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.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, September 19, 2005
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?
;-)
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?
;-)
Friday, September 16, 2005
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!
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!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
All Razzed Up
All Razzed Up
Glitter and spangles. ;-) The Razz opens tonight, after ages ago, and I'm all charged up. The late night blues of the previous post seem to have been tucked underneath the closet for now, and I'm looking forward to an evening where I can just let my hair down. Actually, that's not possible, since my hair is quite closely cropped up, anyhow.
Whatever.
The Razz!
GB!
Razz + GB = probable fun.
Unless.... (1) the old heart kicks in and I tremble at the sight of ex boyfriends (damn!)
(2) no one takes a second look at mua (double damn!)
(3) the music sucks (ouch!)
(4) the food gets over by the time I finish my twinkle toes routine on the dance floor. (ummm...!)
I need to get myself one of those optimism books. Who ate my cheese? Actually, that question sounds quite gross in the gay format! ;-)
See you at the party tonight! ;-)
Glitter and spangles. ;-) The Razz opens tonight, after ages ago, and I'm all charged up. The late night blues of the previous post seem to have been tucked underneath the closet for now, and I'm looking forward to an evening where I can just let my hair down. Actually, that's not possible, since my hair is quite closely cropped up, anyhow.
Whatever.
The Razz!
GB!
Razz + GB = probable fun.
Unless.... (1) the old heart kicks in and I tremble at the sight of ex boyfriends (damn!)
(2) no one takes a second look at mua (double damn!)
(3) the music sucks (ouch!)
(4) the food gets over by the time I finish my twinkle toes routine on the dance floor. (ummm...!)
I need to get myself one of those optimism books. Who ate my cheese? Actually, that question sounds quite gross in the gay format! ;-)
See you at the party tonight! ;-)
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Screwed
Screwed
It's been a long day, and I don't feel like being witty. I don't feel like being snipey, snarfy, or half a dozen other things that my alter ego gay queen is so good at. I wonder if hyperactive gay boys are ever allowed to feel tired, and yet this one is going through just that phenomenon now. I feel hungry, as well.
So this is a tired post. The one where I look and hope that in ten years' time, my life is infinitely more settled than it is now. I would actually not like to wait the full ten years. Even a couple of them would suffice. I don't need to still be standing at the crossroads, still chatting in the chatrooms, still f*&%ing like a jackrabbit, still exchanging one-night stands, still bemoaning the lack of a love life. It's... tedious. Almost as tedious as being in love.
O, wait. Now, how would I know that?
Let me manage a weak smile now. A tired smile.
The funny part is this: I'm probably going to forget all this tomorrow morning. After I go home, have a bath, order take-out, switch on the music, curl up in bed with a book, and drift away to sleep, I shall wake up the next day late for work, as usual. There will be a whirlwind of activity the next day, which shall see my exercise my attempts at humour, I shall go on a date with a sweet young man in the evening in whom my interest has waned after the first date, and I shall come home slightly tipsy. Time for music and book again. Maybe, scratch the book. Just the music and bed will suffice. And I may tell myself now that I don't want to bring the boring young man back home to bed tomorrow, but something tells me I still probably will.
God, I sound pathetic. And whiny. And gay.
I guess now you understand why the green apple at the left has all those screws. ;-)
It's been a long day, and I don't feel like being witty. I don't feel like being snipey, snarfy, or half a dozen other things that my alter ego gay queen is so good at. I wonder if hyperactive gay boys are ever allowed to feel tired, and yet this one is going through just that phenomenon now. I feel hungry, as well.
So this is a tired post. The one where I look and hope that in ten years' time, my life is infinitely more settled than it is now. I would actually not like to wait the full ten years. Even a couple of them would suffice. I don't need to still be standing at the crossroads, still chatting in the chatrooms, still f*&%ing like a jackrabbit, still exchanging one-night stands, still bemoaning the lack of a love life. It's... tedious. Almost as tedious as being in love.
O, wait. Now, how would I know that?
Let me manage a weak smile now. A tired smile.
The funny part is this: I'm probably going to forget all this tomorrow morning. After I go home, have a bath, order take-out, switch on the music, curl up in bed with a book, and drift away to sleep, I shall wake up the next day late for work, as usual. There will be a whirlwind of activity the next day, which shall see my exercise my attempts at humour, I shall go on a date with a sweet young man in the evening in whom my interest has waned after the first date, and I shall come home slightly tipsy. Time for music and book again. Maybe, scratch the book. Just the music and bed will suffice. And I may tell myself now that I don't want to bring the boring young man back home to bed tomorrow, but something tells me I still probably will.
