Chug-a-long
I had an interesting converation with an interesting duo yesterday, on a local train that sped its way at a moderate pace from Bandra to Charni Road. It was about people and being shallow and being drama queens and even whiners. So, as the theory goes:
Character 1: Deep down, all of us are shallow.
Me: Hear, hear!
Character 2: Shallow, I tell you!
Character 2: Hear, hear!
Me: But I thought, deep down, we're all drama queens.
Character 1: No, no. That's a layer below 'shallow'. Deep down we're all shallow, and then we're all DQs.
Character 2, scratching head: So, that's 'deeper down'?
Me: D-uh!
Character 2: O, I get that theory. That's a smart theory.
Character 1, pleased as punch: I must patent it.
Me, maniacal gleam in eye: We'll all be rich!
Me, slightly confused: Hold on -
Me, confusion levels mounting: But, what about being whiners? Do you whine? I whine.
Me, proud now: I whine a lot!
Character 1 and Character 2 look bug-eyed at me.
Character 2: That could also be a layer.
Character 1: Between 'shallow' and 'DQ'.
Me: Scratch the surface?
Character 2: Yes, yes. First, there's 'shallow'; then there's "OMG!!! Why am I shallow???!!!" That's the 'whiner'...
Character 1, triumphant: And then there's "OMG!!! This always happens to ME!!!" That's DQ.
Me, confusion replaced by maniacal gleam again: We really must patent this now!
Train lumbers on.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Saturday, May 28, 2005
The story of Optimism
The story of Optimism
Walking down a road and wondering what the time is. Is it time for him to arrive? Or am I the one who's so spaced out of my wits that I got here early? I can think of a zillion things to say or do, but none to occupy myself. So I stop: beside a book shop, peering through the glass, or at a coffee shop, and contemplate a mocha, or just lean against the wall of a grey building and watch the traffic lights change.
I hate waiting, and I keep wondering whether I got here too early, or whether he's late.
I'm done with cracking jokes. I'm done with playing the fool. I do that, day in and day out. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And think of all the things I could be doing now. With him. Without him. I can't make sense now. Waiting does that to you. Waiting makes you ramble, and doubt. That's the hard part.
The easy part is imagining. Imagining that he's next to you. The silent conversations, the laughs, the held hands, the fingers connecting, the hair twirling. I'm in love. Or could I be? Doubt never leaves you by. But I'm still living high.
Walking down a road and wondering what the time is. Is it time for him to arrive? Or am I the one who's so spaced out of my wits that I got here early? I can think of a zillion things to say or do, but none to occupy myself. So I stop: beside a book shop, peering through the glass, or at a coffee shop, and contemplate a mocha, or just lean against the wall of a grey building and watch the traffic lights change.
I hate waiting, and I keep wondering whether I got here too early, or whether he's late.
I'm done with cracking jokes. I'm done with playing the fool. I do that, day in and day out. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And think of all the things I could be doing now. With him. Without him. I can't make sense now. Waiting does that to you. Waiting makes you ramble, and doubt. That's the hard part.
The easy part is imagining. Imagining that he's next to you. The silent conversations, the laughs, the held hands, the fingers connecting, the hair twirling. I'm in love. Or could I be? Doubt never leaves you by. But I'm still living high.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Raindrops and roses
Raindrops and roses
Let's get bitchy. It's time to list five of the most ludicrous/ dumbass/ psycho/ loseARR people I've slept with. But I'll be kind and use pseudonyms.
1. Tall gawk factor boy: with voice cracked and a penchant for womens' jeans, working in a Gurgawa call centre - sigh, how typical! He hemmed and hawed his way to me, and finally ended up seducing me one night, when I was drunk and quite... happy. Sigh, thank god, I never saw him again after that.
2. Muscle boy with shy lisp: kept on muttering "I'm soooooo attracted to you", and when we finally got into bed, he was "Oooo, how can I do this to my boyfriend? What do I dooooo?" I have little patience with such irritating dawdlers, but you can hardly accuse me of date rape. I mean: the guy led me on, officer! And, besides, he left my flat with a very happy grin on his face.
