The story about beer and caffeine
Coffee with the Nutcracker is always an amusing episode. I suppose you could call the Nutcracker my original fag-hag, but she's so much more than that. She's the one who pledged to take care of me when I'm old and decrepit without a mate and probably dying of some debilitating disease. And she has a wicked sense of humour. And a lovely ego like mine.
We compliment each other perfectly.
Nutcracker: So, InsipidWoman is probably sleeping with the xerox guy.
CT, scalding tongue on hot coffee: YOWCH!
Nutcracker, sighing: Funny, na? I thought so too.
CT: So what's the latest on your cyber romance case?
Nutcracker: Bored. What about your one?
CT: Turned out to be fat and forty with a bent for the S&Ms.
Nutcracker: I prefer the M&Ms. (giggle)
CT: So do I.
CT: You wanna dance somewhere?
Nutcracker: I wanna get drunk.
So, there we go to Ghettoes, sitting in a space near the pool table, downing a pitcher of chilled beer, and unwittingly become drawn into the conversation of the big gaggle of dumbasses next to us. They're pretty dumbasses, so it's actually much worse.
Dumbass 1: Meet, Rahul... he's my sweeeeetttoooo!
Dumbass 2: Ooooooo, hiiiiiii!!
Dumbass 3, who's also Rahul: I want vodka. Anyone want vodka?
Dumbass 4: I need to go the loo. Sooooooooo bad.
Dumbass 1: I loooooooove your shirt, Rahul.
Dumbass 3: Vodka? Gin? Rum? Beer? WHHHHHAAAATTT???
Dumbass 2: O, the bartender's soooooooo hot! So, what are you doing later tonight, Rahul?
Dumbass 4: Will anyone else come with me to the loo?
CT and Nutcracker: (snigger!)
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Googly in the Over
Googly in the Over
Went out for dinner last night with Travel Agent, who's an old friend of mine hailing from that outlandish part of town called Colaba. Travel Agent and I used to date, ages back when I first came to Bombay, but then , after I started seeing my first ex, we sort of settled into comfortable 'friend' mode. And now, we have a very funny relationship - we make plans to meet, but invariably meet after a gap of a month or so, have dinner at a fancy place, pledge to meet up soon, but only do so a month later.
Last night, we went to Under the Over.
And on the way back, we met up with a friend of his, whom I see regularly on the gay.com chatroom. It's actually quite scary that I'm such a frequent visitor there that I recognize people by their chat ids, but let's not go down that road for now... Breach Candy Regular, BCR, is getting married next month, and should be on his honeymoon by the first week of January. Strange, considering that he's all of 22 years, and the entire time last night in Travel Agent's car was spent reminescencing about the 'jolly gay times' the two of them had shared.
As we left BCR, Travel Agent explained to me how strongly familial pressure works in Gujarati families like his. It's expected that you get married, and fast, and no excuse is just ever good enough - not the "I want to settle first", or "I want to earn more money first", and definitely not "I'm gay, you see, folks". So the BCRs of Bombay, even from the time they hit the gay scene, are all very clear in their heads: I'm gay, but I'm going to get married soon, so everyone else better be clear with that. I found it even stranger that BCR and Travel Agent had once been so close that BCR had asked for a relationship.
"A relationship? When he knew he's going to get married, and he's not even going to put up a token resistance?" I asked Travel Agent, who laughed, as he coursed the car along the road.
"You don't know how it works there," he replied, "They have it down all pat."
I suppose I'm the only one who hasn't.
Went out for dinner last night with Travel Agent, who's an old friend of mine hailing from that outlandish part of town called Colaba. Travel Agent and I used to date, ages back when I first came to Bombay, but then , after I started seeing my first ex, we sort of settled into comfortable 'friend' mode. And now, we have a very funny relationship - we make plans to meet, but invariably meet after a gap of a month or so, have dinner at a fancy place, pledge to meet up soon, but only do so a month later.
Last night, we went to Under the Over.
And on the way back, we met up with a friend of his, whom I see regularly on the gay.com chatroom. It's actually quite scary that I'm such a frequent visitor there that I recognize people by their chat ids, but let's not go down that road for now... Breach Candy Regular, BCR, is getting married next month, and should be on his honeymoon by the first week of January. Strange, considering that he's all of 22 years, and the entire time last night in Travel Agent's car was spent reminescencing about the 'jolly gay times' the two of them had shared.
As we left BCR, Travel Agent explained to me how strongly familial pressure works in Gujarati families like his. It's expected that you get married, and fast, and no excuse is just ever good enough - not the "I want to settle first", or "I want to earn more money first", and definitely not "I'm gay, you see, folks". So the BCRs of Bombay, even from the time they hit the gay scene, are all very clear in their heads: I'm gay, but I'm going to get married soon, so everyone else better be clear with that. I found it even stranger that BCR and Travel Agent had once been so close that BCR had asked for a relationship.
