiest way to go downhill from here. I'm going to say to myself, Well, CT, that was a great date, and it remains to be seen what else is there to follow... but that's it. Nothing more.

But that's the crux. That's the crux. Sometimes... things happen. Things happen when you least expect them to. Nice things. The other night, I was having a conversation with a friend who lives across the border, and he was in a deep funk over another conversation he'd had earlier with a common friend. My across-the-border friend, ATB, recently moved out to his own place, and since he hates eating alone, he has this very real psychological problem facing him at mealtimes... and then the mutual friend screws it further by telling him: Hullo! You're gay, so chances are that you'll never find anyone to share the rest of your life with, so you better get used to eating meals alone! Wowch. That hurts.

But that's a truth most gay men have actually taught themselves to deal with. We may not force ourselves to face that truth every day, but we have our own way of dealing with that. Gay men have an excellent friend support system. Gay men are extreme optimists. We party. Hard. And then harder. Yet sometimes, the chink in the armour shows, as it did with ATB, and then you wonder: FCUK! How am I going to end up?!

I don't have an answer to that. I really don't. I didn't have one for ATB the other night when we were chatting, other than to tell him, that that kind of shit might even face him if he were straight. Who you end up with depends on the kind of person you are, and your luck in finding that person, and not so much on your sexual orientation. That's the eternal optimist in me talking. In the meantime, you depend on your friends, knowing that the really genuine ones will not desert you in your hour of need, no matter what familial commitments they may have.

And then of course, there are those little incidents, like an ordinary coffee meeting turning into a very delightful first date, that reinforce the optimism in you...

That reinforce the optimism in me. ;-)

Server problems

Server problems

I'm so completely stumped. Even as I write this, Gay.com refuses to open, owing to some server problems or whatnot, and my only method of meeting new people in the gay world is dead. True, I don't really get to meet new people as such, since they're mostly the same old fags from Bombay, Dilli and phoren, but you do get my point, I hope. And it's quite silly, but true, that though I may bitch about how shallow chatroom lingo is, it's role has gradually expanded in my life, to the point that it is my only window of ever finding a guy these days.

Bah!

The other night, while I was online, a 32 year old Gujarati man (his nick was *something*shah) comes up and asks me "asl?", to which I reply, "Sorry, I'm not looking for sex right now." Now, the bugger gets offended apparently, and retorts, "You think too much dude - who said I was looking for sex with you?" And of course, that gets my hackles up, and I flare back, "Listen, dude, your line sounds like it belongs in a meat market! If you wanted something other than to beat your miniscule cock, you'd come up with a cleverer line or even (god forbid!) a simple "hi-hello"! So go sell your beef elsewhere, cuz I'm not interested!" I'm usually polite with strangers, but some of them can really... well... get to ya!

But the sad and strange part is, that's the only mechanism I'm used to nowadays for meeting new people. I dance like a dervish at GB parties, and maybe that's why nobody ever approaches me there. I socialise sometimes with my friends' gay friends, but as far as I know, no one has ever evinced any interest in me thereby, either. I gave up walking round and round in circles in the city's so-called gay haunts ages ago, and have no desire to resume that again. So, sadly enough... gay.com is IT! My passport to a happy love life.

Ouch.

Room Service at Suite 101

Room Service at Suite 101

Perhaps this is the season of hearts trying to get back on their feet. The quiet period where you tend to step back for a few seconds and try to get over that guy back there who left you feeling somehow incomplete even though you've got everything you started out with, and probably coupla tools more.



And even though I'm no kind of a feminist, I would grumble and mutter under my breath, Men!

The other day, someone who'd seen my online profile messaged me the succinct sentence: 'u r cute', followed by his cell phone number. Well, since I'm shallow like hell, I checked out his online profile, and deciding that he was kinda cute as well, messaged him back. And this evening, we chatted on the phone. And he asks me out to Voodoo's.

Ouch. For the uninitiated, Voodoo's is the original Gay Bar of Bombay. Settled bang on Colaba Causeway, the place is seedy at all times and converts into a gay bar on Saturday nights. The place charges Rs 300 entry fee (non-refundable, might I add), and is populated mainly by old uncles and hookers of every kind (straight woman, lesbian woman, gay man, tranny whatever) all boogeying on the dance floor. In a word, Voodoo's is an institution and deserves a whole post dedicated solely to it, but I'm not going there now.

The point I was trying to make: I asked him why Voodoo's of all places, and he replied, he wants to dance with men but there was someone at the GB party being held tonight, whom he doesn't want to meet and is trying to get over. Heartbreak hotel. I listened politely, said I was very sorry for him, but had decided on a month-long sabbatical from GB parties and was certainly not going to Voodoo's on a Saturday when a GB party was on (that would mean, Voodoo's would have the lowest low lives), and came back home to read a book. Harry Potter, if you're interested.

So, it was heartbreak hotel there. Same address, the other night, on my kind-of date with Graphics Designer. Hell, d/d has been in heartbreak hotel for more than three months now, and truth be told, I've taken up permanent residence there myself.

There's a difference, though, in the way gay men nurse their broken hearts. We don't go about everyday sullen faced like women, but actually party, have fun, go about our jobs with aplomb, though we have the occassional whiney telephone conversation with the best friend... But what we do is this: date with fervour. Sorry, wrong to use the word 'date'. I meant: see people. Meet them for coffee. Meet them for a screw. Love to identify several young men as the promising somethings. And then we make excuses to keep them at arms' length thereafter, making the "it's too soon" excuse.

You can catch me at Suite 101, in case you're interested.

***

On a side note, the other night, d/d and I bumped into a couple of cute guys who apparently read Talking Closets. I'm an egoistic asshole enough to admit that being appreciated feels GREAT. It felt good to know that these guys read my blog and actually like what they read... most of the time. But while it's wonderful to have fame spread, it also restricts the power of being anonymous. I'm going to have to be slightly careful when I go bitchy ballistic, and I don't want that. So, you gorgeous guys with whom I had beer the other night, I hope you keep CloseTalk's Secret Identity with yourselves.

And being the typical egoistic asshole like I said I was, I'm going to blow my kisses at you, and say you're always welcome to come back for more.

;-)

Wine and dates

Wine and dates

Lunching with gay young interior designer/decorator today, and I asked him whether it's true that gay men are never meant to find permanent love. D/d chomped on his spicy surmai pulliguti (green curry with chillis and amazing sauce) and bombil fry, and mouthed out, "Yes, because we're supposed to be pretty and have pleasure."

CT: "You mean, we're like Bacchus?"

D/d, chomp chomp: "Exactly."

D/d, sipping solkadi: "It's all the free sex that we get. The easy sex."

CT, licking lips after a bite of the banana split: "So, straight people would also be in hell, if they got easy sex like us?

D/d, slicing the sizzling brownie on his plate: "Exactly. If they were as decadent as us."

