Three fags and a hag
The agenda for the week is furniture hunting. And that's why a motley crew found its way cruising SV Road, Jogeshwari, looking for cheap pieces of cane and wood. An introduction is in order: I have recently changed my apartment to one much closer to my workplace, and I need the requisite pieces of wood/cane to hold my clothes, books, shoes, toiletries, yadayadayada.
Enter brilliant young gay interior decorator who is a self-professed freelancer at the moment. Brilliant young gay interior decorator is a friend, twice removed/connected, and I called in my contacts with him, so that he was to wait at SNDT College and await the excursion.
Enter designer-in-the-making, whom I'd met in the gay.com chatroom the night before. Lovely young boy, with a hawknose that could either chill you to tears or have you in splits of laughter, depending on where your tastes lie. It was supposed to be a coffee date, but on hearing that I was obsessed with furniture at this time, he resolved to go on a cane/wood date with me. I told him to stand at the ticket counter, and that I would recognize him by his nose. Of course I did - Hawknose boy was sitting perched on the balustrade next to the counter, and I promptly went over and said 'hi'.
Then there was my new flatmate: the fag hag, for whom meeting nice gay boys is quite the new thing, but she's handling it marvelously, I think - especially the part where I have a casual screw in the next room, while her nose is buried in Douglas Adams. She was suitably impressed by both brilliant young gay interior decorator and hawknose designer-in-the-making, and the four of us set off, in our little escapade. Cane/wood furniture is our prey.
Admittedly, I have miles to go as far as acquiring taste is concerned. That was amply demonstrated by both brilliant young gay interior decorator and hawknose designer-in-the-making, who scoffed and sneered at my suggestions. But the evening was fun. Piles of lovely old furniture with a smell and flavour that makes me think of myself as a wood-slut (if ever one existed), and cups of garma-garam chai in the middle of a rainy Bombay evening. The consensus: we never ended with one. But brilliant young gay interior decorator has been persuaded, nevertheless, to help with the decoration of the new apartment - in return for some Bong food when flatmate's mum comes visiting. Hawknose has begged out of the project, on the plea that it was just a first date, after all! (I'm inclined to be kind and let him go.)
The house warming party is set for August 15. Do drop by, if you're in town then!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
A Natural(?) End
A Natural(?) End
I planned on making this another Delhi post. I had all the lines written in my head. I would talk about the different parts of Delhi, the different boys found there, the different tactics to use in order to get them - your average Do-it-yourself guide to saddi gay dilli, if you please.
And then, the break-up happened.
All the old dialogue comes hurtling back at me. The understood and unspoken nuances. The hopes. The idea that, hey, Ross and Rachel did get back together in the end, right? And some such stuff... But it's over, and I'm not really sure why. Nature Boy said, he's not ready. And I'm not really sure why. O yes, I heard the explanations. But I can't understand them: they're like all those other nuances. Was I too forceful in wanting a relationship? I'm not sure. Perhaps. I can say 'perhaps' to a lot of things. Perhaps he was a coward. Perhaps he should have tried to sort things out, rather than thrusting his tail between his legs and running...
Perhaps, it's just the sour grapes talking.
This evening, a friend asked me whether I was in love with Nature Boy. I don't think so. Can a month or thereabouts be enough to fall in love with someone? I don't believe in love at first sight, though lust-at-first-sight is a perfectly plausible phenomenon. I don't think I was in love with Nature Boy - but I think, I could find myself being. And that's the hardest thing of all. To think that another potential is flushed down the toilet... and like every other tortured gay man on the planet, I inevitably look into the mirror and ask that same question: was it me?
And like every other gay man on the planet, I tell myself that it's his loss.
I planned on making this another Delhi post. I had all the lines written in my head. I would talk about the different parts of Delhi, the different boys found there, the different tactics to use in order to get them - your average Do-it-yourself guide to saddi gay dilli, if you please.
And then, the break-up happened.
All the old dialogue comes hurtling back at me. The understood and unspoken nuances. The hopes. The idea that, hey, Ross and Rachel did get back together in the end, right? And some such stuff... But it's over, and I'm not really sure why. Nature Boy said, he's not ready. And I'm not really sure why. O yes, I heard the explanations. But I can't understand them: they're like all those other nuances. Was I too forceful in wanting a relationship? I'm not sure. Perhaps. I can say 'perhaps' to a lot of things. Perhaps he was a coward. Perhaps he should have tried to sort things out, rather than thrusting his tail between his legs and running...