God, I sound pathetic. And whiny. And gay.
I guess now you understand why the green apple at the left has all those screws. ;-)
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
The first one
The first one
Let me tell you about my first love. Love is too strong a word, actually.
His name was Nikhil, and he was just one of the milky-white twenty-one year old Punjabi men who dot the landscape of Delhi. There's no way you can tell him apart from the other Nikhils. He was unique, though: the Nikhil of my folly. I met him online, in a chatroom that I have now come to despise for its sheer lack of depth, and we hit it off instantly. We were both staying in Central Delhi, and we decided to meet that evening. The Jaypee Hotel, in Rajendar Nagar, was the venue. He was wearing a black tshirt and jeans. I was wearing something similar.
I thought he was cute. We talked. We walked the half-hour walk back to my place. The landlord was in, so we sat outside on the pavement and carried on chatting. We spoke about his life, his college marks, his brother, his boyfriend, my job, my stint in Delhi, what we were both looking out for, crummy jokes, and the like. We talked. And talked. And talked. For six straight hours. We were immensely comfortable with each other. But because the landlord was still in the building, we parted - a quick hug, and a promise to meet soon. He messaged me within five minutes of leaving, how he was already missing me.
The first time I had sex doesn't seem momentous to me. It was just one of those things I'd been planning, and one of those things that felt necessary. The first time I made love to Nikhil was monumental. I had never kissed anyone like that before. Forgive my dramatics. We made love for seven hours. On and on and on. I never wanted to let him go. He was special. He had a boyfriend, and I told myself that Nikhil and I were only about sex, but... he was special.
That facade ended the next time we met. It was another stormy session. We met, we walked, we kissed, we kissed, we kissed, and we made love. And then he told me, he was in love with me. I balked. That's ridiculous! You have a boyfriend! We've only just met! It takes more than that to be in love! he shrugged, told me to take my time, but made it clear that he was in love with me.
I refused to believe it, then. But then, there are things that you... believe in, even when you know you shouldn't. There were phone calls, sms messages, meetings in my room, fantasies shared. I would travel in the Gurgaon bus, looking out at the rain, and wish I could make love to him there. He would call me at random hours, and say that he was missing me. He kept on telling me that he was in love with me. And while we did all these crazy, lovely things, I found myself needing more and more of him. I sent him poetry sms messsages. Ridiculous. I've never done that since.
And so I told myself: perhaps, just perhaps... this is love.
And one evening, as we lay on my bed, spent, exhausted, yet very much eager, I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I loved him.
Nikhil and I were together for five and a half months. They were glorious. They were tempestuous. I hated the fact that he refused to leave his boyfriend, simply because I don't want to hurt him - we've been together for four years! I found that silly. I decided that I would come back from Bombay, after my impending transfer, so that I could be with Nikhil. He would leave his boyfriend then, he said. We told ourselves that we must not get too attached to each other, because my transfer was coming closer and closer... three months, two months... But then, we would pant that we loved each other too much to take it slow. And the poetry sms' continued. Ridiculous.
We broke up twice. One weekend, he went away to Shimla with his boyfriend, and I was left behind in Delhi, hissing with jealousy. So, I went online in search of a mate. Just for spite. I found one. I cheated on Nikhil. Again and again. With a little affair on the side. I reasoned, if he could not leave his boyfriend, he had no right to demand fidelity from me. Nikhil found out. We fought, and he broke up with me. I cried then. The first time I'd ever cried for a boy. I bawled my heart out. I begged him to come back to me. I pleaded my case: jealousy. After a week, he decided that he would forgive me. But, he said, things would never be the same again. I knew they would, though.
And I was right. We were together again. But not for too long. I could not handle his boyfriend. I could not handle my own jealousy. So I still slept with my little sex interest. I still found other dalliances on the side. Sometimes, Nikhil called when I was with one of them, and I lied that I was out with my friends and I would call him back later. When I got back home, I would call, and Nikhil and I would chat on the phone for an hour or so. And then fall asleep. My phone bills skyrocketed.