Pleasure creatures. I thought about that definition again this evening on my not-really date with Graphics Designer. I've had this attraction towards GD for a long time, but that never went anywhere because GD had this strong crush of his own on a friend of his and finally summoned up the courage to tell him, but only got rejected in the end. He's trying to get over him now, is not sure though if he really wants to get over him, and is basically in the same sort of state I was, after Nature Boy and I split.

So he asks me how I got over Nature Boy, and I replied, "Well, I refused to meet him for nearly two months. I shut him out completely from my life. And met him again only after things got better. But I'm not sure that's the way for you."

GD: "I know. Because he's part of my close friend circle now."

CT: "But he's being an ass, and you shouldn't run after him at all now."

GD: "I'm not going to."

GD, after dinner: "Is this a date?"

CT: "I'm not sure."

GD: "A date doesn't have to be non-platonic. That's called dating, na?"

CT: "A date is always about more than platonic feelings. Your descriptions are wrong, dude. It's dating when it's frequent. This is not a date,... I think."

GD, after a pause: "He gets a lot of sex, you know. Awful." And that's when I repeat the earlier conversation about decadence, over bombil fry, surmai pulliguti, banana split and sizzling brownie, to him.

GD says "Hmmmmmmmmm...", while eating whiskey sodden brownie with me.

After putting me in the cab, he reaches out and says, "Hope to do this again sometime soon, you know. One-on-one. Another date."

And now, I'm left even more confused.

The story about beer and caffeine

The story about beer and caffeine

Coffee with the Nutcracker is always an amusing episode. I suppose you could call the Nutcracker my original fag-hag, but she's so much more than that. She's the one who pledged to take care of me when I'm old and decrepit without a mate and probably dying of some debilitating disease. And she has a wicked sense of humour. And a lovely ego like mine.

We compliment each other perfectly.

Nutcracker: So, InsipidWoman is probably sleeping with the xerox guy.

CT, scalding tongue on hot coffee: YOWCH!

Nutcracker, sighing: Funny, na? I thought so too.

CT: So what's the latest on your cyber romance case?

Nutcracker: Bored. What about your one?

CT: Turned out to be fat and forty with a bent for the S&Ms.

Nutcracker: I prefer the M&Ms. (giggle)

CT: So do I.

CT: You wanna dance somewhere?

Nutcracker: I wanna get drunk.

So, there we go to Ghettoes, sitting in a space near the pool table, downing a pitcher of chilled beer, and unwittingly become drawn into the conversation of the big gaggle of dumbasses next to us. They're pretty dumbasses, so it's actually much worse.

Dumbass 1: Meet, Rahul... he's my sweeeeetttoooo!

Dumbass 2: Ooooooo, hiiiiiii!!

Dumbass 3, who's also Rahul: I want vodka. Anyone want vodka?

Dumbass 4: I need to go the loo. Sooooooooo bad.

Dumbass 1: I loooooooove your shirt, Rahul.

Dumbass 3: Vodka? Gin? Rum? Beer? WHHHHHAAAATTT???

Dumbass 2: O, the bartender's soooooooo hot! So, what are you doing later tonight, Rahul?

Dumbass 4: Will anyone else come with me to the loo?

CT and Nutcracker: (snigger!)

Googly in the Over

Googly in the Over

Went out for dinner last night with Travel Agent, who's an old friend of mine hailing from that outlandish part of town called Colaba. Travel Agent and I used to date, ages back when I first came to Bombay, but then , after I started seeing my first ex, we sort of settled into comfortable 'friend' mode. And now, we have a very funny relationship - we make plans to meet, but invariably meet after a gap of a month or so, have dinner at a fancy place, pledge to meet up soon, but only do so a month later.

Last night, we went to Under the Over.

And on the way back, we met up with a friend of his, whom I see regularly on the gay.com chatroom. It's actually quite scary that I'm such a frequent visitor there that I recognize people by their chat ids, but let's not go down that road for now... Breach Candy Regular, BCR, is getting married next month, and should be on his honeymoon by the first week of January. Strange, considering that he's all of 22 years, and the entire time last night in Travel Agent's car was spent reminescencing about the 'jolly gay times' the two of them had shared.



As we left BCR, Travel Agent explained to me how strongly familial pressure works in Gujarati families like his. It's expected that you get married, and fast, and no excuse is just ever good enough - not the "I want to settle first", or "I want to earn more money first", and definitely not "I'm gay, you see, folks". So the BCRs of Bombay, even from the time they hit the gay scene, are all very clear in their heads: I'm gay, but I'm going to get married soon, so everyone else better be clear with that. I found it even stranger that BCR and Travel Agent had once been so close that BCR had asked for a relationship.

"A relationship? When he knew he's going to get married, and he's not even going to put up a token resistance?" I asked Travel Agent, who laughed, as he coursed the car along the road.

"You don't know how it works there," he replied, "They have it down all pat."

I suppose I'm the only one who hasn't.

Old is gold... but we demand platinium!

Old is gold... but we demand platinium!

What is it about being gay in Bombay that makes you feel old? Even as I type these words, I realize that I'm not being completely honest. I've seen young people. I've seen young people act old, and older people act young. There's The Mythologist who loves throwing parties at his home, frequented by good-looking young men, while he remains devoted to his love interest overseas - he's one of the most gregarious gay people I've met in Bombay, one of the most generous and the nicest. I've also seen Aged Director, who loves to spend time alone in his flat in Bandra and doesn't socialise much, has no love interest overseas or onshore to speak of, but is still immensely satisfied with himself and the herbal cream that makes him look 35 despite his 55 years of age. So, yes, there are people...

And there are people!... People like me at the GB party last Saturday, dancing like a wild dervish, when suddenly I stop and stare. I'm out of breath, I'm just under three drinks (diluted - GB is not known for spiking its drinks), and I have the saddest feeling of deja vu. Been there, done that - true, I have, but what's so effing different this time, I wondered. I've known for ages that GB is not really the most fashionable place in town, with the best crowd anywhere - I've known that for ages. I go to GB parties to party and preen and generally giggle like a gay boy. Crystal clear priorities.

Hell, maybe I'm just growing old. I looked around me Saturday, while leaning against a wall, and decided that all the people on the floor could be fitted into either of three categories:

a) Trashy
b) Snotty
c) Been there, done them.

The evening before the party, Insane Bitch asked me in an sms whether I had still not got bored of the same old rigmarole at GB parties, and I replied indignantly to the negative. I like being the butterfly that evening, once in a fortnight. And that spell of boredom Saturday night makes me wonder now if a butterfly ever gets bored of being one. All wings and colour - damn, now what do I do next? Become a dull caterpillar? So out of the question!

This is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. I know myself too well to realize that that's quite unlikely, in the absence of a regular boyfriend to give me my bi-or-tri-weekly dose of that ridiculously sexy thing called sex, - so no, this is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. This is a post about a moment of strange melancholy - one of the moments that symbolise the screws in the apple that used to be the watermark of this blog earlier. Every gay man goes through these moments, decides to deal with them in some such way, and then... moves on.

