Bedtime story for the day: Townie and the Rains

Bedtime story for the day: Townie and the Rains

The city's still stuck, 48 hours after what the newspapers call Bombay's worst ever deluge in a single day. That means, sluts like me are left wishing for the existance of creatures called Mermen.



:-)

Strange fantasy. Straight captain (regular men-o-wars!) kept on hoping for gorgeous women with big boobs and long hair and collagen lips and fish tails. I wonder if their wenches on board (women-o-war?) ever harboured similar fantasies about hot hunks who'd look great in Speedos, but who can't wear them cuz their fish tales don't fit through... But then, those are the times when gay practicality sinks through, and you realize that you probably wouldn't want a gorgeous merman, however much he resembles Eric Bana, since the fishy appendage thing would rule out the existance of another... um... appendage.

Huh!

In reality terms, what happened is this: North Bombay was (and is) completely cut off from South Bombay, and that means there was (and is) no way for a cute suburban boy to come down south of Dadar. Damn! Especially since, Bandra Boys are considered quite a tasty treat. Of course, that also ruled out a cute twenty-something from Napean Sea Road to travel all the way up to Juhu, but hell, Townies don't like to travel anyhow, so that really didn't affect anyone's sex drive much. Townies like suburbites to come/cum to them - and rarely the other way around.

So, what we had, therefore, was a case of Townie discovering his gay neighbour - "O, you're gay too! I never would have guessed! Now, I can explain away your leopard print pants - I thought it was just due to the fact that you're Punjabi!" And that resulted in a host of gay Townie boys hitting a whole lot of straight Townie bars and discs across South Bombay and Colaba. Legs splayed or crossed, ears pricked, drinks clinked, cigars puffed, and hands probing below tables Gay life comes to town.

Whatever GB could not manage, despite the rocking parties, Mother Rain did.

I spy with my li'l eye...

I spy with my li'l eye...

Let's get back to the gay lexicon, and one particularly brilliant word. To all the uninitiated yearlings, gaydar is a clver enough combination of two words gay + radar = gaydar. Talk about homo ingenuity. It's a term meant to signify how good (or bad) your sixth sense is, regarding any odd man on the street being gay or straight. There are some members of the Family who are keen bloodhounds, with a nose and gaydar so strong that they can sniff the gay soul through the straightest and drabbest of grey clothes. And then, of course, there's me.

:-)

Me of the flabbergasted expressions and woeful sighs, who can never decide or decipher a man's gaze. Of course, I could excuse myself by saying that it's all the more harder these days because straight men tend to act and dress very gay these days - but that argument pales fast, against the track record of the greatest gay bloodhounds of Bombay. In my case, I bumble about, and if I actually ever bump into someone on the street who is gay, it's a blue moon in China.

So, there was Martini the other day, who was reading a book on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire in a neat little bookshop in Kemps Corner. At which time, a certain tall and strapping young man saunters over and casually asks him whether he might pass him a magazine. Martini and Strapping Young Man start chatting, and laughing, and of course, because both their gaydars are attuned to a high pitch, they walk out of the bookshop with each other's numbers in their cell phones and a dinner date the forthcoming Friday. I've been to that bloody shop umpteen times, and never has any Strapping/Unstrapping Young/Old man ever come sauntering up to me, though.

Then, there's this department shop in Bandra, six stories of retail therapy, which is supposed to be frequented by Family members. Whenever I visit the place, I try my utmost to look ultra chic and casual, taking my time in the trousers and casual shirts sections, lingering over the innerwear floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of, or perhaps interlock fingers with, a faceless young man with oodles of charisma. Never happens. But I always hear tales later of how so-and-so bumped into such-and-such on the damn third floor, while I was busy canoodling on the fourth.

Anyone know of a cheap place which overhauls antennae?

Money for nothing, and [BEEP] for free...

Money for nothing, and [BEEP] for free...

This is funny, so pay attention now, children. There is a certain young (well, not so young any more) man on the net with a gaydar id and pictures that would shock the mildest mannered and titillate the craziest guy out there. Let's call him Savage. So, I meet Savage on the net and am titillated (quite naturally!) and ask to meet up sometime. He says, he'll call me.

The other day, I get a message.