I suppose he guessed what was happening. On one of those rare nights that he spent the whole night at my place, in my arms, he went through my cell phone while I was in the loo. he found some messages a dalliance had sent. He didn't say anything that night, while we made love, and only told me the next morning. How strange: I was furious. I'm not sure, at what. I was furious that he would go through my phone. In my book, that was a serious breach of trust... but then, I was sleeping around, too... but then... there were tioo many 'but's in my head. I stormed off. I told him that I wasn't ready to see him again. In some strange calm, I told him, I'd probably said the love word far too soon. I wasn't ready for him, for his complications, and he wasn't ready for his. I was willing to take it slow, if he wanted, but I would not want to say that I loved him anymore. Because I wasn't sure if I did...
The funny part: the sms that he saw was from a dalliance I hadn't actually slept with, as yet!
Another week passed by. I agonised over my decision. I tried to meet other people. And then, Nikhil called back. We argued, we fought, I never cried though. The old flame was over, he said, he would pay more attention to his boyfriend from now. But... he wanted to see me. He didn't want to lose me... as a friend. I was satisfied.
But in the gay world, friends are a funny creatures. The next time Nikhil and I met was stiffly formal. But then, we had a burger and we chatted, and we loosened up. The time after that, we ended up in bed together. None of the original passion was diminished. We kept meeting after that - once every week, and we would go straight to bed. It was a funny arrangement. I started dating someone else, but then, those once-a-week thingys carried on. Funny arrangement.
The time came for me to leave Delhi. Nikhil called, and said he would miss me. He said, perhaps, it was all for the best that we had broken up. Broken up. I laughed, and said, 'perhaps'. He wanted me back in Delhi, and I said, 'perhaps'. Three weeks later, while I was in Bombay, he called me to say that he didn't want to be in touch with me anymore, because he was totally committed to his boyfriend: he didn't want me to call.
I cried that night. It suddenly struck me that Nikhil was out of my life for good, now. Yes, I'm a pansy at times. I'm more cynical now, though.
The disillusionment came later. I had introduced Nikhil to some of my dalliances and friends, after that last break-up. He said, he wanted to meet other gay people, since he lived a fairly cloistered life, and so I introduced them. A week or so after the final phone call, I learnt that Nikhil was hardly being the devoted boyfriend - he was painting the gay town red with all of my dalliances, and many others of his own finding. My cloistered ex was the new party boy in saddi gay dilli! The clincher, however, came later: a close friend of mine refused to sleep with Nikhil, because of the boyfriend factor. And it was then, that the skeleton tumbled out of the closet: Nikhil didn't have a boyfriend. He never had one.
He never had one.
Why did he do it? I can't explain it, to this day. Some sick machinations to make me fall more in love with him? Feel more jealous about him? Could anyone be that depraved... or even pitiable? I found the whole thing loathesome. I was glad he was out of my life. I couldn't stand the idea of meeting the person who made an utter fool of me for so long.
And of course, I met him again. When I was in Delhi, in May. He heard that I was in town. He called me. He asked to meet me. I said yes.
A cafe in a Gurgaon mall. Nice and glitzy. I ordered a chocolate mousse and waited. He was late. When he finally came, I smiled at him. He smiled back. He was looking stretched. Pale. Thinner. There was acne on his face. I told him he looked tired, and he replied that he was. We talked about life in Bombay, life in Delhi, Pegs and PInts versus the GB parties, whether we were dating anyone, etc. I asked him about his boyfriend, and he said he had broken up with him. I smiled. I finally did what you wanted, he laughed, now you can come back to Delhi. I laughed. He was making a joke. A bad joke, but one that deserved a laugh.
It was a strained conversation. Not the seven-hour sparkle like when we first met. Too much history for that now. Too much agonising. We talked for about an hour, and then I got up. I had to meet an old friend, I told him, and he nodded. I have to go too, he said, keep in touch.
I will, I replied, and shook his hand. Patted it.
And walked out of the cafe. It was a hot Gurgaon afternoon.
Let me tell you about my first love. Love is too strong a word, actually.
His name was Nikhil, and he was just one of the milky-white twenty-one year old Punjabi men who dot the landscape of Delhi. There's no way you can tell him apart from the other Nikhils. He was unique, though: the Nikhil of my folly. I met him online, in a chatroom that I have now come to despise for its sheer lack of depth, and we hit it off instantly. We were both staying in Central Delhi, and we decided to meet that evening. The Jaypee Hotel, in Rajendar Nagar, was the venue. He was wearing a black tshirt and jeans. I was wearing something similar.