So I'm not going for the next two GB parties. I'll stay at home, or I shall go out for a movie or a dinner or to a straight disc.

And then, I shall... move on. C'est la vie.

Under the hammer!

Under the hammer!

Your favourite closet has gone 'public' in every sense of the term - shares of the blog are listed on Blogshares, and you can buy your very own part of it. This bull run is sizzling, people!



***

The other day, a bitch came to my house. An insurance bitch. A sweet tall Parsi woman by the name of Phirozi, who came to collect the cheque from my flatmate for her policy. And then, when she heard that I don't have life insurance taken out on my own, she proceeded to try and brainwash me.

I earn a pittance.

I don't save anything.

My mutual fund investments will not be there when I need them.

My parents will soon die.

I may soon die.

Of some long, horrible disease that will be expensive.

A bus, an airplane, a train, a bird are all conspiring to kill me even as I write this.

Insurance with equity plans are loads better for my feeble brain to understand, rather than my mutual funds.

My future family (wife, three kids, dog) will be left poverty-stricken after I die.

Material Men

Material Men

The return of the icon, is how Madonna would like to put it. She's back in a brand new flava, and the press loves it. And you have to admit, she looks faaabulous, dah-lings. The music's pretty snappy too. Thanks to Nature Boy, I can attest to that.

In a recent interview, Madonna hopes she's still numero uno in the list of gay icons of the world. Apparently, Kylie has in an earlier statement said that, while she may be the princess, the Original Material Girl is still the biggest Queen Bee around. Compliments galore for her confessions on the dance floor...



It's very strange, though, don't you think? That a gay man's icon would be a straight woman? Straight women? Judy Garland, Cher, Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, Kylie, Beyonce.... what is it about super-sexy (alright, not Garland or Gaynor!) women that makes gay men across the world think of them as... icons? I mean, I think George Michael is H-O-T - always was, and is still! I even go for the skinhead look of Right Said Fred. But how come the Pet Shop Boys never made it to Gay Icon status? How come that recent Russian boy duo, whose name I just can't recall, never made it to the drool-list of gay men worldwide?



;-)

They say, it's about the image. They say it's about being flouncy. The abandon. You feel the abandon when Cyndi Lauper hollers that Girls just wanna have fun, not when she says that Time after time things don't go well for her. You identify with Material girl because deep down you like the bling-bling, you can't wait to Strike a pose on the dance floor, would love to be caught in a picture reading Vogue, feel sentimental when you remember what it was to be Like a virgin, but you don't really give a fig about crying for Argentina. And, yes, you have sooooo many Confessions of the dance floor, that it's not very funny at all...

To each his own. Despite this long-winded speech, I must admit, I've been a die-hard fan of Madonna since I was twelve years old. I guess that answers my question about whether you're born or made gay...

First in line

First in line

Remember that old question about whether you're born gay or whether you're made so? That question which every gay man and woman has probably asked him or herself at some point of life. I did too. Not whether I was ever induced to have sex with a man, but whether my continuously having sex with men automatically meant that sleeping with a woman wasn't half as fun. That's the old gay vs bi and bi vs straight and gay vs straight question. Why am I gay?

The first time I had sex, I knew I was going to have fun. I had not planned the occassion, and like most people, my first time came completely out of the blue. But I guess I was prepared for it. I 'rose' to the occassion, pun intended, and satisfied most of the kinky thoughts and desires that had existed in my closet. No one forced me to have sex with them - they offered me sex, and I took it, because I was curious and well... horny.

;-)

I actually had sex with a woman after that. I kept on telling myself that maybe I was just bisexual... this was alright, even normal, that I lusted after men, and I tried to force myself to lust after women too. But Baywatch left me cold. Pamela was slutty, but I liked the guy she was french kissing on the beach, and it was his speedos I was thinking of, rather than hers. It was clear that this line was not going to work.

It took a brief affair with a close female friend to make me realise that I was gay. Not bisexual. And certainly not straight. I'm not attracted to women at all. My flatmate says, she's more comfortable around me, a gay man, than she could ever be around either a straight guy or a straight woman. I still don't know what to make of that.

And then there are the stories from other people around me. The stories about classmates who've later 'turned' straight. Next door neighbours who raped them when they were younger. Experiments with cousins in the dead of night. Whispers and threats and loves and persuasions. No single first experience is ever the same, though you may be tempted to classify them under Schoolboy Sex or Neighbourly Nudge or whatever. When I first started having sex, I kept on asking them about their first experiences. I found it turned me on, to some extent. Or it horrified me, which in turn helped me feel tender towards them and infuse some real passion in the sex that followed. I'm not sure who it helped more: me or them.

And it never answered my question of whether we're made gay or whether we're born this way.

You can ring my bell!

You can ring my bell!

The party was good. I may be biased since I'm the one who hosted it, but the rest of you will all be ungrateful SOBs if you say you didn't have fun.

;-)



Gay interior designer/ decorator was tickled pink at the idea of the gay bloggers' party and came two hours early to play dress-up. Of course, me being the Desperate Housewife that I am, I was knee-deep in last-minute chores like getting the cold drinks (which turned out to be lukewarm, seeing that I don't own a fridge) and rearranging the mats in my room, and hanging the sketches on the wall and what-not. My look for the day was decidedly Filthy Bear: an exotic species in itself, wearing tight tshirt and faded jeans, stubble on face, and iPOD on hip, as I dashed across the neighbourhood, with a decided smell of mansweat. I still didn't hook any ghaati boys in the neighbourhood, though. Expected.

So, finally, we did play dress-up. I played Bombay Whore. Which involved a full-sleeve diagonal striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to half-length, only one button just above the belly, and tucked in imperfectly to show a glimpse of tummy, teamed with stonewashed jeans and a red cloth belt, and white 'low' undies on top of the jeans. And, in case you missed the point, I had a name tag titled S.L.U.T. aka CloseTalk slung around my neck. Ding-dong, do I hear the door bell ring?

Meanwhile, d/d was the French caddy slut for the night - small white tshirt, tiny black shorts that gave everyone around a great look-see of his jewels whenever he parted his legs, and my fake leather beret on his head.

Natureboy was wearing a white tshirt which proclaimed SHOWOFF!!! in bold red, together with white shorts. French beard optional. Emily came in a red kurta and folded-up jeans, accessorised with two jewelled belts bought from some disreputable pimp's showroom in Colaba, a very cute anklet and a pink Minnie Mouse hairband. Hehehe

Apple-boy came dressed all formal, teamed up with a fluorescent orange tie around his neck. Lovely trousers. He brought with him Gup Shup, who went all American boy chic, with his uber-tight tshirt screaming SELF MADE MAN. I should have had hookers for the party - sigh.