"A relationship? When he knew he's going to get married, and he's not even going to put up a token resistance?" I asked Travel Agent, who laughed, as he coursed the car along the road.
"You don't know how it works there," he replied, "They have it down all pat."
I suppose I'm the only one who hasn't.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Old is gold... but we demand platinium!
Old is gold... but we demand platinium!
What is it about being gay in Bombay that makes you feel old? Even as I type these words, I realize that I'm not being completely honest. I've seen young people. I've seen young people act old, and older people act young. There's The Mythologist who loves throwing parties at his home, frequented by good-looking young men, while he remains devoted to his love interest overseas - he's one of the most gregarious gay people I've met in Bombay, one of the most generous and the nicest. I've also seen Aged Director, who loves to spend time alone in his flat in Bandra and doesn't socialise much, has no love interest overseas or onshore to speak of, but is still immensely satisfied with himself and the herbal cream that makes him look 35 despite his 55 years of age. So, yes, there are people...
And there are people!... People like me at the GB party last Saturday, dancing like a wild dervish, when suddenly I stop and stare. I'm out of breath, I'm just under three drinks (diluted - GB is not known for spiking its drinks), and I have the saddest feeling of deja vu. Been there, done that - true, I have, but what's so effing different this time, I wondered. I've known for ages that GB is not really the most fashionable place in town, with the best crowd anywhere - I've known that for ages. I go to GB parties to party and preen and generally giggle like a gay boy. Crystal clear priorities.
Hell, maybe I'm just growing old. I looked around me Saturday, while leaning against a wall, and decided that all the people on the floor could be fitted into either of three categories:
a) Trashy
b) Snotty
c) Been there, done them.
The evening before the party, Insane Bitch asked me in an sms whether I had still not got bored of the same old rigmarole at GB parties, and I replied indignantly to the negative. I like being the butterfly that evening, once in a fortnight. And that spell of boredom Saturday night makes me wonder now if a butterfly ever gets bored of being one. All wings and colour - damn, now what do I do next? Become a dull caterpillar? So out of the question!
This is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. I know myself too well to realize that that's quite unlikely, in the absence of a regular boyfriend to give me my bi-or-tri-weekly dose of that ridiculously sexy thing called sex, - so no, this is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. This is a post about a moment of strange melancholy - one of the moments that symbolise the screws in the apple that used to be the watermark of this blog earlier. Every gay man goes through these moments, decides to deal with them in some such way, and then... moves on.
So I'm not going for the next two GB parties. I'll stay at home, or I shall go out for a movie or a dinner or to a straight disc.
And then, I shall... move on. C'est la vie.
What is it about being gay in Bombay that makes you feel old? Even as I type these words, I realize that I'm not being completely honest. I've seen young people. I've seen young people act old, and older people act young. There's The Mythologist who loves throwing parties at his home, frequented by good-looking young men, while he remains devoted to his love interest overseas - he's one of the most gregarious gay people I've met in Bombay, one of the most generous and the nicest. I've also seen Aged Director, who loves to spend time alone in his flat in Bandra and doesn't socialise much, has no love interest overseas or onshore to speak of, but is still immensely satisfied with himself and the herbal cream that makes him look 35 despite his 55 years of age. So, yes, there are people...
And there are people!... People like me at the GB party last Saturday, dancing like a wild dervish, when suddenly I stop and stare. I'm out of breath, I'm just under three drinks (diluted - GB is not known for spiking its drinks), and I have the saddest feeling of deja vu. Been there, done that - true, I have, but what's so effing different this time, I wondered. I've known for ages that GB is not really the most fashionable place in town, with the best crowd anywhere - I've known that for ages. I go to GB parties to party and preen and generally giggle like a gay boy. Crystal clear priorities.
Hell, maybe I'm just growing old. I looked around me Saturday, while leaning against a wall, and decided that all the people on the floor could be fitted into either of three categories:
a) Trashy
b) Snotty
c) Been there, done them.
The evening before the party, Insane Bitch asked me in an sms whether I had still not got bored of the same old rigmarole at GB parties, and I replied indignantly to the negative. I like being the butterfly that evening, once in a fortnight. And that spell of boredom Saturday night makes me wonder now if a butterfly ever gets bored of being one. All wings and colour - damn, now what do I do next? Become a dull caterpillar? So out of the question!
This is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. I know myself too well to realize that that's quite unlikely, in the absence of a regular boyfriend to give me my bi-or-tri-weekly dose of that ridiculously sexy thing called sex, - so no, this is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. This is a post about a moment of strange melancholy - one of the moments that symbolise the screws in the apple that used to be the watermark of this blog earlier. Every gay man goes through these moments, decides to deal with them in some such way, and then... moves on.