3. Another shy and closeted queen: who kept on looking back over his shoulder while walking on the road, and muttering in a sinister voice, "I hope I can trust you enough to bring you here, [closetalk], everyone here knows me very well." Well, somehow or the other, no one managed to recognise Michael Jackson and his bonk-for-the-day (me) and when it was over, I ran... fast. I have no desire to be a witness at another high-profile trial.
4. Older man with fat belly: almost all gay men have had this specimen. He's like an institution: the kind of bonk-mate every gay guy starts off with, when he's unsure about himself and just where he stands on the 'oomph' scale. So he goes and succumbs to the fat, older, married man, just because he's desperate to have somebody touch him. sigh...
5. Balding bear with tight abs, who kept on muttering 'yeah' in a horrible imitation of porno stars while we did it: was stand-offish at first, and then suddenly leapt on me, when I had my back turned. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, and the whole room is echoing with YEEAAA!!! YEAAAAA!!! Only for a one-night stand, and only if you're desperate for a bonk.
Shit - are five over already?
Let's get bitchy. It's time to list five of the most ludicrous/ dumbass/ psycho/ loseARR people I've slept with. But I'll be kind and use pseudonyms.
1. Tall gawk factor boy: with voice cracked and a penchant for womens' jeans, working in a Gurgawa call centre - sigh, how typical! He hemmed and hawed his way to me, and finally ended up seducing me one night, when I was drunk and quite... happy. Sigh, thank god, I never saw him again after that.
2. Muscle boy with shy lisp: kept on muttering "I'm soooooo attracted to you", and when we finally got into bed, he was "Oooo, how can I do this to my boyfriend? What do I dooooo?" I have little patience with such irritating dawdlers, but you can hardly accuse me of date rape. I mean: the guy led me on, officer! And, besides, he left my flat with a very happy grin on his face.
3. Another shy and closeted queen: who kept on looking back over his shoulder while walking on the road, and muttering in a sinister voice, "I hope I can trust you enough to bring you here, [closetalk], everyone here knows me very well." Well, somehow or the other, no one managed to recognise Michael Jackson and his bonk-for-the-day (me) and when it was over, I ran... fast. I have no desire to be a witness at another high-profile trial.
4. Older man with fat belly: almost all gay men have had this specimen. He's like an institution: the kind of bonk-mate every gay guy starts off with, when he's unsure about himself and just where he stands on the 'oomph' scale. So he goes and succumbs to the fat, older, married man, just because he's desperate to have somebody touch him. sigh...
5. Balding bear with tight abs, who kept on muttering 'yeah' in a horrible imitation of porno stars while we did it: was stand-offish at first, and then suddenly leapt on me, when I had my back turned. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, and the whole room is echoing with YEEAAA!!! YEAAAAA!!! Only for a one-night stand, and only if you're desperate for a bonk.
Shit - are five over already?
Monday, May 23, 2005
frEEEEAAAAK
The Apple factor
A lot of people have asked me about the image on this site: the screwed apple. Some have found it 'screwy', and some have found it 'nervous', while others say it's just plain 'terrifying'! Of course, I'm not exactly sure how you could find an apple, of all things, terrifying...!
Yes, I wanted to get a half-open closet as the image, at first. But I couldn't find the right picture, or one of the right size, and I gave up. Then, I found this cool template in blogskins, when I typed a search under 'screw' (or something of the kind). I like the apple. I think it's perfect for this blog. I think it sends a message about what being gay is all about. It's about being a guy who sees what's happening in the world around you and within you, the perfect observer who's very much a part of the crowd. You're an ordinary bloke, the guy with whom everyone is chummy with.
And then, you're also the gay guy. The one that they write documentaries about. Gay rights: the ones that you still do not enjoy in the country you live in. The stigma and the fear that prevents you from coming out to your parents - at least, until you gain a substantial amount of confidence in yourself. The idea that you cannot hold hands in public, kiss your boyfriend in public, and must keep your eyes averted if you find yourself in a crowded public loo. That's what the screws are all about.
It's about the good and the bad. Let's be honest: I like being gay. I like the men that I am attracted to, the men that I have fallen in love with. I wouldn't change that for the world. Would I give this all up to be straight? No. I made that choice a long time back, and I'm happy to be the way I am. I love my family, but if pleasing them means giving all this up, I wouldn't do it.