But then, we did have French caddy slut, aka d/d.



The late-comers were Funny Parsi Guy, who dropped in on his way to another friends' birthday party, and Visualscribe who had everyone in the room (with the exception of FPG) lusting after his gold sequined mojris.

The cold-drink lady sniggered when I opened the door to get the bottles, in my over-under-wear, and I'm hoping I won't be evicted from my building. My flatmate of course had a blast seeing so many exubert fags going all tipsy.

Wine, black rum, Bacardi, Alcazar, paapris with tartar sauce, paani puris. Gloria Gaynor, and we discussed Nazia Hassan's Disco Deewaane. Bappi-da was mentioned, as we preferred the Hindi version of D-I-S-C-O to the English one, or at least, Vik did. There was general lamentation about not having New Meat at the party, but I really didn't want to hold a GB party II.

Played Kajra re, and d/d promised to do a mujra at the next party if I can get Kua mein dub jaoogi. But the actual performance came much later, when most of the guys had gone - Emily and d/d threw one of my flattie's green dupattas between them, and did the most awe-inspiring dhak-dhak moves to Madhuri's Maar daalaa!

Moral of the story: Cyndi Lauper knows what she's talking about when she says that Girls just wanna have fun!

POP!

POP!

Ok, so I uncorked the bubbly again.



The gay slut has returned to his haunts. And no, before anyone starts tut-tuting and saying 'I told him so' lines, while I take my stillettoes out again from behind the closet, I just want to reiterate that I never said earlier I'd abstain completely from sex. Random sex was what I meant. However, as it turns out, I could find enough loopholes around this one.

Random sex means a phone call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet and screw?

My brand of non-slut sex was a phone-call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet, have the cuppa coffee for propriety's sake and then go for a bang at your place?

Sigh.

I could get away with this line, of course, but then some sort of reality dawns in my pretty little head, and I decide that one type of slut is as good as (or, as bad as) any other. No use pretending to be something I'm not. So I might as well just slip the stillettoes back on.

But I'm a Desperate Housewife, really. Finally met up with Beret Boy the other night, had the rudimentary coffee and conversation, and convinced him to come back home with me. Lovely boy, good sex, but all my hopes (and giggles) of the earlier post for a possible relationship are down the drain, of course - 22 year old boy who's just new on the gay scene and wants to fuck around, and I'm not in the mood for babysitting.

But here's the crunch: Guess what I do, after he leaves, and I proclaim two hours well spent to my flatmate?

Promptly take a broom and start sweeping the floor of my room. Sigh. Beret Boy is quite, quite hairy, you see, and seeing hair follicles strewn on the ground gives me the Monica itch. So, while I swept the floor, I even muttered to myself, Nice boy, but next time I get a tarpauline on the floor for you...

And the Slut Saga continues... I'm still waiting for that Sp[ecial Someone, however. Bated breath and all.

OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday

OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday



I'll try to send all the guys invited their individual invites before then, but this post serves as one big general invite as well. November 12, come 8.30 pm, all you gay divas are going to assemble in my lil pad for some funky dancing.

The theme for the night is Gay Diva Slut.

Over the top.

You're supposed to define 'over the top' with this one. So get out the spandex, the tight sleeveless muscle Ts, the floral printed frilly shirts, the hot pants, the vinyl paddings, the torn jeans, the crosses around your necks, the beads and the bracelets, the strap-ons, the cloth belts, the hip huggers, and hell, even the make-up, if you're so inclined.

Let's see just how 'funky town' us prolific gay Bombay bloggers can get. ;-)

As for the ladies (the real ones), I know y'll really wanna come, but I think the other ladies in the house will die of embarassment if anyone other than Family sees them!

Just a little (?) crush

Just a little (?) crush

The other day, I had an sms conversation with my Ex-Roomie, which went something like this:

ER: Hey, bitch. Having a good time? Still freeloading on brother?

CT: Hey, ass. Of course. Where do you think the good times come from? And you're still living off your sis in Delhi?

ER: Sure thing. How's the partying and the sleeping around?

CT: Partying like same, more or less. Trying to cut down on the sleeping around. Will try to have relationships now. Think I'm growing up?

ER: I'll believe that when I say Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece.

(He hates the book.)

To introduce ER, he was my first flatmate in Bombay, and I've known him for a year-and-a-half before that. He's this tall, fair, brawny Punju who looks so utterly cute when he sleeps, and of course I have the world's greatest crush on him. That's my concession to the norm of gay-men-falling-for-straight-men. I'm weak too. But it would have been the same for you, if you'd known him. I've had a crush on ER now, since the day I first met him, and it's been more than two years now. Almost three. My crush for him intensified, upon his reaction when I came out to him.

So what's this particular post about then? Am I merely reaffirming a silly little crush on an old friend? I'm not exactly sure, really. A lot of things are happening fast. First, there was the discussion a coupla months back, with two other friends I'm out to, who said, they got some vibes that ER may actually have been a confused gay boy as well. (He had women throwing themselves at him, but always kept himself away from them.) Then, there's the promise ER made, to come with me to Pegs N Pints, the gay bar in Delhi, when I arrive in his city. And, coming up in March, all of us are going to Bangalore for a mutual friend's wedding. ER will be there. We may have to share a room again. And I'm getting hopeful again.

Sigh.

I told a friend of mine the other day, that if I ever got ER, I'd probably turn a new leaf and become absolutely asexual towards other men. I have a strong desire to do that. I really do. Or maybe, I'm just telling myself that, in a silly effort to convince myself that this thing I have for ER goes beyond a crush and is all about... gulp... love.

Now, why on earth would I do that?

Karaoke Queens

Karaoke Queens

First I was afraid,
I was petrified..
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...
But I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong...
I learned how to carry on.

I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I will stay alive.
I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give
And I'll survive.
I will survive...

That was one of the songs we were supposed to croon Monday night at Karaoke night at Jazz by the Bay. This, and Like a Virgin, Y-M-C-A and Dancing Queen. So, it was gay boys' night out, and CT, Gup Shup, gay interior decorator/designer and Penguin Boy decided to sing the town red. Jazz is a lovely place with a great crowd, and we were openly staring at all the lissome South Bombay boys. Most of them dressed and danced like gay boys, so we were aided in our fantasies that maybe, just maybe, the hot muscle boy in the khaki cap would be all too willing to make out in the car, or that the striped shirt angel would give an excellent blowjob in the squeaky-clean loo. I had a gin-and-tonic for the first time.

Horrible drink.

D/d paniced from Gloria Gaynor and Y-M-C-A, however, and the two of us ended up with a pretty tame version of Pretty Woman. We were bad. Bad. B-A-D. So bad, they took ages to get us on the damn stage for our little number. So bad, that the DJ's gal-friends came over and started singing with me and d/d... which sort of diverted the attention of the crowd away from the horrible singing and d/d's jerky dance steps.