So I'm not going for the next two GB parties. I'll stay at home, or I shall go out for a movie or a dinner or to a straight disc.
And then, I shall... move on. C'est la vie.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Under the hammer!
Under the hammer!
Your favourite closet has gone 'public' in every sense of the term - shares of the blog are listed on Blogshares, and you can buy your very own part of it. This bull run is sizzling, people!
***
The other day, a bitch came to my house. An insurance bitch. A sweet tall Parsi woman by the name of Phirozi, who came to collect the cheque from my flatmate for her policy. And then, when she heard that I don't have life insurance taken out on my own, she proceeded to try and brainwash me.
I earn a pittance.
I don't save anything.
My mutual fund investments will not be there when I need them.
My parents will soon die.
I may soon die.
Of some long, horrible disease that will be expensive.
A bus, an airplane, a train, a bird are all conspiring to kill me even as I write this.
Insurance with equity plans are loads better for my feeble brain to understand, rather than my mutual funds.
My future family (wife, three kids, dog) will be left poverty-stricken after I die.
Your favourite closet has gone 'public' in every sense of the term - shares of the blog are listed on Blogshares, and you can buy your very own part of it. This bull run is sizzling, people!
***
The other day, a bitch came to my house. An insurance bitch. A sweet tall Parsi woman by the name of Phirozi, who came to collect the cheque from my flatmate for her policy. And then, when she heard that I don't have life insurance taken out on my own, she proceeded to try and brainwash me.
I earn a pittance.
I don't save anything.
My mutual fund investments will not be there when I need them.
My parents will soon die.
I may soon die.
Of some long, horrible disease that will be expensive.
A bus, an airplane, a train, a bird are all conspiring to kill me even as I write this.
Insurance with equity plans are loads better for my feeble brain to understand, rather than my mutual funds.
My future family (wife, three kids, dog) will be left poverty-stricken after I die.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Material Men
Material Men
The return of the icon, is how Madonna would like to put it. She's back in a brand new flava, and the press loves it. And you have to admit, she looks faaabulous, dah-lings. The music's pretty snappy too. Thanks to Nature Boy, I can attest to that.
In a recent interview, Madonna hopes she's still numero uno in the list of gay icons of the world. Apparently, Kylie has in an earlier statement said that, while she may be the princess, the Original Material Girl is still the biggest Queen Bee around. Compliments galore for her confessions on the dance floor...
It's very strange, though, don't you think? That a gay man's icon would be a straight woman? Straight women? Judy Garland, Cher, Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, Kylie, Beyonce.... what is it about super-sexy (alright, not Garland or Gaynor!) women that makes gay men across the world think of them as... icons? I mean, I think George Michael is H-O-T - always was, and is still! I even go for the skinhead look of Right Said Fred. But how come the Pet Shop Boys never made it to Gay Icon status? How come that recent Russian boy duo, whose name I just can't recall, never made it to the drool-list of gay men worldwide?
;-)
They say, it's about the image. They say it's about being flouncy. The abandon. You feel the abandon when Cyndi Lauper hollers that Girls just wanna have fun, not when she says that Time after time things don't go well for her. You identify with Material girl because deep down you like the bling-bling, you can't wait to Strike a pose on the dance floor, would love to be caught in a picture reading Vogue, feel sentimental when you remember what it was to be Like a virgin, but you don't really give a fig about crying for Argentina. And, yes, you have sooooo many Confessions of the dance floor, that it's not very funny at all...
To each his own. Despite this long-winded speech, I must admit, I've been a die-hard fan of Madonna since I was twelve years old. I guess that answers my question about whether you're born or made gay...
The return of the icon, is how Madonna would like to put it. She's back in a brand new flava, and the press loves it. And you have to admit, she looks faaabulous, dah-lings. The music's pretty snappy too. Thanks to Nature Boy, I can attest to that.
In a recent interview, Madonna hopes she's still numero uno in the list of gay icons of the world. Apparently, Kylie has in an earlier statement said that, while she may be the princess, the Original Material Girl is still the biggest Queen Bee around. Compliments galore for her confessions on the dance floor...
It's very strange, though, don't you think? That a gay man's icon would be a straight woman? Straight women? Judy Garland, Cher, Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, Kylie, Beyonce.... what is it about super-sexy (alright, not Garland or Gaynor!) women that makes gay men across the world think of them as... icons? I mean, I think George Michael is H-O-T - always was, and is still! I even go for the skinhead look of Right Said Fred. But how come the Pet Shop Boys never made it to Gay Icon status? How come that recent Russian boy duo, whose name I just can't recall, never made it to the drool-list of gay men worldwide?