The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself.
frEEEEAAAAK:
OK, Nature Boy - quizzes LIE!!!! ;-)
...But I'm a 'sucker' for them, anyway...!
I love big dick, and am not afraid to let the world know it.
I constantly impress my friends by sniffing out big cocks in the most unlikely places.
"Size doesn't matter" is SO not a phrase in my vocabulary.
A lot of people have asked me about the image on this site: the screwed apple. Some have found it 'screwy', and some have found it 'nervous', while others say it's just plain 'terrifying'! Of course, I'm not exactly sure how you could find an apple, of all things, terrifying...!
Yes, I wanted to get a half-open closet as the image, at first. But I couldn't find the right picture, or one of the right size, and I gave up. Then, I found this cool template in blogskins, when I typed a search under 'screw' (or something of the kind). I like the apple. I think it's perfect for this blog. I think it sends a message about what being gay is all about. It's about being a guy who sees what's happening in the world around you and within you, the perfect observer who's very much a part of the crowd. You're an ordinary bloke, the guy with whom everyone is chummy with.
And then, you're also the gay guy. The one that they write documentaries about. Gay rights: the ones that you still do not enjoy in the country you live in. The stigma and the fear that prevents you from coming out to your parents - at least, until you gain a substantial amount of confidence in yourself. The idea that you cannot hold hands in public, kiss your boyfriend in public, and must keep your eyes averted if you find yourself in a crowded public loo. That's what the screws are all about.
It's about the good and the bad. Let's be honest: I like being gay. I like the men that I am attracted to, the men that I have fallen in love with. I wouldn't change that for the world. Would I give this all up to be straight? No. I made that choice a long time back, and I'm happy to be the way I am. I love my family, but if pleasing them means giving all this up, I wouldn't do it.
The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself.
frEEEEAAAAK:
OK, Nature Boy - quizzes LIE!!!! ;-)
...But I'm a 'sucker' for them, anyway...!
I love big dick, and am not afraid to let the world know it.
I constantly impress my friends by sniffing out big cocks in the most unlikely places.
"Size doesn't matter" is SO not a phrase in my vocabulary.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Paranoid pansy
Paranoid pansy
How much is too much? Where on earth do you draw the line between being gay and being too gay, so that you would refuse to acknowledge a person.
The other day, someone I met told me about this other young man he came across: beautiful, smart, trendy, and otherwise very attractive indeed - but with a tone of voice that screamed out loud his tendency to bare his bottom for hunky men with huge pricks. And that's what drove this person I met to run for cover. Because, (as the logic goes), though everybody may know that I'm camp, I don't want everybody to know that I sashay my hips when I walk, and say lines that resemble Queenie Dodhy's, and spread my legs out wide like Maureen Wadia's. Being a bitch is otherwise quite fine.
Sigh.
This morning, I was on a family excursion, so to speak, in Juhu, when this not-so pretty, not-so young thing traipses by. Red, cream and brown striped shirt that clung tightly to his body, striped trousers, and a jute bag that was held precariously locked by an elbow. As soon as I spied him, I knew he was a queen. An obvious one.
Not a Muscle Mary, like the ones in the gym who go huffing and puffing on iron barbells and protein shakes but long to get fucked nice and hard with their asses up in the air (did I mention earlier this blog is rated PG?) - but the more extroverted queen. The sort of queen that is every narrow-minded heterosexual's picture of a homosexual: with all the lisps in speech, and hand gestures, and awful taste in clothes and hair, and the trademark promiscuity second only to fictional rabbits...! He was one of those... and I balked.
Damn. So much for being an enlightened gay person, huh? So much for thinking, that every one has a right to self expression. Shit: when it comes to the crunch, I fear I may be like one of those narrow-minded hetero assholes who snigger at the passing pansy.
And that is scary.
How much is too much? Where on earth do you draw the line between being gay and being too gay, so that you would refuse to acknowledge a person.