Perhaps, it's just the sour grapes talking.
This evening, a friend asked me whether I was in love with Nature Boy. I don't think so. Can a month or thereabouts be enough to fall in love with someone? I don't believe in love at first sight, though lust-at-first-sight is a perfectly plausible phenomenon. I don't think I was in love with Nature Boy - but I think, I could find myself being. And that's the hardest thing of all. To think that another potential is flushed down the toilet... and like every other tortured gay man on the planet, I inevitably look into the mirror and ask that same question: was it me?
And like every other gay man on the planet, I tell myself that it's his loss.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Saddi Gay Dilli
Saddi Gay Dilli
I'm in Delhi right now, and everybody seems to think I'm having a rollicking good time bedding all sorts of cute and hunky Punju dhikchiks. Well, I refuse to divulge whether or not I indeed am, but what's important to note here is the sheer readiness with which it is assumed that a gay guy has more fun in Delhi than anywhere else...
Sigh... in spite of my self proclaimed and widely acknowledged Delhimania, I have to differ on this point. This is definitely where amchi Mumbai scores over saddi Dilli!
Why? Well, there are a number of reasons.
(1) There's only Pegs and Pints and a very shoddy Wokorama in Dilli, where you can go for those weekly parties. As opposed to the Mumbai gay nightlife, which straddles places like Zouk, Velocity, Chat Masala, and Karma, while old-timers like Zinc, Razzberry Rhinoceros and Copa Cabana still serve as beacons of a glorious past of bonking and hooking.
(2) You get more value for money in Mumbai - four drinks for Rs 400, as opposed to a measly two for Rs 300 in Dilli.
(3) The locations in Mumbai are much more easily approachable than the two in Delhi. (distance wise)
(4) You get a lot more variety in Mumbai, rather than the usual Punjabi, Jat, Bengali or South Indian fare in Dilli. Mumbai offers all these four, plus: Marathi, Coorgi, Kannnadiga, Goan, Kashmiri, Gujarati, apart from the regular foreigners at the consulates, and the ubiqititous Bombayites, who form a breed of their own! ;-)
(I'm pretty sure I'm missing many more Mumbai breeds, so feel free to add more if you can think of any!)
(5) Most important: Mumbai is subtler when it wants even a casual hook-up. The approach is: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? how about a coffee some time? i'll call you then, take care, till next we meet."
In Dilli, you have: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? ok then, let's fuck now at my place, you'll be able to leave for your home immediatelly after, i hope?"
Concise, yes... but not very profound.
A point of similarity I have to concede, though, is this: both cities have their share of Muscle Marys, Dirty Harrys and Old Unclejis, who purr at you: "hello, dear", as if they expect you to start performing fellatio with great enthusiasm in the very next instant.
Surprisingly, they actually find some takers. sigh.
I'm in Delhi right now, and everybody seems to think I'm having a rollicking good time bedding all sorts of cute and hunky Punju dhikchiks. Well, I refuse to divulge whether or not I indeed am, but what's important to note here is the sheer readiness with which it is assumed that a gay guy has more fun in Delhi than anywhere else...
Sigh... in spite of my self proclaimed and widely acknowledged Delhimania, I have to differ on this point. This is definitely where amchi Mumbai scores over saddi Dilli!
Why? Well, there are a number of reasons.
(1) There's only Pegs and Pints and a very shoddy Wokorama in Dilli, where you can go for those weekly parties. As opposed to the Mumbai gay nightlife, which straddles places like Zouk, Velocity, Chat Masala, and Karma, while old-timers like Zinc, Razzberry Rhinoceros and Copa Cabana still serve as beacons of a glorious past of bonking and hooking.
(2) You get more value for money in Mumbai - four drinks for Rs 400, as opposed to a measly two for Rs 300 in Dilli.
(3) The locations in Mumbai are much more easily approachable than the two in Delhi. (distance wise)
(4) You get a lot more variety in Mumbai, rather than the usual Punjabi, Jat, Bengali or South Indian fare in Dilli. Mumbai offers all these four, plus: Marathi, Coorgi, Kannnadiga, Goan, Kashmiri, Gujarati, apart from the regular foreigners at the consulates, and the ubiqititous Bombayites, who form a breed of their own! ;-)
(I'm pretty sure I'm missing many more Mumbai breeds, so feel free to add more if you can think of any!)