;-)
They say, it's about the image. They say it's about being flouncy. The abandon. You feel the abandon when Cyndi Lauper hollers that Girls just wanna have fun, not when she says that Time after time things don't go well for her. You identify with Material girl because deep down you like the bling-bling, you can't wait to Strike a pose on the dance floor, would love to be caught in a picture reading Vogue, feel sentimental when you remember what it was to be Like a virgin, but you don't really give a fig about crying for Argentina. And, yes, you have sooooo many Confessions of the dance floor, that it's not very funny at all...
To each his own. Despite this long-winded speech, I must admit, I've been a die-hard fan of Madonna since I was twelve years old. I guess that answers my question about whether you're born or made gay...
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
First in line
First in line
Remember that old question about whether you're born gay or whether you're made so? That question which every gay man and woman has probably asked him or herself at some point of life. I did too. Not whether I was ever induced to have sex with a man, but whether my continuously having sex with men automatically meant that sleeping with a woman wasn't half as fun. That's the old gay vs bi and bi vs straight and gay vs straight question. Why am I gay?
The first time I had sex, I knew I was going to have fun. I had not planned the occassion, and like most people, my first time came completely out of the blue. But I guess I was prepared for it. I 'rose' to the occassion, pun intended, and satisfied most of the kinky thoughts and desires that had existed in my closet. No one forced me to have sex with them - they offered me sex, and I took it, because I was curious and well... horny.
;-)
I actually had sex with a woman after that. I kept on telling myself that maybe I was just bisexual... this was alright, even normal, that I lusted after men, and I tried to force myself to lust after women too. But Baywatch left me cold. Pamela was slutty, but I liked the guy she was french kissing on the beach, and it was his speedos I was thinking of, rather than hers. It was clear that this line was not going to work.
It took a brief affair with a close female friend to make me realise that I was gay. Not bisexual. And certainly not straight. I'm not attracted to women at all. My flatmate says, she's more comfortable around me, a gay man, than she could ever be around either a straight guy or a straight woman. I still don't know what to make of that.
And then there are the stories from other people around me. The stories about classmates who've later 'turned' straight. Next door neighbours who raped them when they were younger. Experiments with cousins in the dead of night. Whispers and threats and loves and persuasions. No single first experience is ever the same, though you may be tempted to classify them under Schoolboy Sex or Neighbourly Nudge or whatever. When I first started having sex, I kept on asking them about their first experiences. I found it turned me on, to some extent. Or it horrified me, which in turn helped me feel tender towards them and infuse some real passion in the sex that followed. I'm not sure who it helped more: me or them.
And it never answered my question of whether we're made gay or whether we're born this way.
Remember that old question about whether you're born gay or whether you're made so? That question which every gay man and woman has probably asked him or herself at some point of life. I did too. Not whether I was ever induced to have sex with a man, but whether my continuously having sex with men automatically meant that sleeping with a woman wasn't half as fun. That's the old gay vs bi and bi vs straight and gay vs straight question. Why am I gay?
The first time I had sex, I knew I was going to have fun. I had not planned the occassion, and like most people, my first time came completely out of the blue. But I guess I was prepared for it. I 'rose' to the occassion, pun intended, and satisfied most of the kinky thoughts and desires that had existed in my closet. No one forced me to have sex with them - they offered me sex, and I took it, because I was curious and well... horny.
;-)
I actually had sex with a woman after that. I kept on telling myself that maybe I was just bisexual... this was alright, even normal, that I lusted after men, and I tried to force myself to lust after women too. But Baywatch left me cold. Pamela was slutty, but I liked the guy she was french kissing on the beach, and it was his speedos I was thinking of, rather than hers. It was clear that this line was not going to work.
It took a brief affair with a close female friend to make me realise that I was gay. Not bisexual. And certainly not straight. I'm not attracted to women at all. My flatmate says, she's more comfortable around me, a gay man, than she could ever be around either a straight guy or a straight woman. I still don't know what to make of that.
And then there are the stories from other people around me. The stories about classmates who've later 'turned' straight. Next door neighbours who raped them when they were younger. Experiments with cousins in the dead of night. Whispers and threats and loves and persuasions. No single first experience is ever the same, though you may be tempted to classify them under Schoolboy Sex or Neighbourly Nudge or whatever. When I first started having sex, I kept on asking them about their first experiences. I found it turned me on, to some extent. Or it horrified me, which in turn helped me feel tender towards them and infuse some real passion in the sex that followed. I'm not sure who it helped more: me or them.
And it never answered my question of whether we're made gay or whether we're born this way.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
You can ring my bell!