The other day, someone I met told me about this other young man he came across: beautiful, smart, trendy, and otherwise very attractive indeed - but with a tone of voice that screamed out loud his tendency to bare his bottom for hunky men with huge pricks. And that's what drove this person I met to run for cover. Because, (as the logic goes), though everybody may know that I'm camp, I don't want everybody to know that I sashay my hips when I walk, and say lines that resemble Queenie Dodhy's, and spread my legs out wide like Maureen Wadia's. Being a bitch is otherwise quite fine.
Sigh.
This morning, I was on a family excursion, so to speak, in Juhu, when this not-so pretty, not-so young thing traipses by. Red, cream and brown striped shirt that clung tightly to his body, striped trousers, and a jute bag that was held precariously locked by an elbow. As soon as I spied him, I knew he was a queen. An obvious one.
Not a Muscle Mary, like the ones in the gym who go huffing and puffing on iron barbells and protein shakes but long to get fucked nice and hard with their asses up in the air (did I mention earlier this blog is rated PG?) - but the more extroverted queen. The sort of queen that is every narrow-minded heterosexual's picture of a homosexual: with all the lisps in speech, and hand gestures, and awful taste in clothes and hair, and the trademark promiscuity second only to fictional rabbits...! He was one of those... and I balked.
Damn. So much for being an enlightened gay person, huh? So much for thinking, that every one has a right to self expression. Shit: when it comes to the crunch, I fear I may be like one of those narrow-minded hetero assholes who snigger at the passing pansy.
And that is scary.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Meet the Gal-friend
Meet the Gal-friend
I adore Ben Stiller. I actually find him sexy. He has a great smile, and a killer bod, complete with a six-pack to match. So, I don't mind that he acts mildly (read: very) goofy in most of his films. I love the fact that he's caught on the backfoot in Meet The Parents. I was in his position today. And I would like to think, though I mumbled and I bumbled, I was at least half as sexy as Stiller always strikes me as being.
I'm not sure what the gay version of Meet The parents should be. Meet The Aged Queen Who Has Now Taken Me Under Her Wing? Meet The Pile Of Six Friends With Whom I Do Everything (Except Have Sex, Because That's What You And I Do)? Meet The Actual Parents (Who Seem Supportive Enough About My Gay Lifestyle, But Cry Themselves To Sleep Every Night For A Dutiful Daughter-in-law, And Who Are Hoping That You Drop Dead As Soon As You Leave The House)?
Or, Meet The Girl Friend With Whom I Share Talks About Men, Styles, Divas And Other Intricate Matters Of The Soul? Throw in a boyfriend for the girlfriend, and there you have me, the desi version of Ben Stiller, minus the six-pack, wondering what kind of coffee I should have in front of the Momma and the Poppa.
California Dreaming...
On the whole, it wasn't so bad. Momma turned out to be a lot of fun, with a penchant for running her hand through my closely cropped hair. Infinitely better than a gang of six friends who would laugh at their own jokes and gawk at their own queeniness, while I would roll my eyes skyward and ask God why on earth my man had to know these imbeciles 0 and yes, I've been through that hell, so I know what I'm talking about! There was no six-pile of dumb friends; there was a sweet and intelligent Momma and Poppa, who were very cool with Nature Boy and me snogging in the loo.
We wouldn't have minded, if Stiller had joined in, actually.
I adore Ben Stiller. I actually find him sexy. He has a great smile, and a killer bod, complete with a six-pack to match. So, I don't mind that he acts mildly (read: very) goofy in most of his films. I love the fact that he's caught on the backfoot in Meet The Parents. I was in his position today. And I would like to think, though I mumbled and I bumbled, I was at least half as sexy as Stiller always strikes me as being.
I'm not sure what the gay version of Meet The parents should be. Meet The Aged Queen Who Has Now Taken Me Under Her Wing? Meet The Pile Of Six Friends With Whom I Do Everything (Except Have Sex, Because That's What You And I Do)? Meet The Actual Parents (Who Seem Supportive Enough About My Gay Lifestyle, But Cry Themselves To Sleep Every Night For A Dutiful Daughter-in-law, And Who Are Hoping That You Drop Dead As Soon As You Leave The House)?