;-)

And yesterday, I went out on a date with Funny Parsi Guy. Now, I've known FPG for ages, almost since I first stepped into Bombay, but I never actually thought about going out with him for a date. But we had a great time yesterday. Dinner and dessert and coffee and a walk down the beach front. Nice. He can't stand Parsi food, however. Being the pessimist I am, though, I'm just going to say it was nice, and let things unravel as they will, at their own pace...

By the way, am still waiting for the remaining confirmations for the Blog Party. Please hurry, guys.

Part-ay?

Part-ay?

Well, to everyone here: a happy Diwali.

And to a select few, by virtue of sex and location, (two outta three from ASL?!!), a special invite. Rather than an invite, a poll, actually:



This is going out to all you gay bloggers from Bombay. I'd like to have a little get together at my place sometime, and I wonder if you guys will come. For a couple of you, I haven't ever met you, but I'm pretty curious. Some of you do know me, on the other hand. I think it would be a fun time, over music, chatter and some great booze in the house, and I'd like to have a party!

(Strictly not the Delhi farmhouse kind!)

Planning for next Saturday, so please do holler and tell me if it's cool with ya guys. You can leave your response in the comments box here. I've also mailed you individual invites to your blogs, dudes.

And, just for clarification, the gay Bombay bloggers I'm familiar with are:

Amchi Mumbai
Vikster
Nature Boy
Lefty
The Gup Guy
Kris Engayged
Wassup, Doc?

Have I missed anyone?

A Couple more movies

A Couple more movies

I'm trying very hard to not make this post read like Gup Shup Boy's, but I absolutely must mention how delicious the breakfast this morning at Crepe Station was.... and with that over, I shall now go back to the movie reviews.

***

First on the list, is Latter Days, of which I've seen mentions earlier in both Sin and Aryan's blogs. Sin has a lovely post on this, and all I can do right now is affirm that it's a very cute movie. Just what you'd expect a Hindi gay movie to be like, if there were any Hindi gay movies. I'm not counting My Brother Nikhil here, you understand.



Hot guys, pacy script, taut emotions, lovely divas, and uncomfortable questions about the gay lifestyle. At times, I identify with the sexy West Hollywood playboy (fluff boy?), and at others, I think I'm more like the Mormon... The real CT remains, as always, unsure of himself. Now, isn't that strange...

Second, there was something called The River, a Finnish film, to which I can't find any link online, I'm afraid. Very nice story, placed in a small town, showing how everyone's lives are interconnected to each others', the bungee jump event in the town square, and an attempted suicide. I saw this one alone, cuz Gup Shup was all sleepy and had gone to bed, and i finally turned in myself at 3 am this morning.

Lovely movie, though. And yes, even number two had the perfunctory cute gay couple.

Cinema CINEMA

Cinema CINEMA

Saw a terrible movie last weekend, called U Bomsi 'N' Me. Atrocious. There were gaps, far and in between, where you actually chuckle, but by and large it typified the low budget, low acting, Hinglish movie from the Nineties. Bunch of models, and the character who played Bomsi had an irritatingly nasal voice that made me want to bitch-slap him.



Now that would have been appropriate, from yours truly... hehehe...

Saving grace was the cute guy, who of course has no idea how to act: Gautam Rode, who played this dumb Punju-Gujju mix called Sam 'Mac' Patel.



I'll just give you a sample of how dumb the movie was, by giving you Sam's two alternate reasons for the 'Mac' in his name:

Reason 1: He's a product of the new Gen-Y, and is a regular at McDonalds. Yes, and this is the less stupid one.

Reason 2: His dad is Gujju, so he's a Patel; his mum was Punju and names him Sameer, which he shortened to 'Sam', because of the (you guessed it) Gen-Y influence; and his wife is a Goan Christian MacKinshaw, so he shortened that to 'Mac'.

Wow. Rocket Science.

Or at least, it would be, if I could create Rode in a test tube. I wouldn't mind being the ascetic then. ;-)

One night in Wonderland

One night in Wonderland

So I was down four shots of black rum - neat - and was swinging to Kylie's Spinnin Around, while inspecting myself in the full length mirror at home. The party hadn't even started, but it was clear that this was going to be a fun night.

Shiny disco balls!

CT enters rocking club with scores of cocky young men, pun intended, cradling their drinks, and chhammak-chhalo-ing to Kareena Kapoor film remixes. Orders a rum and coke - black, of course - when he gets a message from Mumbai EXpress No 1. You're looking hot tonight, and I turn around to flash a grin. Of course he's got a boyfriend now, and I'm playing Vishwamitra these days, but it's a GB party and I'm feeling like the devil tonight. So I smile and I dance and lick his ear. I'm evil, if no one ever told you that before. Old Friend Who Clings Around Too Much also came by, but I gave him the cold shoulder for the EX.



Also spotted: Seemingly Shy Broadcast Babe behind a pillar. SSBB had a one night stand with a dear friend (who owes me a sundae at Baskin Robbins) some time back, which ended in a comic affair, and I decided to try my luck with him. So I smiled, and said what's up tonight?, and he smiled back, and asked me how I was doing. Boringly mundane, so I decide he's not worth a long drawn-out conversation, when I spot Newspaper Baron. The Baron is down from Delhi, and was always good for a fun night out (and in) during my slut days, so I amble over and say hi to him. Grabs my ass, but I push myself out of reach, laugh and tell him, I'll see ya around.

That's when I bump into M, a cute li'l twenty-four year old. M was sweet to me, as always, but I'm playing the role of the ascetic these days, so bonking twenty-year old cuties is not in my time table. Sigh... Just when I think I should change my modus operandi, and go bite M on his neck, I spot the Gup Shup Boy.

Gup Shup is this absolute sweetheart I met through gay decorator/designer, who's not at all bitchy like d/d is. So we shared a couple of drinks, wondered who the bonkable ones were in the room, and that's when d/d shows up, in tow with AirBoy and Malabar Hill Dunce.

Air Boy is a mutual friend of both d/d and Gup Shup, so I'm obliged to be nice to him - he's this typical Punju flight attendant boy who wings his way across continents, the kind who every gay man would like to screw, simply because of the 'air steward' tag. MHD is just that - a dunce. he's got rich parents, multiple houses in Malabar Hill and Lokhandwalla and Zurich, and typifies the dumb flight attendant stereotype. He's horny to boot, and tries much too hard.

Yes, yes, I'm evil, I know.



Let the dance begin! Nature Boy shows up, looking cute in a tshirt (thank god he's shaved off that hideous beard!), and I see Traveler From Zurich, whom both he and I chatted up on gay.com ages ago. NB slept with him, though, and I leered at him tonight. But then, I couldn't leer too long, because Cute Doc comes by with Andhra Doc right then. Both of them, divine, and soon the three of us are in a circle dance jhatka with M. Andhra Doc has heard from M that I'm great in bed and says so to my face, while M reddens in embarassment, and I take that as my cue to walk out of the quadruple.