(5) Most important: Mumbai is subtler when it wants even a casual hook-up. The approach is: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? how about a coffee some time? i'll call you then, take care, till next we meet."
In Dilli, you have: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? ok then, let's fuck now at my place, you'll be able to leave for your home immediatelly after, i hope?"
Concise, yes... but not very profound.
A point of similarity I have to concede, though, is this: both cities have their share of Muscle Marys, Dirty Harrys and Old Unclejis, who purr at you: "hello, dear", as if they expect you to start performing fellatio with great enthusiasm in the very next instant.
Surprisingly, they actually find some takers. sigh.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
"It's called Exercise"
"It's called Exercise"
Last night, after the customary fortnightly GB party, the four of us sat splayed in a suburban living room, downing orange juice spiked liberally with vodka, and discussed a phenomenon called The Walk of Shame.
Practically every gay man alive has done the Walk, and the others are just big fat liars. So, what's the Walk all about? What's so absorbing and hateful about it, yet so tantalising and crucial, that no man can ever truly want to dissolve his ties with it? It has to do with the unmistakeable thrill of that other phenomenon called a Hook Up.
So, it's The Morning After. Party's over and done with. Hurried and garbled sex in the middle of the night is over and done with. Morning comes, rise and shine, - so yawn, and squint your eyes, and reach out to give your Hook Up a quick hug. But, of course, it is nothing more than a mere lustful coupling, a hook up, so that little hug cannot exceed a few seconds, and within five minutes, you're out of the door.
This is where all the defining characteristics of the Walk come into sharp focus:
1. There hasn't been time to brush your teeth or (probably) wash your face at the Hook Up's place, so you are walking in a decidedly sour mood, with a decidedly rancid feel in your mouth.
2. Inexplicably, there's always blinding sunlight whenever a Walk is on the cards, and since you have't bathed or anything since last night's frenetic coupling, you're feeling quite sticky and dirty.
3. Remember the wardrobe: last night, you were dressed in something suitably camp and glitzy, with perhaps shining and tight material. This morning, you realise, as you walk down the road to fetch the auto, that people are giving you the filthiest of looks. Not only are you stinking and sticky, you're also dressed like a cheap Gigolo Joe.
4. The voice is usually broken as well, from a night of partying and begging the DJ to play your favourite songs - so you've been singing on the dance floor and you've been moaning in bed after that - so that, by the time you're supposed to instruct the auto rickshaw guy where to take you in the morning, your voice makes a mouse squeak look like a baritone.
Does anyone remember that song called The Walk of Life now?
Last night, after the customary fortnightly GB party, the four of us sat splayed in a suburban living room, downing orange juice spiked liberally with vodka, and discussed a phenomenon called The Walk of Shame.
Practically every gay man alive has done the Walk, and the others are just big fat liars. So, what's the Walk all about? What's so absorbing and hateful about it, yet so tantalising and crucial, that no man can ever truly want to dissolve his ties with it? It has to do with the unmistakeable thrill of that other phenomenon called a Hook Up.
So, it's The Morning After. Party's over and done with. Hurried and garbled sex in the middle of the night is over and done with. Morning comes, rise and shine, - so yawn, and squint your eyes, and reach out to give your Hook Up a quick hug. But, of course, it is nothing more than a mere lustful coupling, a hook up, so that little hug cannot exceed a few seconds, and within five minutes, you're out of the door.
This is where all the defining characteristics of the Walk come into sharp focus:
1. There hasn't been time to brush your teeth or (probably) wash your face at the Hook Up's place, so you are walking in a decidedly sour mood, with a decidedly rancid feel in your mouth.
2. Inexplicably, there's always blinding sunlight whenever a Walk is on the cards, and since you have't bathed or anything since last night's frenetic coupling, you're feeling quite sticky and dirty.
3. Remember the wardrobe: last night, you were dressed in something suitably camp and glitzy, with perhaps shining and tight material. This morning, you realise, as you walk down the road to fetch the auto, that people are giving you the filthiest of looks. Not only are you stinking and sticky, you're also dressed like a cheap Gigolo Joe.
4. The voice is usually broken as well, from a night of partying and begging the DJ to play your favourite songs - so you've been singing on the dance floor and you've been moaning in bed after that - so that, by the time you're supposed to instruct the auto rickshaw guy where to take you in the morning, your voice makes a mouse squeak look like a baritone.