You can ring my bell!
The party was good. I may be biased since I'm the one who hosted it, but the rest of you will all be ungrateful SOBs if you say you didn't have fun.
;-)
Gay interior designer/ decorator was tickled pink at the idea of the gay bloggers' party and came two hours early to play dress-up. Of course, me being the Desperate Housewife that I am, I was knee-deep in last-minute chores like getting the cold drinks (which turned out to be lukewarm, seeing that I don't own a fridge) and rearranging the mats in my room, and hanging the sketches on the wall and what-not. My look for the day was decidedly Filthy Bear: an exotic species in itself, wearing tight tshirt and faded jeans, stubble on face, and iPOD on hip, as I dashed across the neighbourhood, with a decided smell of mansweat. I still didn't hook any ghaati boys in the neighbourhood, though. Expected.
So, finally, we did play dress-up. I played Bombay Whore. Which involved a full-sleeve diagonal striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to half-length, only one button just above the belly, and tucked in imperfectly to show a glimpse of tummy, teamed with stonewashed jeans and a red cloth belt, and white 'low' undies on top of the jeans. And, in case you missed the point, I had a name tag titled S.L.U.T. aka CloseTalk slung around my neck. Ding-dong, do I hear the door bell ring?
Meanwhile, d/d was the French caddy slut for the night - small white tshirt, tiny black shorts that gave everyone around a great look-see of his jewels whenever he parted his legs, and my fake leather beret on his head.
Natureboy was wearing a white tshirt which proclaimed SHOWOFF!!! in bold red, together with white shorts. French beard optional. Emily came in a red kurta and folded-up jeans, accessorised with two jewelled belts bought from some disreputable pimp's showroom in Colaba, a very cute anklet and a pink Minnie Mouse hairband. Hehehe
Apple-boy came dressed all formal, teamed up with a fluorescent orange tie around his neck. Lovely trousers. He brought with him Gup Shup, who went all American boy chic, with his uber-tight tshirt screaming SELF MADE MAN. I should have had hookers for the party - sigh.
But then, we did have French caddy slut, aka d/d.
The late-comers were Funny Parsi Guy, who dropped in on his way to another friends' birthday party, and Visualscribe who had everyone in the room (with the exception of FPG) lusting after his gold sequined mojris.
The cold-drink lady sniggered when I opened the door to get the bottles, in my over-under-wear, and I'm hoping I won't be evicted from my building. My flatmate of course had a blast seeing so many exubert fags going all tipsy.
Wine, black rum, Bacardi, Alcazar, paapris with tartar sauce, paani puris. Gloria Gaynor, and we discussed Nazia Hassan's Disco Deewaane. Bappi-da was mentioned, as we preferred the Hindi version of D-I-S-C-O to the English one, or at least, Vik did. There was general lamentation about not having New Meat at the party, but I really didn't want to hold a GB party II.
Played Kajra re, and d/d promised to do a mujra at the next party if I can get Kua mein dub jaoogi. But the actual performance came much later, when most of the guys had gone - Emily and d/d threw one of my flattie's green dupattas between them, and did the most awe-inspiring dhak-dhak moves to Madhuri's Maar daalaa!
Moral of the story: Cyndi Lauper knows what she's talking about when she says that Girls just wanna have fun!
The party was good. I may be biased since I'm the one who hosted it, but the rest of you will all be ungrateful SOBs if you say you didn't have fun.
;-)
Gay interior designer/ decorator was tickled pink at the idea of the gay bloggers' party and came two hours early to play dress-up. Of course, me being the Desperate Housewife that I am, I was knee-deep in last-minute chores like getting the cold drinks (which turned out to be lukewarm, seeing that I don't own a fridge) and rearranging the mats in my room, and hanging the sketches on the wall and what-not. My look for the day was decidedly Filthy Bear: an exotic species in itself, wearing tight tshirt and faded jeans, stubble on face, and iPOD on hip, as I dashed across the neighbourhood, with a decided smell of mansweat. I still didn't hook any ghaati boys in the neighbourhood, though. Expected.
So, finally, we did play dress-up. I played Bombay Whore. Which involved a full-sleeve diagonal striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to half-length, only one button just above the belly, and tucked in imperfectly to show a glimpse of tummy, teamed with stonewashed jeans and a red cloth belt, and white 'low' undies on top of the jeans. And, in case you missed the point, I had a name tag titled S.L.U.T. aka CloseTalk slung around my neck. Ding-dong, do I hear the door bell ring?
Meanwhile, d/d was the French caddy slut for the night - small white tshirt, tiny black shorts that gave everyone around a great look-see of his jewels whenever he parted his legs, and my fake leather beret on his head.
