Cleaning out the Chimney

Cleaning out the Chimney

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bored already?

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

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

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

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

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

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

17. K. Have no idea who he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

End of flashback.

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

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

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

Yikes.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

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



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



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



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

Coffee in the closet

Coffee in the closet

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

;-) I'm still bitchy though.

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

***

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

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

***

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

***

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

Welcome to the closet.

Wedding bells

Wedding bells

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

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

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

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

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

Chimneypot, interested a bit: "Should we?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

;-)

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

Picture this

Picture this

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

;-)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Typ(o)s

Typ(o)s

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

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

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

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



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

;-)

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

And a million others.

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

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

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

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

Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio

Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

That reinforce the optimism in me. ;-)

Server problems

Server problems

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

Bah!

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

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

Ouch.

Room Service at Suite 101

Room Service at Suite 101

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

;-)

Wine and dates

Wine and dates

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

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

D/d, chomp chomp: "Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GD: "I'm not going to."

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

CT: "I'm not sure."

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

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

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

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

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

And now, I'm left even more confused.