Does anyone remember that song called The Walk of Life now?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
He feels... natural
He feels... natural
So, Nature Boy and I are on a break. It still feels strange to say so; to think so. This is the first time I'm talking about the break here, on this space, though it's been on for almost a week now. When we decided on the break, I asked him not to come by this space - as this was mine. My own very little backyard to vent. The other day, he asks me when he can come back: he says, he's used to the idea of watching me talk here, he's used to reading my sms' and hearing my voice on the phone, too.
What can I say to that?
I'm used to him, too.
So I told him, he can come back. I don't know whether he has, already. I don't know whether he's still staying away. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, and I told him that. I've already told him how I feel about him, and what I feel about us - and I doubt that I shall express anything extra in this space, that I already have not told him, face to face. What matters is this: the realisation that I am used to him, as well.
I wish it works out for us, at the end. Is this a Ross-Rachel break? I don't know. (Didn't those two end up, in the end, again?!) This is going to be difficult for me, because I was falling... into something that I thought could last. But if it doesn't... well, if it doesn't, I will move on. I know that. I'm strong that way. I may be cold that way. Does strength feel cold? I'm not very sure. But I'll get through it, either way.
Perhaps it's because I want him in my life. Perhaps, it's because, regardless of whether or not he can understand me and reconnect with me, I am used to him. I am used to his silly ways and his silly words. I am used to knowing that he is there for me, when I need him. I like him. I would like to fall in love with him, but if that doesn't work out - I would still like to keep him in my life. Hence the degree of coldness that I deem necessary.
Hence the need to avoid listening to Nat King Cole for some time.
;-)
So, Nature Boy and I are on a break. It still feels strange to say so; to think so. This is the first time I'm talking about the break here, on this space, though it's been on for almost a week now. When we decided on the break, I asked him not to come by this space - as this was mine. My own very little backyard to vent. The other day, he asks me when he can come back: he says, he's used to the idea of watching me talk here, he's used to reading my sms' and hearing my voice on the phone, too.
What can I say to that?
I'm used to him, too.
So I told him, he can come back. I don't know whether he has, already. I don't know whether he's still staying away. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, and I told him that. I've already told him how I feel about him, and what I feel about us - and I doubt that I shall express anything extra in this space, that I already have not told him, face to face. What matters is this: the realisation that I am used to him, as well.
I wish it works out for us, at the end. Is this a Ross-Rachel break? I don't know. (Didn't those two end up, in the end, again?!) This is going to be difficult for me, because I was falling... into something that I thought could last. But if it doesn't... well, if it doesn't, I will move on. I know that. I'm strong that way. I may be cold that way. Does strength feel cold? I'm not very sure. But I'll get through it, either way.
Perhaps it's because I want him in my life. Perhaps, it's because, regardless of whether or not he can understand me and reconnect with me, I am used to him. I am used to his silly ways and his silly words. I am used to knowing that he is there for me, when I need him. I like him. I would like to fall in love with him, but if that doesn't work out - I would still like to keep him in my life. Hence the degree of coldness that I deem necessary.
Hence the need to avoid listening to Nat King Cole for some time.
;-)
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Playing PING pong
Playing PING pong
Meeting some one new is like making a financial investment. There's the same amount of initial lift, the same amount of trepidation, the same amount of uncertainty when you're considering the various options, the same amount of "will I, or won't I?" that plagues you while your finger hovers around the choice, and the same amount of happy surprise (mingled with still-niggling second and third and fourth thoughts) when you realise that you probably chose to chat up the right person.
Welcome to the gay chat room, and yes, I'm a capitalist pig. Whatever gave me away, I wonder.
;-)
I've been a chatroom afficiando for a long time now. I don't subscribe to that by-now-famous picture of gay men circling and circling each other in deserted parks, till they finally lock eyes with the hot-bod of the night and take him home for a screw. Ever since I discovered the internet, and such things called chat rooms, my opening lines have been "asl?", and the intended (if he likes me) gives me his age, sex and location. True, the 'sex?' part is a bit inconsequential in a gay chat room, but that's just part of the baggage we gay men have to live with, in order to survive in a heterosexual world. I'm not complaining. That much.