Or, Meet The Girl Friend With Whom I Share Talks About Men, Styles, Divas And Other Intricate Matters Of The Soul? Throw in a boyfriend for the girlfriend, and there you have me, the desi version of Ben Stiller, minus the six-pack, wondering what kind of coffee I should have in front of the Momma and the Poppa.
California Dreaming...
On the whole, it wasn't so bad. Momma turned out to be a lot of fun, with a penchant for running her hand through my closely cropped hair. Infinitely better than a gang of six friends who would laugh at their own jokes and gawk at their own queeniness, while I would roll my eyes skyward and ask God why on earth my man had to know these imbeciles 0 and yes, I've been through that hell, so I know what I'm talking about! There was no six-pile of dumb friends; there was a sweet and intelligent Momma and Poppa, who were very cool with Nature Boy and me snogging in the loo.
We wouldn't have minded, if Stiller had joined in, actually.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Close to Nature
Close to Nature
There was this lovely old house, built by an old Parsi who's long dead now, but who's name still remains on the shining brass plate at the gate. Lovely old house, tall ceilings that make me want to become Spiderman, gardens that make me want to roll in them, a swimming pool that shimmers, a portico where I spent afternoons, a swing that gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I spent my time in Lonavla reading on the portico, swaying on the swing, and dreaming of Nature Boy.
We had made a pact not to interact for those two days: no messages, no phone calls. I'm smiling right now, as I think of the imperious message he sent shortly: Ok, pact's over. Missing ya. Call NOW! I would have loved to: only, my damn balance was down, and I had -Rs 15.65 on my phone. Talk about being precise. Awful.
So there I was, reading a chapter, then looking at the pool, and wishing I was splashing about with Nature Boy. Wishing he was there on the other swing, both of us reading books, looking up now and then to smile at each other, strolling around the Khandala backwoods, and doing a myriad other things, except stare profoundly at my cell phone and wish that I could sms him back.
And yes, I kept imagining those Endless Nights of Passion (Richard Marx).
There was this lovely old house, built by an old Parsi who's long dead now, but who's name still remains on the shining brass plate at the gate. Lovely old house, tall ceilings that make me want to become Spiderman, gardens that make me want to roll in them, a swimming pool that shimmers, a portico where I spent afternoons, a swing that gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I spent my time in Lonavla reading on the portico, swaying on the swing, and dreaming of Nature Boy.
We had made a pact not to interact for those two days: no messages, no phone calls. I'm smiling right now, as I think of the imperious message he sent shortly: Ok, pact's over. Missing ya. Call NOW! I would have loved to: only, my damn balance was down, and I had -Rs 15.65 on my phone. Talk about being precise. Awful.
So there I was, reading a chapter, then looking at the pool, and wishing I was splashing about with Nature Boy. Wishing he was there on the other swing, both of us reading books, looking up now and then to smile at each other, strolling around the Khandala backwoods, and doing a myriad other things, except stare profoundly at my cell phone and wish that I could sms him back.
And yes, I kept imagining those Endless Nights of Passion (Richard Marx).
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Sing a song of six-pence
Sing a song of six-pence
One of my favourite songs is Nature Boy. The first time I heard it, was in Moulen Rouge: and after that, I tracked the song down to its original version by Nat King Cole. There was something about it that attracted me. Something that spoke about a beautiful boy with cherry-red lips that I would want to kiss, and soft curly hair I would run my hands through. No, it's not a gay song, not in the sense that so many other songs have suddenly become enshrined as 'anthems' for the gay community - it is a sensuous song.
The greatest thing you can ever learn is to love and be loved in return...
I'm not sure if I got the lyrics right, but there it is.
Strange how a song can make you remember things and think of things. This picture that I just drew of this beautiful Nature Boy will forever be associated with this person I'm seeing currently. (Complete with cherry lips and Medusa curls, and corny one-liners.) Then there was this other song, from a Hindi movie, which was suddenly the rage in all the discs around town - but for me it's linked to a boy in Delhi - whom I was sharing SMS' with, while driving back from Noida, rain crashing down on the car windows, road lit up with head lamps, music blaring through the radio, and I was messaging him - telling him how much I would love to kiss him in the rain.