Natureboy was wearing a white tshirt which proclaimed SHOWOFF!!! in bold red, together with white shorts. French beard optional. Emily came in a red kurta and folded-up jeans, accessorised with two jewelled belts bought from some disreputable pimp's showroom in Colaba, a very cute anklet and a pink Minnie Mouse hairband. Hehehe
Apple-boy came dressed all formal, teamed up with a fluorescent orange tie around his neck. Lovely trousers. He brought with him Gup Shup, who went all American boy chic, with his uber-tight tshirt screaming SELF MADE MAN. I should have had hookers for the party - sigh.
But then, we did have French caddy slut, aka d/d.
The late-comers were Funny Parsi Guy, who dropped in on his way to another friends' birthday party, and Visualscribe who had everyone in the room (with the exception of FPG) lusting after his gold sequined mojris.
The cold-drink lady sniggered when I opened the door to get the bottles, in my over-under-wear, and I'm hoping I won't be evicted from my building. My flatmate of course had a blast seeing so many exubert fags going all tipsy.
Wine, black rum, Bacardi, Alcazar, paapris with tartar sauce, paani puris. Gloria Gaynor, and we discussed Nazia Hassan's Disco Deewaane. Bappi-da was mentioned, as we preferred the Hindi version of D-I-S-C-O to the English one, or at least, Vik did. There was general lamentation about not having New Meat at the party, but I really didn't want to hold a GB party II.
Played Kajra re, and d/d promised to do a mujra at the next party if I can get Kua mein dub jaoogi. But the actual performance came much later, when most of the guys had gone - Emily and d/d threw one of my flattie's green dupattas between them, and did the most awe-inspiring dhak-dhak moves to Madhuri's Maar daalaa!
Moral of the story: Cyndi Lauper knows what she's talking about when she says that Girls just wanna have fun!
Thursday, November 10, 2005
POP!
POP!
Ok, so I uncorked the bubbly again.
The gay slut has returned to his haunts. And no, before anyone starts tut-tuting and saying 'I told him so' lines, while I take my stillettoes out again from behind the closet, I just want to reiterate that I never said earlier I'd abstain completely from sex. Random sex was what I meant. However, as it turns out, I could find enough loopholes around this one.
Random sex means a phone call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet and screw?
My brand of non-slut sex was a phone-call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet, have the cuppa coffee for propriety's sake and then go for a bang at your place?
Sigh.
I could get away with this line, of course, but then some sort of reality dawns in my pretty little head, and I decide that one type of slut is as good as (or, as bad as) any other. No use pretending to be something I'm not. So I might as well just slip the stillettoes back on.
But I'm a Desperate Housewife, really. Finally met up with Beret Boy the other night, had the rudimentary coffee and conversation, and convinced him to come back home with me. Lovely boy, good sex, but all my hopes (and giggles) of the earlier post for a possible relationship are down the drain, of course - 22 year old boy who's just new on the gay scene and wants to fuck around, and I'm not in the mood for babysitting.
But here's the crunch: Guess what I do, after he leaves, and I proclaim two hours well spent to my flatmate?
Promptly take a broom and start sweeping the floor of my room. Sigh. Beret Boy is quite, quite hairy, you see, and seeing hair follicles strewn on the ground gives me the Monica itch. So, while I swept the floor, I even muttered to myself, Nice boy, but next time I get a tarpauline on the floor for you...
And the Slut Saga continues... I'm still waiting for that Sp[ecial Someone, however. Bated breath and all.
Ok, so I uncorked the bubbly again.
The gay slut has returned to his haunts. And no, before anyone starts tut-tuting and saying 'I told him so' lines, while I take my stillettoes out again from behind the closet, I just want to reiterate that I never said earlier I'd abstain completely from sex. Random sex was what I meant. However, as it turns out, I could find enough loopholes around this one.
Random sex means a phone call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet and screw?
My brand of non-slut sex was a phone-call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet, have the cuppa coffee for propriety's sake and then go for a bang at your place?
Sigh.
I could get away with this line, of course, but then some sort of reality dawns in my pretty little head, and I decide that one type of slut is as good as (or, as bad as) any other. No use pretending to be something I'm not. So I might as well just slip the stillettoes back on.
But I'm a Desperate Housewife, really. Finally met up with Beret Boy the other night, had the rudimentary coffee and conversation, and convinced him to come back home with me. Lovely boy, good sex, but all my hopes (and giggles) of the earlier post for a possible relationship are down the drain, of course - 22 year old boy who's just new on the gay scene and wants to fuck around, and I'm not in the mood for babysitting.
But here's the crunch: Guess what I do, after he leaves, and I proclaim two hours well spent to my flatmate?