And that's when I stop in my tracks.

CT spots Beret Boy. Should I say cute again, or is it expected? French beard. Smiling eyes. Red tshirt. Great dancer. Black Beret. CT smiles. And before he knows what he's doing, he walks over to him, wears his Beret, and tells him I don't know you from Adam, but the hat's cute. He smiles, he understands, and we dance together. Not for a very long time, because I'm thirsty, so I touch his forearm, and melt away into the crowd. I'll meet him again, sometime... sometime.

Exhausted, but happy. Soooo happy.

PS: The Dance Diva of the Night Award goes unanimously to Gup Shup. That boy has zoom! ;-)

Climb every Mountain....!

Climb every Mountain....!

Party time comes along again, tonight. The agenda is to dress as non-gay as I can, and just go to have a fun time. Of course, gay interior decorator/ designer will smirk and say that dressing non-gay for me is akin to climbing Mount Everest while getting a piggyback ride from Tarzan of the Apes, but hell, you shouldn't discount the possibilities, even if they're an infinity to one....



;-)

I got sidetracked.

My first party since The Abstinence.

Should be fun, actually. After all, as decorator/ designer and I chatted over the phone this evening, no one ever hits on us at these do's anymore, cuz we're not fresh maal anymore. And that doesn't change, even if we go to a party after a two months' gap, as there'll always be pimply sixteen year olds to grab all the attention away from us jaded twenty-four year olds...! So, it promises to be a fun night of drinking, dancing with other jaded young-old men, over the age of twenty, and generally shaking butt.

'Me party boy. Me climb Everest. After I climb you, Tarzan.' *bashful grin*

Some things stupid

Some things stupid

This is one of my favourite songs, I realised this evening. I came back home after dinner (with a relative, so don't worry, the Pact still holds), and then I switched on one of the CDs I'd bought at the Music sale two weeks back... and I heard the song twice. I plan to listen to it again, before going to bed.

;-)

It's actually a terrible song. When you come to think of it. It's a song about saying the wrong things, even though you're desperately trying to say and do the right things. It's about... the same old things and the new things that scare you so desperately. Any gay person will read the lyrics and ponder about how true it is about life in the Rainbow circle... But... I love the tune. I love the way it goes. I love the croon.

Hehehehe...

I know I stand in line, until you think you have the time
To spend an evening with me
And if we go someplace to dance, I know that there's a chance
You won't be leaving with me

And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place
And have a drink or two
And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
Like: "I love you"

I can see it in your eyes, that you despise the same old lies
You heard the night before
And though it's just a line to you, for me it's true
It never seemed so right before

I practice every day to find some clever lines to say
To make the meaning come through
But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late
And I'm alone with you

The time is right your perfume fills my head, the stars get red
And oh the night's so blue
And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
Like: "I love you."

And, o yes, I love both Frank Sinatra and Robbie Williams. Robbie, a bit more, but then you'd hardly blame me for that.

General ire about dating.

General ire about dating.

That's what I should name this one. Terrible to sit up one day and make up your mind that you're just not going to be a slut. Terribler even, to realise that with your intensely busy work schedule, probably the only way you'll ever have sex again is by being a slut. Dial-a-sex, please? There's that silly radio ad where the gal calls up a pizza place and tells the boy to come over with all his 'toppings', and when you think about it, being a gay slut was something like that.

Easy.

Ridiculously so.

All you have to do, is go online and find a reasonably good looking guy. Check sexual compatibility, and take his number down. Save for a rainy day, or a sunny day, or whatever day. And call. Boy comes over an hour later, you offer him a glass of water, and then have a nice screw.

Did I not say 'ridiculous'?

Cut to present state of affairs. Oops... wrong word, given my absolute lack of love life. The present state has me going to work at 8.30 am, and back at around 10.30 pm. I plop down on the bed and listen to Don Williams croon Fever for some time, and then I nod tiredly at my flattie when she comes out from her coccoon-cum-room to ask how my day was. And then I undress and go to sleep. Yawn.

And to think, I'd decided once upon a time, that virginity does not agree with me.

There are times, of course, when I wonder what's keeping me from the antidote. I mean: cute, funny, twenty-four year old guy in a city that has probably more gay men than the Big Apple, so why the hell am I single? And that's when I tell myself, I shouldn't try so hard or think so hard, that it's not what newly-liberated ex-sluts do. Newly liberated ex-sluts generally rant out their ire about how tough dating is in the big city.

Ergo...

Welcome to a brand new closet

Welcome to a brand new closet.

Of course, I still miss the apple.



The very famous apple, regarding which there has been soooooooooo much debate, yadayadayada... I remember a conversation with Geebaby about what the silly fruit was all about, and I simply could not find any other, or any better, representation of what being a gay man in the closet meant.

I said, in a previous post: The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself. And, it's still true.

... Despite the fact that we now have a brand new closet. One with some pretensions of the artistic in it. ;-) How gay is that, then?!

Hang 'em!

Hang 'em!

So, the word across town goes, Closetalk has decided to hang up the slut stilletoes.

Ok, you don't have to gape quite that much.

CT walks into a crowded room, wearing padded slippers. Holds up sparkling, glittering heels. Fiddles with microphone, and then harrumphs. Once, twice, not thrice.

CT: "Ladies and gentlemen of the press...."

(hushed response)

CT: "Here they are...."

(hushER response?)

CT: "The rumours you heard were true...."

(somebody faints, somebody titters)

CT: "The slut shoes are gone!"

(collective gasp, scribes write furiously, flashbulbs pop)

CT: "I've decided to move on with my life..."

scribe 1: "CT, what led up to this.... catastrophe?!"

CT: "Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear scribe 1.... I choose to think of this as a transition... I'm merely changing my shoes here." (shows padded slippers - very unsexy!)

scribe 2: "CT, what advice do you have for all the novice sluts out there... the ones who've looked up to you, and revered you, and worshipped you, and.... ?"

CT (smiles, and waves, and laughs): "They can still revere me and worship me, silly!"

(room dissolves into chuckles, as heads nod at Closetalk's superior intellect.)

scribe 3: "So what will you do now, CT?"

CT pauses. Looks heavenwards for inspiration, then hellwards, and finally looks at scribe 3.

CT: "I'm going to wait..."

Pujor Pronaam

Pujor Pronaam

Closetalk is a Bengali.

A most misguided Bengali, who feels extremely nostalgic about Calcutta and Durga Pujo, now that he is not in the City of the Bongs at this time, after all. So, he ambles over to Ram Krishna Mission Hospital in Bandra on Sunday, naba shoshti according to the Bong Pujo calendar, to gaze reverentially at the goddess. He feels strangely sad that he's the only one of his family right now, not in Calcutta, and decides to bury his sorrows in hing kachori and chholaar dal, topped off with a gigantic rajbhog. Of course, having eaten all that, he also feels mildly cheated, because he has spent all in all Rs 50 for something that would have cost him only Rs 20 or so in good ole Calcutta. And so he proceeds once again to gaze reventially at the Goddess at RK Mission.