Then there was the Jazz creature. I wanted to get him a going-away gift, when I was leaving Delhi, and so I entered this shop in downtown Patel Nagar - not the most fashionable district at all, and teeming with Punjabis of all shapes and sizes. I asked for a Jazz collection - and was promptly shown a CD of Jazzy B's latest bhangra numbers. I gawked, said "I'm sorry, I don't think you have what I need", as politely as I could, and scooted out as fast as I could before dissolving into maniacal, snooty gay laughter. I got my CD after that, and I got a special evening in my boy's flat, complete with music, tall candles, and rich chocolate cake. I remember Louis Armstrong from that night.
No - they're not quite a 'I want to break free' or a 'I will survive' - but they stand for some of the most melodious moments of my gay life.
One of my favourite songs is Nature Boy. The first time I heard it, was in Moulen Rouge: and after that, I tracked the song down to its original version by Nat King Cole. There was something about it that attracted me. Something that spoke about a beautiful boy with cherry-red lips that I would want to kiss, and soft curly hair I would run my hands through. No, it's not a gay song, not in the sense that so many other songs have suddenly become enshrined as 'anthems' for the gay community - it is a sensuous song.
The greatest thing you can ever learn is to love and be loved in return...
I'm not sure if I got the lyrics right, but there it is.
Strange how a song can make you remember things and think of things. This picture that I just drew of this beautiful Nature Boy will forever be associated with this person I'm seeing currently. (Complete with cherry lips and Medusa curls, and corny one-liners.) Then there was this other song, from a Hindi movie, which was suddenly the rage in all the discs around town - but for me it's linked to a boy in Delhi - whom I was sharing SMS' with, while driving back from Noida, rain crashing down on the car windows, road lit up with head lamps, music blaring through the radio, and I was messaging him - telling him how much I would love to kiss him in the rain.
Then there was the Jazz creature. I wanted to get him a going-away gift, when I was leaving Delhi, and so I entered this shop in downtown Patel Nagar - not the most fashionable district at all, and teeming with Punjabis of all shapes and sizes. I asked for a Jazz collection - and was promptly shown a CD of Jazzy B's latest bhangra numbers. I gawked, said "I'm sorry, I don't think you have what I need", as politely as I could, and scooted out as fast as I could before dissolving into maniacal, snooty gay laughter. I got my CD after that, and I got a special evening in my boy's flat, complete with music, tall candles, and rich chocolate cake. I remember Louis Armstrong from that night.
No - they're not quite a 'I want to break free' or a 'I will survive' - but they stand for some of the most melodious moments of my gay life.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Surprise, Surprise (yawn)
Surprise, Surprise (yawn)
So I took another quiz, out of sheer boredom.
What's funniest is the rank offered for the last category in the list! hehehehehehahahahohohohohummmmmmmmm.
;-)
So I took another quiz, out of sheer boredom.
 | You scored as Penis. You are attracted to the: penis. You are a penis man/woman.
What body part are YOU attracted to? |
What's funniest is the rank offered for the last category in the list! hehehehehehahahahohohohohummmmmmmmm.
;-)
Friday, May 13, 2005
Hunting
Hunting*
There's the MacDonald's in Connaught Place, New Delhi, where Tarun and I used to hang out a lot. Sundays, because that was when that stretch of tarmac would come alive with Gay Delhi.
It's an engaging sight. My first time there was with this other guy I was seeing, and we sat around on the railings that separated the pavement from the rest of the circle, and my guy was greeting these other guys he knew. Some of them looked through me, some of them grinned at me, some of them stroked their fingers on the insides of my palm suggestively as we shook hands,... and I lusted after most of them. This was Delhi's gay life out in the open - out on CP, in broad view of everyone who was around.
And yes, there were people aound - loads of them. Families. Hetero couples. Normal friends' gangs. And in the middle of all that, a varied gathering of the city's gay community - cruising, chilling, laughing, and even, like Tarun and I, eating.
The two of us would sit at a window seat at MacD's, so that we would face the tarmac and be able to see the circus that paraded up and down, outside. We would get our burgers, and play songs on the juke box. Superstar was my favourite. There was a lot of Kylie as well - that was the time that she released Chocolate, which Tarun found terribly sexy. So we would sit, he and I, eat burgers, talk about our lives and our loves, and ogle at the men passing by.