(Yes, this one is in dialogue form again. All spellings below are as typed out originally.)

Savage: Hi, I'll come over to your place. I also do aromatherapy, by the way, for which I charge.

CT: Ummm.. okies. I don't want the aromatherapy, thanks. Just the sex will do. :-)

Savage: Tell me when you need both.

CT (slightly outraged): Sorry dude, I don't pay for sex. If you wanna have a great time, then that's cool - if you want money for it, then I'm sorry.

Savage: The charge is for the aromatherapy, not for the sex.

CT: I don't want the aromatherapy. I only want the sex. Does that mean you'll only come over if I want both?

Savage: Tell me when you want both.

CT (amused now): So how much is the charge?

Savage: Rs 1000 for the aromatherapy.

CT (wicked smile on face, delicious game in mind): I'm sorry, I can only spare Rs 200.

(after a gap of five minutes) Savage: Ok, for you, I'll charge Rs 400.

CT (wicked smile widening): Sorry, I can't do that. Rs 200 is the max I can spare.

(after two minutes) Savage: OK, then, Rs 300 it is.

CT (giggling maliciously now): Hey dude, I think uve got me confused with some of the rich guys out there who pay for sex. a) I don't do that. b) I don't have the cash for that. So, sorry for everything and bbye.

Savage: Not a question of being rich. Don't think me as prostitit. I need money for my computer course.

CT (rolling on floor in hysteria now): I'm sorry for you. But, I can't do better than that. Rs 200.

(after five minutes) Savage: OK, for you Rs 200. Cuz I like you.

***

Yes, yes, yes, yes - I'm evil. But it's just sooooo much fun!

On Your marks, Get Set,... Go!

On Your marks, Get Set,... Go!

Apologies are due, first and foremost. Applemartini had mailed me the other day, complaining that my attitude towards speed-dating and those who take part in it seemed condescending and hypocritical. While I responded with several protests and disclaimers, it is also true that I still continued to regard speed dating as one of those strange phenomena that one indulges in, when one hits a mid/quarter life crisis.

That's where the apologies are due. To all of the people who have ever participated in it, and all those who plan to. Speed dating is fun. Exhausting, yes - but, undeniably, fun.

;-)

Welcome to this quaint little lounge bar in Andheri, where fifty-odd gay men are gathered. There's music playing in the air, and most of the guys are hanging around in their groups, yakking and eyeing other gay men in other groups. Enter CloseTalk and Kunal, who take their glasses of sherbet and stand at one corner, keeping to themselves. CT spies Cute Marwari With Goatee and they hug; then there's Dilli Bong. Ex-Ex Boyfriend is also there, and CT does the hugging and apologizes for missing XX's birthday, earlier this month. And, there's also Bangalore Doctor, whom CT had forgotten to call back on an earlier occassion. Outrageous flirting follows, in the downright wicked style that only Blore Doc is capable of, and CT promises to call back next time, when they meet for a rollicking hook up session. Air kissing is done. It's time to meet the 'acquaintances' now, and finally, CT summons up the courage to go over to the counter and register his name for the speed-dating exercise.

Gujju Man: "O, CT, how are you doing?"

CT: "Hey, Gujju Man, how's life? I haven't seen you around for ages! How's your Gujju Marriage Bureau for Gay Gujju Boys going?"

Gujju Man: "Just perfect! We have a wedding set up ahead for the [CT's birthday]."

CT: "Really? That's my birthday, you know!"

Gujju Man: "OMG! That's amazing!"

CT: "So, erm, erm.... I was wondering... how does this speed dating thingy work, Gujju Man?"

CT : "I mean - I was wondering about it and all, and you know that I can get plenty of guys anyhow, but I was still wondering, and Cute Marwari With Goatee was telling me about this thing and telling me to come, and though I find the whole idea very stupid - because there's no way I need to do something silly like speed dating! - I was curious - plus, I also wanted to help GB, and wondered whether there was anything to do, so I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could come by, I'm not serious about it of course or anything, it's all for fun and games, and so I thought I'd do it, but then it's silly, but then, do you have a form or something?"