Promptly take a broom and start sweeping the floor of my room. Sigh. Beret Boy is quite, quite hairy, you see, and seeing hair follicles strewn on the ground gives me the Monica itch. So, while I swept the floor, I even muttered to myself, Nice boy, but next time I get a tarpauline on the floor for you...
And the Slut Saga continues... I'm still waiting for that Sp[ecial Someone, however. Bated breath and all.
Monday, November 07, 2005
OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday
OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday
I'll try to send all the guys invited their individual invites before then, but this post serves as one big general invite as well. November 12, come 8.30 pm, all you gay divas are going to assemble in my lil pad for some funky dancing.
The theme for the night is Gay Diva Slut.
Over the top.
You're supposed to define 'over the top' with this one. So get out the spandex, the tight sleeveless muscle Ts, the floral printed frilly shirts, the hot pants, the vinyl paddings, the torn jeans, the crosses around your necks, the beads and the bracelets, the strap-ons, the cloth belts, the hip huggers, and hell, even the make-up, if you're so inclined.
Let's see just how 'funky town' us prolific gay Bombay bloggers can get. ;-)
As for the ladies (the real ones), I know y'll really wanna come, but I think the other ladies in the house will die of embarassment if anyone other than Family sees them!
I'll try to send all the guys invited their individual invites before then, but this post serves as one big general invite as well. November 12, come 8.30 pm, all you gay divas are going to assemble in my lil pad for some funky dancing.
The theme for the night is Gay Diva Slut.
Over the top.
You're supposed to define 'over the top' with this one. So get out the spandex, the tight sleeveless muscle Ts, the floral printed frilly shirts, the hot pants, the vinyl paddings, the torn jeans, the crosses around your necks, the beads and the bracelets, the strap-ons, the cloth belts, the hip huggers, and hell, even the make-up, if you're so inclined.
Let's see just how 'funky town' us prolific gay Bombay bloggers can get. ;-)
As for the ladies (the real ones), I know y'll really wanna come, but I think the other ladies in the house will die of embarassment if anyone other than Family sees them!
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Just a little (?) crush
Just a little (?) crush
The other day, I had an sms conversation with my Ex-Roomie, which went something like this:
ER: Hey, bitch. Having a good time? Still freeloading on brother?
CT: Hey, ass. Of course. Where do you think the good times come from? And you're still living off your sis in Delhi?
ER: Sure thing. How's the partying and the sleeping around?
CT: Partying like same, more or less. Trying to cut down on the sleeping around. Will try to have relationships now. Think I'm growing up?
ER: I'll believe that when I say Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece.
(He hates the book.)
To introduce ER, he was my first flatmate in Bombay, and I've known him for a year-and-a-half before that. He's this tall, fair, brawny Punju who looks so utterly cute when he sleeps, and of course I have the world's greatest crush on him. That's my concession to the norm of gay-men-falling-for-straight-men. I'm weak too. But it would have been the same for you, if you'd known him. I've had a crush on ER now, since the day I first met him, and it's been more than two years now. Almost three. My crush for him intensified, upon his reaction when I came out to him.
So what's this particular post about then? Am I merely reaffirming a silly little crush on an old friend? I'm not exactly sure, really. A lot of things are happening fast. First, there was the discussion a coupla months back, with two other friends I'm out to, who said, they got some vibes that ER may actually have been a confused gay boy as well. (He had women throwing themselves at him, but always kept himself away from them.) Then, there's the promise ER made, to come with me to Pegs N Pints, the gay bar in Delhi, when I arrive in his city. And, coming up in March, all of us are going to Bangalore for a mutual friend's wedding. ER will be there. We may have to share a room again. And I'm getting hopeful again.
Sigh.
I told a friend of mine the other day, that if I ever got ER, I'd probably turn a new leaf and become absolutely asexual towards other men. I have a strong desire to do that. I really do. Or maybe, I'm just telling myself that, in a silly effort to convince myself that this thing I have for ER goes beyond a crush and is all about... gulp... love.
Now, why on earth would I do that?
The other day, I had an sms conversation with my Ex-Roomie, which went something like this:
ER: Hey, bitch. Having a good time? Still freeloading on brother?
CT: Hey, ass. Of course. Where do you think the good times come from? And you're still living off your sis in Delhi?
ER: Sure thing. How's the partying and the sleeping around?
CT: Partying like same, more or less. Trying to cut down on the sleeping around. Will try to have relationships now. Think I'm growing up?
ER: I'll believe that when I say Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece.
(He hates the book.)
To introduce ER, he was my first flatmate in Bombay, and I've known him for a year-and-a-half before that. He's this tall, fair, brawny Punju who looks so utterly cute when he sleeps, and of course I have the world's greatest crush on him. That's my concession to the norm of gay-men-falling-for-straight-men. I'm weak too. But it would have been the same for you, if you'd known him. I've had a crush on ER now, since the day I first met him, and it's been more than two years now. Almost three. My crush for him intensified, upon his reaction when I came out to him.