But, despite the better quality men and the less hassle involved in finding a match via cyberland rather than circle-circle-park-situation, the trepidation/ nervousness/ intricacies never lose their shape. They're all there. Perhaps, reinforced, because in this situation, you're meeting a person online, so you really have no idea how he will behave, whether he walks funny, whether he talks funny and a host of other IMPORTANT items, till that coffee date or that sex hook-up actually turns up. And that's where you decide and say: "Yes, please, sir, two lumps of sugar for me" or "Ewww! Too bitter!"
Which probably makes the internet chat all the more important as a First Date (Of Sorts).
Next issue: What actually happens in an internet gay chat date? Don't miss it!
Meeting some one new is like making a financial investment. There's the same amount of initial lift, the same amount of trepidation, the same amount of uncertainty when you're considering the various options, the same amount of "will I, or won't I?" that plagues you while your finger hovers around the choice, and the same amount of happy surprise (mingled with still-niggling second and third and fourth thoughts) when you realise that you probably chose to chat up the right person.
Welcome to the gay chat room, and yes, I'm a capitalist pig. Whatever gave me away, I wonder.
;-)
I've been a chatroom afficiando for a long time now. I don't subscribe to that by-now-famous picture of gay men circling and circling each other in deserted parks, till they finally lock eyes with the hot-bod of the night and take him home for a screw. Ever since I discovered the internet, and such things called chat rooms, my opening lines have been "asl?", and the intended (if he likes me) gives me his age, sex and location. True, the 'sex?' part is a bit inconsequential in a gay chat room, but that's just part of the baggage we gay men have to live with, in order to survive in a heterosexual world. I'm not complaining. That much.
But, despite the better quality men and the less hassle involved in finding a match via cyberland rather than circle-circle-park-situation, the trepidation/ nervousness/ intricacies never lose their shape. They're all there. Perhaps, reinforced, because in this situation, you're meeting a person online, so you really have no idea how he will behave, whether he walks funny, whether he talks funny and a host of other IMPORTANT items, till that coffee date or that sex hook-up actually turns up. And that's where you decide and say: "Yes, please, sir, two lumps of sugar for me" or "Ewww! Too bitter!"
Which probably makes the internet chat all the more important as a First Date (Of Sorts).
Next issue: What actually happens in an internet gay chat date? Don't miss it!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Venting Ire
Venting Ire
I'm bored. Nature Boy has been elusive for quite some time. Work does that to you. So, yes, I'm venting here. I'm venting like the typical love-sick moony ass you read about in Shakespeare and the Dancing Dimwits. I'm venting. I'm sighing. I would love to be doing a whole lot of other stuff. But I'm not. I'm going to have biryani at Noorani's in a short while with some friends, but I would rather be sitting on Marine Drive locking fingers with Nature Boy.
Damn. Never thought I'd be in this situation. Scary to think he should ever come in here and see this post and get the jitters because I'm going gaga over him. But I'm going to risk that. Because I'm me. Wow. And, I'm bored. And I'm moony.
Excellent flow of logic. Would flunk the simplest flow chart examination.
I want the royal treatment. I want the seat by Marine Drive. I want the wind through my hair. I want the twinkling lights in the distance. I want the music magically drifting in from somewhere, singing words that mean the universe. I want the lingering kiss. I want the subtle wink, shy and embarassed at what we're feeling. I want the idea that so many things are, at the end, possible.
I want to sound flippant about it all, and seeing that I'm not managing that at all, I want to control myself.
I'm bored. Nature Boy has been elusive for quite some time. Work does that to you. So, yes, I'm venting here. I'm venting like the typical love-sick moony ass you read about in Shakespeare and the Dancing Dimwits. I'm venting. I'm sighing. I would love to be doing a whole lot of other stuff. But I'm not. I'm going to have biryani at Noorani's in a short while with some friends, but I would rather be sitting on Marine Drive locking fingers with Nature Boy.
Damn. Never thought I'd be in this situation. Scary to think he should ever come in here and see this post and get the jitters because I'm going gaga over him. But I'm going to risk that. Because I'm me. Wow. And, I'm bored. And I'm moony.
Excellent flow of logic. Would flunk the simplest flow chart examination.
I want the royal treatment. I want the seat by Marine Drive. I want the wind through my hair. I want the twinkling lights in the distance. I want the music magically drifting in from somewhere, singing words that mean the universe. I want the lingering kiss. I want the subtle wink, shy and embarassed at what we're feeling. I want the idea that so many things are, at the end, possible.
I want to sound flippant about it all, and seeing that I'm not managing that at all, I want to control myself.
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