Contrary to what the Martini Man said in an earlier post, there were no goodlooking Bong men for Closetalk to gaze lustfully at, which was perhaps a good thing, as it might have disturbed his otherwise pious intentions directed towards the Goddess. Besides, Closetalk was dressed in a block printed blue kurta, buttons undone of course, that would scream out BONG! BEWARE! to all and sundry. The gathered faithful at RK Mission thus took to Closetalk as one takes to one of their own flock, misguided and alone, at such an auspicious time. Even the presesnce of a dazzling silver bracelet on Closetalk's left wrist that screamed out his homosexual inclinations did not deter the priests and the mithaiwallas from their extreme kindness towards the misguided soul.

Closetalk departed a happy gay Bong boy.

Just peachy!

Just peachy!

There's a new cream on the block, called Fair and Handsome. Hehehehehe... it's targeted at men, and it's the 'male' version of the infamous Fair and Lovely. Honestly, I don't know why on earth they would need a 'male' version in the first place... I mean, how different is it from the 'female' version? Use of pheromones, perhaps? Boggles the mind.

Was seeing the ad of the product this evening on TV, and my roomie was quite horrified! Apparently, the woman has banned all fairness creams in her own house, especially since her seventeen-year old brother expressed his desire to smear some on. She watched the ad, and screamed out, that though she was glad the fairness cream thingy was becoming 'asexual', it was probably going to be used by gay men only!

Gross miscalculation.

I suspect: we're going to have Punjabi mundas wanting to get creamier, and dark Tams getting fairer, and even some errant Bongs who would like to try some of the wonder cream. I mean, let's face it. So many of those Punjabi mundas, Tams and Bongs have been using their mums' and sisters' fairness creams forver, before F&H came out. The world likes to look beautiful, and let's not club this as an exclusively 'gay' thing. My straight ex-roomie used some kind of strawberry flavoured cream for his face. I use a scrub at times, when I'm not tooooo lazy. The mantra is to look good.

Gay, or otherwise.

Personally, though, I prefer my own coffee flavour. Peaches and cream sounds like a good ice cream flavour, but not mcuh good for much else.

;-)

Disastrous Date No. XXX

Disastrous Date No. XXX

So, I'm supposed to meet a guy with a first name that makes my first thought go GUJJU! ;-) But, he says he's Punjabi, and I've never been the ethnic cleansing kind of fanatic, and he seems like a really fun guy on chat, so I decide to meet him. We're supposed to see The Grudge together. It's a throwback to the good ole repressed gay days of loving Buffy.

And Xander (aka Nicholas Brendon). ;-)



Date is horrendous, however. Cute boy in picture turns out to be tall and skinny with a long nose and a nasal voice and teeth that look utterly desicrated. I can't believe human beings have teeth like that.. especially since my own pearly whites are... well... it must be said... perfect.

*beams a smile at you*

And the hair. Didn't fringes go out of fashion ages ago? Especially when it's teamed up with a (ROTFWL) mushroom cut?! Welcome to the era of New Kids On The Block and All Sorts Of Strange Creatures.

To make matters worse: he's talkative. And sarcastic. He starts attacking me within five minutes of meeting him. So, I tend to to go silent by then. The tickets have already been bought, and I'm hoping The Grudge is paisa vasool. It turns out to scare the living shit out of me, and I can't help wishing I was sitting next to a six foot two stud with green eyes and beautiful lashes and beautiful teeth, whom I could clutch onto. Then kiss in the darkness, even...

Poof. Dream ends.

O well, Gujju-name-boy was nice, though. He let me listen to songs on his i-pod, in the train. However, when he declared in the ricky, o so ceremoniously, that it was time to review how the date had gone, I could not remain kind. I said, there was a complete lack of chemistry, and it had been nice meeting him. Then, I shook his hand, and patted his knee, and scampered out of the ricky to Subways.

I had a nice big Italian BMT sandwich. Some meat is better than none.

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Terribly rushed for time these days. Came home last night at 11. 30. The previous two nights at 1.30. It's all about setting your priorities straight, they tell me at the station. Sometimes, I feel like murdering them. Particularly gruesomely.

Terribly rushed for time these days. Barely have time for sex these days.

Barely.

;-)

Well, read between the lines. You'll find the grin.

Past midnight

Past midnight

How strange. It's past one am, and I'm sitting here at office. No man around me. No sexual romp planned any time soon. I suppose, it's when I say things like that, that some people think I'm quite the cat's whiskers around town.

Important lesson to learn: A sex life is NOT a social life. Remember that.

O gawd! I hope this isn't going to turn out to be another whiny post! I don't usually like that kind. I usually prefer to avoid that kind. My life isn't that bad, really. It's not rockin', but it's not bad. Except that Architect Ex-cum-Friend skipped the country from Delhi to Bahrain without telling me, and I found out only yesterday and quite by chance. I'm getting to be awfully disconnected from saddi dilli these days! Am I so completely a ghaati now?

Ouch.

I wince, despite my own love affair with Nature Boy. By the way, Nature Boy was ghaati. Not in the derogatory sense of course, just in terms of his ethnicity. So you see, I have absolutely nothing against ghaatis. I might find Gujjus garish, but some of my closest friends are Gujjus and I have absolutely nothing against them either, other than their swollen heads. I'm quite an understanding and patient person.

I shall go to sleep now. Alone, smartypants.

A trunk-ated story

A trunk-ated story

Ganesh Visarjan came and went. I came to Bombay last year in the middle of the 10-day Ganpati extravaganza, and was quite clueless about the goings-on here. One of the people I called up in The Family at that time, told me to make sure not to miss the visarjan at Girgaon Chowpatty, at the head of Marine Drive. It was supposed to be one of those 'cultural' events for the gay populace in Bombay, and if I wanted to meet new people (as indeed I did, at that time, knowing only two gay guys in the city!), I should go over.

I was quite charged up... and then, I heard about the crowds that throng the beachfront. And about the rampant sexual stuff that supposedly goes on there, quite uninhibited, right there under the noses of the cops. There were horror stories about potbellied traffic havaldars forcing gay men to give them blowjobs in the crowd, and I chickened out. I was having none of that, I decided!

I thought about that first episode, the other day, driving past the crowds, on Ganesh Visarjan. Strange to think there could be lustful hordes of gay ghatis around. Oops... did I say ghati back there?

;-)

But Ganpati is now over, here in Mumbai. The fairy lights are dangling over the street, but are quite lifeless, and just the fairies are left behind. The madness is quite, quite over. Mumbai's favourite son has gone off.