Sometimes, some of them walked in and sat at a table inside MacD's too, and then we would exchange glances. It was nothing serious. Neither Tarun nor I would go to bed with any of them, but we would grin and twirl, and walk up towards the juke box, to try to get a better view and see if any tell-tale eyes followed us.
In economics, that's called Game Theory.
*In Delhi gay slang, hunting = cruising
There's the MacDonald's in Connaught Place, New Delhi, where Tarun and I used to hang out a lot. Sundays, because that was when that stretch of tarmac would come alive with Gay Delhi.
It's an engaging sight. My first time there was with this other guy I was seeing, and we sat around on the railings that separated the pavement from the rest of the circle, and my guy was greeting these other guys he knew. Some of them looked through me, some of them grinned at me, some of them stroked their fingers on the insides of my palm suggestively as we shook hands,... and I lusted after most of them. This was Delhi's gay life out in the open - out on CP, in broad view of everyone who was around.
And yes, there were people aound - loads of them. Families. Hetero couples. Normal friends' gangs. And in the middle of all that, a varied gathering of the city's gay community - cruising, chilling, laughing, and even, like Tarun and I, eating.
The two of us would sit at a window seat at MacD's, so that we would face the tarmac and be able to see the circus that paraded up and down, outside. We would get our burgers, and play songs on the juke box. Superstar was my favourite. There was a lot of Kylie as well - that was the time that she released Chocolate, which Tarun found terribly sexy. So we would sit, he and I, eat burgers, talk about our lives and our loves, and ogle at the men passing by.
Sometimes, some of them walked in and sat at a table inside MacD's too, and then we would exchange glances. It was nothing serious. Neither Tarun nor I would go to bed with any of them, but we would grin and twirl, and walk up towards the juke box, to try to get a better view and see if any tell-tale eyes followed us.
In economics, that's called Game Theory.
*In Delhi gay slang, hunting = cruising
Monday, May 09, 2005
Psssst!
Psssst!
I finally did it. Confessed. Part of coming out of the closet... one teeny weeny foot out. Told my straight and male flatmate, with whom I've lived with for the past eight months, and known for the past two-years-two months, that I'm... bated breath... gay.
I'm overjoyed at his response.
"And I don't care!"
In a split second.
With a smile.
I love the guy! ;-)
Actually, I have quite a crush on him. Have had one, for the past six months! I think it's because of the proximity. But then - now, it's gone to a completely higher level! I am simply HAPPY that he responded like that! I expected no less, true - but I was... fearful. Closet freaks always are.
There were hints, of course.
He once asked me if I were going to Pegs and Pints, when we were in Delhi - it's a gay bar. At the time, I pretended not to know what he meant.
He's read Allan Hollinghurst from me.
He's told me, he thinks my shades are much too gay.
He thinks the way I hitch my walkman onto my jeans screams out GAY a 1000 decibels loud.
But he doesn't care. For any of that. He's still cool with me. So, I'm happy.
I finally did it. Confessed. Part of coming out of the closet... one teeny weeny foot out. Told my straight and male flatmate, with whom I've lived with for the past eight months, and known for the past two-years-two months, that I'm... bated breath... gay.
I'm overjoyed at his response.
"And I don't care!"
In a split second.
With a smile.
I love the guy! ;-)
Actually, I have quite a crush on him. Have had one, for the past six months! I think it's because of the proximity. But then - now, it's gone to a completely higher level! I am simply HAPPY that he responded like that! I expected no less, true - but I was... fearful. Closet freaks always are.
There were hints, of course.
He once asked me if I were going to Pegs and Pints, when we were in Delhi - it's a gay bar. At the time, I pretended not to know what he meant.
He's read Allan Hollinghurst from me.
He's told me, he thinks my shades are much too gay.
He thinks the way I hitch my walkman onto my jeans screams out GAY a 1000 decibels loud.
But he doesn't care. For any of that. He's still cool with me. So, I'm happy.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Standing In
Standing In
The idea behind finding a lover is very, very selfish indeed. I'm not telling you anything new. What's it primarily for? Well, let's be unsentimental, honest and tell it like it is: time-pass.