I thought he was cute. We talked. We walked the half-hour walk back to my place. The landlord was in, so we sat outside on the pavement and carried on chatting. We spoke about his life, his college marks, his brother, his boyfriend, my job, my stint in Delhi, what we were both looking out for, crummy jokes, and the like. We talked. And talked. And talked. For six straight hours. We were immensely comfortable with each other. But because the landlord was still in the building, we parted - a quick hug, and a promise to meet soon. He messaged me within five minutes of leaving, how he was already missing me.
The first time I had sex doesn't seem momentous to me. It was just one of those things I'd been planning, and one of those things that felt necessary. The first time I made love to Nikhil was monumental. I had never kissed anyone like that before. Forgive my dramatics. We made love for seven hours. On and on and on. I never wanted to let him go. He was special. He had a boyfriend, and I told myself that Nikhil and I were only about sex, but... he was special.
That facade ended the next time we met. It was another stormy session. We met, we walked, we kissed, we kissed, we kissed, and we made love. And then he told me, he was in love with me. I balked. That's ridiculous! You have a boyfriend! We've only just met! It takes more than that to be in love! he shrugged, told me to take my time, but made it clear that he was in love with me.
I refused to believe it, then. But then, there are things that you... believe in, even when you know you shouldn't. There were phone calls, sms messages, meetings in my room, fantasies shared. I would travel in the Gurgaon bus, looking out at the rain, and wish I could make love to him there. He would call me at random hours, and say that he was missing me. He kept on telling me that he was in love with me. And while we did all these crazy, lovely things, I found myself needing more and more of him. I sent him poetry sms messsages. Ridiculous. I've never done that since.
And so I told myself: perhaps, just perhaps... this is love.
And one evening, as we lay on my bed, spent, exhausted, yet very much eager, I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I loved him.
Nikhil and I were together for five and a half months. They were glorious. They were tempestuous. I hated the fact that he refused to leave his boyfriend, simply because I don't want to hurt him - we've been together for four years! I found that silly. I decided that I would come back from Bombay, after my impending transfer, so that I could be with Nikhil. He would leave his boyfriend then, he said. We told ourselves that we must not get too attached to each other, because my transfer was coming closer and closer... three months, two months... But then, we would pant that we loved each other too much to take it slow. And the poetry sms' continued. Ridiculous.
We broke up twice. One weekend, he went away to Shimla with his boyfriend, and I was left behind in Delhi, hissing with jealousy. So, I went online in search of a mate. Just for spite. I found one. I cheated on Nikhil. Again and again. With a little affair on the side. I reasoned, if he could not leave his boyfriend, he had no right to demand fidelity from me. Nikhil found out. We fought, and he broke up with me. I cried then. The first time I'd ever cried for a boy. I bawled my heart out. I begged him to come back to me. I pleaded my case: jealousy. After a week, he decided that he would forgive me. But, he said, things would never be the same again. I knew they would, though.
And I was right. We were together again. But not for too long. I could not handle his boyfriend. I could not handle my own jealousy. So I still slept with my little sex interest. I still found other dalliances on the side. Sometimes, Nikhil called when I was with one of them, and I lied that I was out with my friends and I would call him back later. When I got back home, I would call, and Nikhil and I would chat on the phone for an hour or so. And then fall asleep. My phone bills skyrocketed.
I suppose he guessed what was happening. On one of those rare nights that he spent the whole night at my place, in my arms, he went through my cell phone while I was in the loo. he found some messages a dalliance had sent. He didn't say anything that night, while we made love, and only told me the next morning. How strange: I was furious. I'm not sure, at what. I was furious that he would go through my phone. In my book, that was a serious breach of trust... but then, I was sleeping around, too... but then... there were tioo many 'but's in my head. I stormed off. I told him that I wasn't ready to see him again. In some strange calm, I told him, I'd probably said the love word far too soon. I wasn't ready for him, for his complications, and he wasn't ready for his. I was willing to take it slow, if he wanted, but I would not want to say that I loved him anymore. Because I wasn't sure if I did...
The funny part: the sms that he saw was from a dalliance I hadn't actually slept with, as yet!
Another week passed by. I agonised over my decision. I tried to meet other people. And then, Nikhil called back. We argued, we fought, I never cried though. The old flame was over, he said, he would pay more attention to his boyfriend from now. But... he wanted to see me. He didn't want to lose me... as a friend. I was satisfied.