Is it funny that on the morning of the visarjan, I slept with a nice young man named Vinayak?

;-)

Project Resuscitation

Project Resuscitation

There was another party last night. For those of you wondering at the frequency between the GB parties, this month happens to be GB's anniversary, ergo you have the extra parties. Ergo, you had the cheap Rs 150-three drinks party last night. For which I had no plans of going, but finally went cuz I actually had a date.

(Five minutes after meeting, while walking to the club, my date and I decided that we weren't each others' types. That makes life oodles simpler, na?)

So, the rest of the night was predictable, but nice. I spotted friends and hugged them, danced with them, and stood in a corner afterwards with my drink. I decided not to dress up for this party, so it was a simple half sleeve shirt, jeans and sneakers - no medallions, no bracelets, no gay stuff at all. I was attempting to be preppy. I hadn't realized, I'm just an old fag inside, these days.



For the first night in ages, I didn't mix my drinks, preferring to stay with my rum and coke, on the rocks. N, my first boyfriend in Bombay, berated me for acting old at the tender age of twenty-four, and then proceeded to dance with some thirty-five year old who kept making solemn fuck-me-now looks at him. I stood alone, till I saw pal A come by, and we danced to (what else?) kajra re. Tere Kaale Kaale naina...!

When I spotted hottie dancing rather suggestively by himself, I decided to try being my old daring-do self, and sauntered over with a come-on line.

CT: Hey there, are you a Leo?

Hottie (crinkling cute nose, and flexing sexy biceps): Nooooooo!

CT (lasvicious leer): Well, you dance like you have something to show off!

End of scene as Hottie turns away, and CT dances by himself for a few seconds to regain his composure at being unceremoniously dumped.

But...!

Then, I bumped into M. M is a very nice and very cute twenty-year old boy, living in South Bombay who seems to have taken a shine on me. Of course, I've slept with him before, but frankly, I hate the idea of having a relationship with a twenty-year old thing. Last night, however, he pulled me close to the dance floor, and made some wonderful comments:

M: So who are you trying to impress tonight? You look really cute!

CT (surprised like hell, in his attempted preppy outfit): Who, me? I just pulled on a shirt. You call this 'cute'?

M (grins wickedly, lovely boy!): Naaaa, you're not cute. You're just fucking HOT tonight!

M (grins some more, while CT becomes more and more bewildered): In fact, you should have worn your glasses, like the other night. You look very cute in them.

CT (totally clueless): Wha-?????

And then, of course, M's friend Nik comes on the scene, looking quite sexy in a black silk shirt, and whispers with a decidedly sultry tone in his voice, Aaa, so you're CT from XXX... I've heard quite a lot about you!

All the rejuvenation an old fag could have needed!

Tis the season to be jolly...!

Tis the season to be jolly...!

Break-ups and make-ups seem to be in the season. These are the days of helter-skelter and hurry-scurry.



Friend A had met young enterprising doctor a month back, and there were flowers blooming from every branch, or so it seemed to A. But a month down the line, he calls me up and complains that they were too 'different' and hence the magic could not - would not - last. A is back to being single, hence, and is looking to jump anything that walks, having a penis between its legs.

Friend B had found his own relationship suddenly skuttled a month or so back. There were 'irreconcillable differences', he said, and he refused to be with a person who could not handle B's obvious emotional heart-on-the-sleeve act. All fine and good, except that a week later, B realized that perhaps he had over reacted, but by then it was much too late. B is turning cartwheels right now, however, because the other day he and the object of his affections went for a movie date, and is praying double time that he gets a brand new start.

And then there's Friend C. C and I were going around for awhile, and then we split up - for reasons far too complicated to explain here, now. We drifted apart, C and I, and then rediscovered our lost chemistry in the form of a purely platonic relationship, best represented by lunches together whenever I was in his part of town during work. Then I learn the other day that C has been seeing a boy I've heard of, for the past three weeks. Hmmm... I smiled, of course, and told him how cool it was. I asked him how things were, between the two of them, and he said they seemed to be on the road to 'serious' stuff. I cringed slightly, but still smiled. It's ridiculous, I'm over him, and yet, I'm jealous. It's quite ridiculous.

It's a cycle, or so it seems. And this is the age when you see the confluence of a lot of other ages happening! Smart, young gay boy decides that it's time to find a sweetheart, and he dates X, they go about for a coupla months, wherein they're in the first flush of (something like) love. Violins and all. And then they have the jitters, they split, and smart young gay boy decides that he needs to do something to forget X forever, and so he decides to screw every kind of eligible man out there for another two or three months. Till finally, he realizes, the strategy really isn't working, and he decides to try dating again... enter Y. And the cycle continues.

Vicious, or divine, is anybody's guess.

Play, Boy

Play, Boy

The party came and went. I had my gulab jamuns, six of them with lots of vanilla ice cream - strictly gastronomically speaking, of course. On the amorous front, I struck a zero, as usual. And then I go back to asking the same question that I do, after every GB party: how come I never get lucky?

There are various theories about this, of course. There's one that goes: since I never go to a party without my friends and since I love to dance, I spend most of my time on the dance floor, strictly with my friends. Even when I go to the bar to get a drink, I don't hang around there like all the other stags, waiting to rub shoulders, legs, or even more, and instead, boogey straight back to the dance floor, glass/ bottle in hand. So, where on earth do I get the chance to lock gazes with Tall, dark and Handsome strangers, anyway?

In consonance with the same theory, there's an accusation that I project a very haughty demeanor on the dance floor. Almost as if I love dancing by myself and my friends, and if you think I care a rat's ass about you asking me for a dance, you can just go and wring out your pantyhose...! Hmmm... must be the eyebrows. I need to get them plucked.

Then, there's Theory Number 2, which I hit upon on Sunday morning. The day after. Why don't I get lucky when I wear the sleeveless number and the tight cord pants? Well, because being a slut simply isn't my type. Being an overt slut isn't my type, I mean. There are simply better and hunkier sluts available in Bombay, and anyone at the party who wants this variety simply mosies over there and feels them up, giving me the ditch.

So, what should I do? Stick to my full sleeve shirts and nice pants, and cradle my drink in my hand? Sigh, I'm not just the cradling sort. Sooner or later, I'm going to get hot and sweaty while dancing like a maniac, and the shirt buttons will get undone. Slutboy reawakens. Let's face it: I never meet interesting people at parties. Definitely not the kind I'd like to date. My best side is the cute guy next door with a great sense of humour. And that's not a side of you that you can easily promote at GB!

What this means is that I'm not going to get lucky at a GB party. Probably, never. (Counting aside the one or two times I have, that is.) I may not exactly be the wallflower, but hell, the wallflower will probably go home with some phone numbers, and I'll just be tired, drunk and quite satisfied at my twinkle toes. No number, though.

But maybe, the whole point of the exercise is to have fun. I have plenty of that.