Yes, I want to go to a move hall and touch fingers in the dark.
Yes, I want to go to a restaurant and sip red wine together.
Yes, I want to come home at night from work, and collapse in bed with my very own Don Juan.
Time-pass.
So, when you don't have a lover, friends become very important. It's despicable, in a sense, but very, very true again. When you want to go to party and don't know who with, you search your directory. 'Hey - watcha up to? Fancy a coffee?' What you're actually dying to do is catch a mocha with a special someone, but hell, since that's not really happening any time soon, you don't mind bitching about that other queen who lives in Andheri and has a face like a pug's.
It's heathy, therapeautic, and so lovingly, time-pass.
But I'm confused now - who exactly is a stand-in for who? Lover, friend or alter-ego?
The idea behind finding a lover is very, very selfish indeed. I'm not telling you anything new. What's it primarily for? Well, let's be unsentimental, honest and tell it like it is: time-pass.
Yes, I want to go to a move hall and touch fingers in the dark.
Yes, I want to go to a restaurant and sip red wine together.
Yes, I want to come home at night from work, and collapse in bed with my very own Don Juan.
Time-pass.
So, when you don't have a lover, friends become very important. It's despicable, in a sense, but very, very true again. When you want to go to party and don't know who with, you search your directory. 'Hey - watcha up to? Fancy a coffee?' What you're actually dying to do is catch a mocha with a special someone, but hell, since that's not really happening any time soon, you don't mind bitching about that other queen who lives in Andheri and has a face like a pug's.
It's heathy, therapeautic, and so lovingly, time-pass.
But I'm confused now - who exactly is a stand-in for who? Lover, friend or alter-ego?
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Hot news!
Hot news!
Now, if only the pic showed two hot guys instead of the darned soap opera couple!?!
| Your Seduction Style: Ideal Lover |
 |
What Is Your Seduction Style?
Now, if only the pic showed two hot guys instead of the darned soap opera couple!?!
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Amreeki Goings-on
Amreeki Goings-on
I recently popped into an old online friend of mine from San Francisco. There are two things about that city I immediately think of, when I hear its name. One is this particular song called I left my heart in San Franciso, by I-don't-know-who, in the backdrop of a vista of the Golden Gate, and the second is the fact that it's supposed to be Gay Paradise on Earth.
My friend, however, is not out. Strange. And I thought, it was only silly twenty-four year olds living in the Indian subcontinent who were afraid to rap on the closet doors. Will wonders never cease...
Then, there's this other friend, who has recently returned from Boston. He's this uber-cool person who flashes his gayness very clearly, if you're interested. No, he doesn't have the cliched sing-song voice and hand gestures that are typically associated with 'out' gay people, but he won't deny he's gay if you ask him. He came 'out' in Boston, and he's 'out' here in Mumbai as well, even though he lives with his family. Strange, because the only thing that comes to mind when I think of Boston are the law courts and sexy (but strict!) silver-haired judges!
And, o yes, according to my friend, Boston is the only American city that has light switches outside the bathroom and not inside. (trivia)
I recently popped into an old online friend of mine from San Francisco. There are two things about that city I immediately think of, when I hear its name. One is this particular song called I left my heart in San Franciso, by I-don't-know-who, in the backdrop of a vista of the Golden Gate, and the second is the fact that it's supposed to be Gay Paradise on Earth.
My friend, however, is not out. Strange. And I thought, it was only silly twenty-four year olds living in the Indian subcontinent who were afraid to rap on the closet doors. Will wonders never cease...
Then, there's this other friend, who has recently returned from Boston. He's this uber-cool person who flashes his gayness very clearly, if you're interested. No, he doesn't have the cliched sing-song voice and hand gestures that are typically associated with 'out' gay people, but he won't deny he's gay if you ask him. He came 'out' in Boston, and he's 'out' here in Mumbai as well, even though he lives with his family. Strange, because the only thing that comes to mind when I think of Boston are the law courts and sexy (but strict!) silver-haired judges!
And, o yes, according to my friend, Boston is the only American city that has light switches outside the bathroom and not inside. (trivia)
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