So, I was embarassed. But then, you wouldn't have thought that, to listen to me talk to the boys/men/old men arranged before me. I was eloquency personified. One of the sexaholics touched his crotch when I sunnily asked him "What's up?", but then I rolled my eyes up at his gesture, and he got the point after that. By and large, it was decent, the guys were ok-types, and I was quite glad to see, when the results were declared, that seven of them had 'hit' on me, that is, wanted to know my phone number. Of them, there was one that I had wanted to get to know better as well, so according to the rules of the game, the two of us got each other's numbers. Cute smile, strong grip while shaking hands, nice voice, and wisps of chest hair curling at his throat.

*Slurp*

Fast and furious!

Fast and furious!

This is an entry that depends on the feedback I get from my discerning readers/voyeurs, and it will influence a decision that I may/ may not make. I've been asked to do something, by a friend, that I've always thought of as very silly, quite desperate, and very deserving of the LOSAH tag on a forehead.

But now... I'm actually considering it.

There are reasons for this:

1) My friend will also be doing it.

2) My friend says, don't go with any expectations - just do it for the fun and the experience!

3) My friend says, I'll meet a lot of nice (hopefully) people, who may simply be there for the experience - like me - and they'll be at their most natural self, in the morning.

4) There's a supposedly fabulous lunch buffet at Rs 250 per head.

And now, we come to what the decision is:

On Sunday, GB is organising a Speed-date thingy, the third such event it has had in Bombay. What happens is this: twenty guys face each other, and have three minutes with each other to ask questions etc... at the end of the full time, if any of them have expressed mutual interest, GB gives their numbers to each other. Simple. Precise.

And then, there are the cons:

a) It sounds soooooo desparate. Heaven forbid should any of Nature Boy's friends see it!

b) Are all the guys going to come up and ask, "have place? have sex?" Yuck!

And I have to wonder: why the fuck am I doing this? For a fling, I tell myself. And for fun. So far, I'm actually 75% in favour of it... mainly due to the fact that I'll have another bakra friend in the ring.

So, now... the circus ring is open: tell me your suggestions. Help CT win the game.

Fling me a lifeline

Fling me a lifeline

I need a fling. A mindless fling to get over someone, once and for all. A time-pass thing. Something to be happy about, for a couple of weeks, and then to discard in the basket labeled Happy Memories. One night stands are okay, but they're not good enough. I need a no-strings-attached, no-nonsense fling, that leaves neither of us in doubt as to what we have here.

I'm in the hate-you phase. Not hate. Not hate. Hate is too strong a word. But the phase where any sight of him gets me thinking about us, and gets me seething at him. I think he was a coward. I'm angry, yes. Not hate. Just pissed off. I'm sorry, I can't be a friend. I thought I could. I promised him I could. But I can't. It's still too hard, and sometimes I wonder why. It was only a month or so: why on earth should I feel like this? Someone told me, it was because of the potential - because I felt the potential there. If we prolonged it, and then it didn't work out, I would have beeen okay - I wouldn't have thought so badly off him. What gets me is his refusal to try. And now, I can't be his friend. Not now. Someone told me, I have to hate him first, in order to be his friend. I'm not sure about that. I can't be in contact with him now. I can't see him. I can't hear him. If I do, I despise both of us.

So, I need a fling.

This wasn't the way this post was supposed to turn out. This post was supposed to be something light and breezy about me needing a casual fling with a casual guy... I wasn't supposed to talk about Nature Boy. I suppose I could delete this, but I won't. He may see this, but no, I won't. This is my space. It always has been. I invited him here, and even when things started unravelling, I told him that I may vent, that he should understand it. I think he does. And that's what makes things more irritating - the fact that he's a nice guy and I (kinda) like him. 'Kinda', because I'm in that phase now.

Dus (actually, four) bahaane for AB Baby

Dus (actually, four) bahaane for AB Baby

So it's official: Akshay Kumar has been rather unceremoniously dumped from the Gay Bollywood Icon's pedestal, in favour of the One and Only, the Junior with the Killer Smile, the Baby from AB,... (drumrolls)... Abhishek Bacchan.

About time, too!

