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.
;-)
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