But in the gay world, friends are a funny creatures. The next time Nikhil and I met was stiffly formal. But then, we had a burger and we chatted, and we loosened up. The time after that, we ended up in bed together. None of the original passion was diminished. We kept meeting after that - once every week, and we would go straight to bed. It was a funny arrangement. I started dating someone else, but then, those once-a-week thingys carried on. Funny arrangement.
The time came for me to leave Delhi. Nikhil called, and said he would miss me. He said, perhaps, it was all for the best that we had broken up. Broken up. I laughed, and said, 'perhaps'. He wanted me back in Delhi, and I said, 'perhaps'. Three weeks later, while I was in Bombay, he called me to say that he didn't want to be in touch with me anymore, because he was totally committed to his boyfriend: he didn't want me to call.
I cried that night. It suddenly struck me that Nikhil was out of my life for good, now. Yes, I'm a pansy at times. I'm more cynical now, though.
The disillusionment came later. I had introduced Nikhil to some of my dalliances and friends, after that last break-up. He said, he wanted to meet other gay people, since he lived a fairly cloistered life, and so I introduced them. A week or so after the final phone call, I learnt that Nikhil was hardly being the devoted boyfriend - he was painting the gay town red with all of my dalliances, and many others of his own finding. My cloistered ex was the new party boy in saddi gay dilli! The clincher, however, came later: a close friend of mine refused to sleep with Nikhil, because of the boyfriend factor. And it was then, that the skeleton tumbled out of the closet: Nikhil didn't have a boyfriend. He never had one.
He never had one.
Why did he do it? I can't explain it, to this day. Some sick machinations to make me fall more in love with him? Feel more jealous about him? Could anyone be that depraved... or even pitiable? I found the whole thing loathesome. I was glad he was out of my life. I couldn't stand the idea of meeting the person who made an utter fool of me for so long.
And of course, I met him again. When I was in Delhi, in May. He heard that I was in town. He called me. He asked to meet me. I said yes.
A cafe in a Gurgaon mall. Nice and glitzy. I ordered a chocolate mousse and waited. He was late. When he finally came, I smiled at him. He smiled back. He was looking stretched. Pale. Thinner. There was acne on his face. I told him he looked tired, and he replied that he was. We talked about life in Bombay, life in Delhi, Pegs and PInts versus the GB parties, whether we were dating anyone, etc. I asked him about his boyfriend, and he said he had broken up with him. I smiled. I finally did what you wanted, he laughed, now you can come back to Delhi. I laughed. He was making a joke. A bad joke, but one that deserved a laugh.
It was a strained conversation. Not the seven-hour sparkle like when we first met. Too much history for that now. Too much agonising. We talked for about an hour, and then I got up. I had to meet an old friend, I told him, and he nodded. I have to go too, he said, keep in touch.
I will, I replied, and shook his hand. Patted it.
And walked out of the cafe. It was a hot Gurgaon afternoon.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Single, and Married
Single, and Married
Welcome to heartbreak hotel. Actually, it's not completely fair to say that. There are possibly thousands of people the world over, categorized as the 'other woman'. When you're gay, you're just 'the other man'. Same role, different gender, possibly more dramatic.
Case 1: You see tall, dark and handsome specimen stalking the room, and you amble over to introduce yourself. A couple of drinks and some seductive comments later, you find yourself smitten. A couple of nights later, you realize that the plain gold band on his finger has a deeper, darker significance: Welcome to the family, honey!
Case 2: You know he's married. But, what the hell, he's gay! If you can do it with a guy who's in a 'relationship', you can very well do it with a guy who's married. So, you ignore the picture of the little woman at home, and just have a mindless screw. Surprise, surprise: he's actually pretty good at what he does! ;-)
Case 3: You fall in love. You tell yourself that's not the way it should go, but you decide to live dangerously, anyway. You decide: (a) you'll make him realize his inner 'gay' self, so that he'll leave the wife and live forever with you, or (b) you're quite comfortable being the 'main man' in his life, and you can share him with the wife. You're one big, happy family, and it doesn't really matter that that the third leg of the triangle (namely, the wife) doesn't know that you exist.