I, for one, could never understand the strange fascination India's gay populace had for Akki, especially, since there were guys in the ring with both better attitude (SRK) and better beefcake (Hrithik). They said, surmised and conjectured, that it was all about the Great Bear Theory - so, it should have been inevitable that the 'charm' would begin to fade, as soon as Akki decided to get 'trendy' and wax off his chest hair. (Personally, though, I actually prefer the new look! hehehe ) And, just when it seemed that the new contenders for the slot would be the Old Actors' Brigade (probably one of the Khans), in came romping AB Baby with his dus bahaane!

And the world was never the same again.

Suddenly, women across the country were swooning over him, and trade pundits were predicting a meteoric rise in blockbuster terms. So, why on earth should any of this mean AB's climb to the top of the Gay Charts - given the stringent Family Standards? Well, let me attempt to give you a basic look-see:

1. Amazing Body. Ummm... That glimpse of toned tummy in the Nach le song of Bunty-Bubbly had me panting for more!

2. Amazing Smile. 400 watts. The nearest competitition I've ever had! ;-)

3. Amazing Moves. The man dances like the devil. A very, very, very sexy devil.

4. Amazing Eyes. Well, yes, this one is the classic lie that men have been fooling women with over the centuries ("Your eyes are like the deepest pools I could drown in...", followed by Gone with Wind score!), but I actually go for them. AB has the most intense pair, like smouldering cigarette butts. Ouch.

Yesterday, (or the day before, I'm not sure), a TOI suppliment carried a piece on AB's rising star. Among other reasons, it mentions his daddy's name, but honestly, that doesn't mean a thing to me - the Big B is quite ancient, and any mention of a Big B in conjunction with AB Baby makes me think of totally different things!

*cat-who-licked-the-cream's smile*

Akki who?

Jean-luc Gay

Jean-luc Gay

Men, in general, have a thing for jeans. Gay men take that a step further. Recently, at Mondy's, while the girls were drooling over a hunk in tight black tees and jeans, a certain pragmatic but brilliant young gay interior decorator/designer sitting next to me, observed with a nonchalant face, "O, he's got to be gay. Have you ever seen any self-respecting straight guy wear jeans that low?"

The point was valid, and the girls stopped drooling, ordering another pitcher of beer instead.

I know of another extreme case: I met this one particular specimen (a hook-up, naturally!) who's quite a great guy otherwise, working in an ad agency, but he just prefers to wear womens' jeans. When I inquired why, he replied, just as pragmatically as the decorator/ designer, "It just enhances my bulge."

Perfectly natural. (Why do you think they call us queer, anyway?)

I used to think this was absurd, though, till I told this tale to a close friend of mine, while visiting Delhi. This friend, who happens to be a talented architect and also moonlights as a fiesty salsa dancer, shrugged and says, "O, well, that happens a lot here in Delhi. Some people just aren't as equipped as we are, babes." Okay, so I made that last line up, but that just goes to show that saddi dilli is miles ahead!

Carrying on the jeans tale, I seem to have a penchant for going out jeans shopping with gay men. There have been so far, three occasions, the last being only Monday, when I was asked to do so. One has been a hook-up, one a fuck-buddy, and the last was Natureboy, who thought it would be good to meet up. In all three occasions, I followed the boys around, while they hemmed and hawed over styles, colours, textures and fits, and tried on 5-6 pairs each.

And of course, I peeked. I mean: how could you possibly expect me not to? It's ridiculous, especially for a hotblooded young man like me, who has no need to wear womens' jeans to show off his bulge(!!!). Changing rooms have the most convenient mirrors, if you're the peeping tom kind, and that's exactly what I did, catching a glimpse of sometimes a back, or a hairy chest, or a pair of strong legs, or a brief-encased butt, or even the telltale bulge!

I'm a jean-ie in a bottle: so come, come, let me be free! ;-)

Live free?

Live free?

Living in the big bad city has its problems. Especially if you're one of the rainbow crowd. What's the ideal? I'm still not sure. So let me jot down a couple of experiences and a couple of complaints.

Case 1: Boy lives with family. Horrible situation (a) if you have a boyfriend, and (b) worse, if you're single and ready to mingle. That means you have all the drive, but no space in the car whatsoever. Tonnes of Bombay boys are waiting in the wings to move out of daddy's pad.

Variation of Case 1: Boy lives with extended family. So, while there's no momma and poppa in close proximity to dictate timings and people brought home, there's still someone who may leak back word, and there's still no hope of walking around the flat in your birthday suit. You call that freedom?