So what's this particular post about then? Am I merely reaffirming a silly little crush on an old friend? I'm not exactly sure, really. A lot of things are happening fast. First, there was the discussion a coupla months back, with two other friends I'm out to, who said, they got some vibes that ER may actually have been a confused gay boy as well. (He had women throwing themselves at him, but always kept himself away from them.) Then, there's the promise ER made, to come with me to Pegs N Pints, the gay bar in Delhi, when I arrive in his city. And, coming up in March, all of us are going to Bangalore for a mutual friend's wedding. ER will be there. We may have to share a room again. And I'm getting hopeful again.
Sigh.
I told a friend of mine the other day, that if I ever got ER, I'd probably turn a new leaf and become absolutely asexual towards other men. I have a strong desire to do that. I really do. Or maybe, I'm just telling myself that, in a silly effort to convince myself that this thing I have for ER goes beyond a crush and is all about... gulp... love.
Now, why on earth would I do that?
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Karaoke Queens
Karaoke Queens
First I was afraid,
I was petrified..
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...
But I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong...
I learned how to carry on.
I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I will stay alive.
I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give
And I'll survive.
I will survive...
That was one of the songs we were supposed to croon Monday night at Karaoke night at Jazz by the Bay. This, and Like a Virgin, Y-M-C-A and Dancing Queen. So, it was gay boys' night out, and CT, Gup Shup, gay interior decorator/designer and Penguin Boy decided to sing the town red. Jazz is a lovely place with a great crowd, and we were openly staring at all the lissome South Bombay boys. Most of them dressed and danced like gay boys, so we were aided in our fantasies that maybe, just maybe, the hot muscle boy in the khaki cap would be all too willing to make out in the car, or that the striped shirt angel would give an excellent blowjob in the squeaky-clean loo. I had a gin-and-tonic for the first time.
Horrible drink.
D/d paniced from Gloria Gaynor and Y-M-C-A, however, and the two of us ended up with a pretty tame version of Pretty Woman. We were bad. Bad. B-A-D. So bad, they took ages to get us on the damn stage for our little number. So bad, that the DJ's gal-friends came over and started singing with me and d/d... which sort of diverted the attention of the crowd away from the horrible singing and d/d's jerky dance steps.
;-)
And yesterday, I went out on a date with Funny Parsi Guy. Now, I've known FPG for ages, almost since I first stepped into Bombay, but I never actually thought about going out with him for a date. But we had a great time yesterday. Dinner and dessert and coffee and a walk down the beach front. Nice. He can't stand Parsi food, however. Being the pessimist I am, though, I'm just going to say it was nice, and let things unravel as they will, at their own pace...
By the way, am still waiting for the remaining confirmations for the Blog Party. Please hurry, guys.
First I was afraid,
I was petrified..
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...
But I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong...
I learned how to carry on.
I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I will stay alive.
I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give
And I'll survive.
I will survive...
That was one of the songs we were supposed to croon Monday night at Karaoke night at Jazz by the Bay. This, and Like a Virgin, Y-M-C-A and Dancing Queen. So, it was gay boys' night out, and CT, Gup Shup, gay interior decorator/designer and Penguin Boy decided to sing the town red. Jazz is a lovely place with a great crowd, and we were openly staring at all the lissome South Bombay boys. Most of them dressed and danced like gay boys, so we were aided in our fantasies that maybe, just maybe, the hot muscle boy in the khaki cap would be all too willing to make out in the car, or that the striped shirt angel would give an excellent blowjob in the squeaky-clean loo. I had a gin-and-tonic for the first time.
Horrible drink.
D/d paniced from Gloria Gaynor and Y-M-C-A, however, and the two of us ended up with a pretty tame version of Pretty Woman. We were bad. Bad. B-A-D. So bad, they took ages to get us on the damn stage for our little number. So bad, that the DJ's gal-friends came over and started singing with me and d/d... which sort of diverted the attention of the crowd away from the horrible singing and d/d's jerky dance steps.
;-)
And yesterday, I went out on a date with Funny Parsi Guy. Now, I've known FPG for ages, almost since I first stepped into Bombay, but I never actually thought about going out with him for a date. But we had a great time yesterday. Dinner and dessert and coffee and a walk down the beach front. Nice. He can't stand Parsi food, however. Being the pessimist I am, though, I'm just going to say it was nice, and let things unravel as they will, at their own pace...
By the way, am still waiting for the remaining confirmations for the Blog Party. Please hurry, guys.
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