Of course, all of the above cases are valid, only if you actually let yourself get involved, sexually or otherwise, with a married guy. In India, that happens all the time, since a number of men get married very early and very frequently. An acquaintance of mine has been in a 'relationship' with a married guy for the last three years. Hubby visits Acquaintance three days in the week, he goes back to his wife for three other days in the week, and then Hubby spends the last day of the week with a new gay boy: Fuck-of-the-Month. How's that for romance? While some of us may be tempted to sigh in despair and urge Acquaintance to get out of this tangle, he himself is very satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him the 'stability' of a relationship, he says, and time for his own pursuits, recreational or otherwise.
There's the other extreme, of people who can't visualize even a wham-bam with a guy once they learn he's married. Take my friend the Decorator/Designer, for instance. Some weeks back, I'd met this 37-year old married guy (gorgeous!) with a five-year old kid, and while I had no qualms in making it a one-night thingy, Decorator/Designer found the whole affair quite scandalous. This is how the thing looked to me: 1) he's hot, 2) he's going to cheat around anyway, 3) this little one-night thingy is hardly going to break up a marriage, and 4) did I mention he's hot?
Of course, the thing that seems most ludicrous to me in all these cases of single/married men is how on earth their women (wives or girl friends, as the case may be) don't catch on, when (a) boy waxes body religiously, (b) boy is a drama queen straight out of Alice in Wonderland, (c) boy loves buying trinkets for his hands and various neckpieces from Colaba Causeway, (d) boy has too many out-of-town conferences on the weekends... I mean, how dumb can these women be, not catch on?!
Or, are they merely ignoring the 'single' part of the job description, while we gay lovers choose to ignore the 'married' part...?
Welcome to heartbreak hotel. Actually, it's not completely fair to say that. There are possibly thousands of people the world over, categorized as the 'other woman'. When you're gay, you're just 'the other man'. Same role, different gender, possibly more dramatic.
Case 1: You see tall, dark and handsome specimen stalking the room, and you amble over to introduce yourself. A couple of drinks and some seductive comments later, you find yourself smitten. A couple of nights later, you realize that the plain gold band on his finger has a deeper, darker significance: Welcome to the family, honey!
Case 2: You know he's married. But, what the hell, he's gay! If you can do it with a guy who's in a 'relationship', you can very well do it with a guy who's married. So, you ignore the picture of the little woman at home, and just have a mindless screw. Surprise, surprise: he's actually pretty good at what he does! ;-)
Case 3: You fall in love. You tell yourself that's not the way it should go, but you decide to live dangerously, anyway. You decide: (a) you'll make him realize his inner 'gay' self, so that he'll leave the wife and live forever with you, or (b) you're quite comfortable being the 'main man' in his life, and you can share him with the wife. You're one big, happy family, and it doesn't really matter that that the third leg of the triangle (namely, the wife) doesn't know that you exist.
Of course, all of the above cases are valid, only if you actually let yourself get involved, sexually or otherwise, with a married guy. In India, that happens all the time, since a number of men get married very early and very frequently. An acquaintance of mine has been in a 'relationship' with a married guy for the last three years. Hubby visits Acquaintance three days in the week, he goes back to his wife for three other days in the week, and then Hubby spends the last day of the week with a new gay boy: Fuck-of-the-Month. How's that for romance? While some of us may be tempted to sigh in despair and urge Acquaintance to get out of this tangle, he himself is very satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him the 'stability' of a relationship, he says, and time for his own pursuits, recreational or otherwise.
There's the other extreme, of people who can't visualize even a wham-bam with a guy once they learn he's married. Take my friend the Decorator/Designer, for instance. Some weeks back, I'd met this 37-year old married guy (gorgeous!) with a five-year old kid, and while I had no qualms in making it a one-night thingy, Decorator/Designer found the whole affair quite scandalous. This is how the thing looked to me: 1) he's hot, 2) he's going to cheat around anyway, 3) this little one-night thingy is hardly going to break up a marriage, and 4) did I mention he's hot?
Of course, the thing that seems most ludicrous to me in all these cases of single/married men is how on earth their women (wives or girl friends, as the case may be) don't catch on, when (a) boy waxes body religiously, (b) boy is a drama queen straight out of Alice in Wonderland, (c) boy loves buying trinkets for his hands and various neckpieces from Colaba Causeway, (d) boy has too many out-of-town conferences on the weekends... I mean, how dumb can these women be, not catch on?!
Or, are they merely ignoring the 'single' part of the job description, while we gay lovers choose to ignore the 'married' part...?
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