Case 2: Boy lives with straight room-mate. That essentially means a curb on things. The motto is: I must act butch at all times. I must drink beer at all times. I must make sure hook-ups are gone by the time roomie gets back home. I must make sure to have sex twice in a blue moon. (Just once is simply inhuman!)

Variation of Case 2: Boy lives in hostel. This is simply a stricter form of Case 2. There's a warden here as well, who, if gay fantasies are to be believed, is probably waiting to bed you as well! Scary thought.

Case 3: The Will and Grace scenario. Excellent, if TV is to be believed. But it gets awkward. Apart from the normal fact that gay guys get more sex than their straight female flatmates do (which may also lead to a fair share of jealousy!), there is the added complication that two sets of closeted parents are probably not at ease with the relationship, which is sometimes hidden from them. So, when Grace's parents come visiting from Jhumritalayya, Will may have to spend a week at an odd friend's house. Ghastly. There's also the strangeness in bonking, while knowing that Grace is probably chewing gum staring at the door, in the room next door.

Variation of Case 3: Some count this worse. Grace is now Gabriel, but Gabriel, the straight guy flatmate, knows Will is gay. That seems great for friendship and all that jazz, and perhaps is, with no sudden moving out required when Gabriel's parents come visiting, - but having sex with Gabriel in the next room is definitely weird. Plus, there's the worse scenario if Gabriel happens to be a real cutie, which means that Will may have a teeny-weeny (read: HUGE) crush on his flatmate. Soap opera begins.

Case 4: Will is living in with Jack. Two drama queens in place of one? That sounds like a recipe for madness, and it usually is. It helps, if Will and Jack have totally different tastes in men, but are completely in agreement about everything else, like crockery, curtains and condom types. It may get very strange for Will to introduce Jack to his conservative parents, though, if Jack is the flouncy type. Also, a formula for havoc, if Will and Jack fall in love together.

So, I've done my homework. So, I've overshot my target from "a couple of experiences" to four cases with three subcases. So, there's also the additional case of living in with your boyfriend. But, admittedly, I have to do more research on that front, before getting back to you.

Cinequeens

Cinequeens

There's a movie festival organised by GB on Sunday, and I plan to go for this one. I've only been to one other festival like this in Bombay, and from what I've seen, it promises to be good. The reason why I've only been to one other movie do, though I profess to have been impressed by it? Well, blame it on my completely helter-skelter Page 3 life-ishtyle.

(I'm trying to crack a joke here, but my sense of humour has fallen quite flat. Even I, with my inflated head, didn't find that funny.)

But I was trying to make a point here, and I shall go back to trying now. The point was on the difference in demeanor of the crowd that attends these dos, the same crowd that also parties like crazy at the GB Saturday night extravaganzas. There's a difference: a very palpable difference: it's the idea of divas who suddenly feel they must transform themselves into enigmatic Sophia Lorens in the mornings.

Not that they succeed, entirely. A flashy gay man/ queen will remain a flashy gay man/ queen, come what may: flood, pestilence, disease or even worse: calories. The clothes remain flouncy, by and large, or ache to be kitschy, as my esteemed brilliant young gay interior decorator (sorry, designer!) will tell you. (He has an amazing yellow shirt with roses all over it, which he wears with these little Ramayan style chappals!) But it's in the air.... the air!

The air forbids interference. The air speaks: This is my air, this is the air of the cronies around me, and don't you dare breathe it! As long as you're with a gang of your own, you're safe. It's a very quaint syetem where inter-group hellos and how-do-you-do's are exchanged - something which reminds you of Ascot, complete with (in the most extreme cases) the bizzare hats! But, it's hell if you're alone there. You could probably get away with going to a party alone: hitting back a couple of drinks, and getting a hook-up for the night, - but that does not work at the movie festival. Because, by day, our divas are stony-faced, stiff-lipped, upper class empresses. All of which dissolves quite suddenly, when there's a tender moment in one of the brilliant films onscreen, and there's a collective gasp of ooohs and aaahs, like children watching Beauty finally kiss the Beast.

;-)

Yes, yes, of course I exaggerate: it's my prerogative to do so, dah-ling!