Anniversary
Twenty four hours earlier, I sat here at my computer and watched time tick away slowly, till the day arrived that would have marked one whole year with Boy. And now, I sat here again, waiting and watching till the clock announced the day was finally over. A part of me was dreading if he called or messaged, wondering what my reaction would have been - I know, though: anger and irritation, coupled with a lot of relief. But he didn't call. Or message. Maybe he was waiting for me. Maybe I'm just pathetic.
It's been two weeks now, or something like that. And today, of all days, they played Strangers In The Night so many times in the world - once at the five star hotel lobby where I waited for my client to arrive, and then at dinner, when the family and I went out. And despite myself, despite my resolve to not let myself delve on him or the past or my version of the possible future, I allowed myself to get melancholic. For the record, both the dates I mentioned in the previous post went rather well - I thought I struck a great connection with the Party Guy, and even Cute Doc was terribly sweet on our date last night. And while I'm looking forward to meeting both of them again... especially Party Guy... I also know that none of them are... Boy.
*sigh*
None of them are that cute Gujarati guy with the long nose and the stupid American accent who came over to my house for afternoon sex, and then stopped in the middle, asking if he could come back later in the evening to take me out for a 'real' date because he wanted to 'know' me... I remember, I made him wait that first time - he was waiting patiently, while I was hurrying up in the shower, throwing on a shirt, a pair of jeans, and then when we finally stepped out, he got into the elevator with me, and whispered, eyes gleaming, 'You look stunning...!'
That first date, we went to Bombay Blues and he wanted me to order. He looked cockily at me, and said, 'You can tell a lot about a person from the way and things that he orders for dinner,' and I grinned back at him. That was when I learnt he doesn't eat sea food or prawns or mutton, and only has boneless chicken. Your typical Non vegetarian Gujju.
On December 30, we went to this Punjabi restaurant in Dadar, which had the full ethnic look, complete with shamiana and sitar-strumming musicians, and the NRI in him loved that stuff. And then he surprised me by saying he knew a Bengali song, cuz he'd performed to it once, and then he proceeded to sing it. I still have that recording of him singing 'Aay re aay' on my phone.
On December 31, we went to Bandra, shopping for the New Year's Eve GB party. We went to this shop on Hill Road, where he tried on these outrageously shiny shirts, and I dissolved into laughter and took snaps of him on my cell phone. He protested his innocence, saying that he needed shiny shirts for when he performed with his dance troupe on stage, but I refused to buy it. Then, later on, when we came back to my place to dress, I tried one of them one, and he had his moment of 'I told you so!'.
I remember the party - Karma, the lower level. I was waiting for Chimneypot to arrive, and was heading out to check for her repeatedly. Then coming back and dancing with my date for the night, who was looking so amazing. There was a stupid Hindi song playing, and he liked my dance moves so much, he hugged me and called it my 'dhishum dhishum' dance steps... and then, that one time when I went out again to check for Chimneypot, I received an sms on my phone from inside: I think I'm fallin in luv... I went right in and kissed him long and hard, without a word. I was stupid. My flatmate said I looked terribly happy that night, and we made a wonderful pair. We did. I was stupid.
When I kept him waiting for four hours at Bandra some weeks later, I knew he'd be livid, so I bought a bunch of daisies for him and thrust them at him as soon as I saw him, before he could say a word. His face changed... completely...!
Why am I writing all of this down? Because I know, if I don't, I'm going to reach for my phone, punch in the US numbers that I know by heart now, and type something stupid I will hate myself for, tomorrow. The blog helps. The blog helps in giving me the space to write what I really wish I could say, but know would be disastrous to. When I have to sit through two sessions of Strangers In The Night, there is not much even Gloria Gaynor can do to get rid of the butterflies in my stomach. And I thought she was foolproof.
Strangers in the night, exchanging glances,
Wondering in the night
What were the chances we'd be sharing love
Before the night was through.
Something in your eyes was so inviting,
Something in your smile was so exciting,
Something in my heart
Told me I must have you.
The verdict: Frank Sinatra wins, hands down.
The verdict: I hate you, Boy. I hate you because despite everything I've tried to do, I realize in my saddest moments that I feel terribly alone without you. I love you still, damnit.
And I'm glad you never came by to read this blog.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
It's Raining Men...!
It's Raining Men...!
Some time back, it was the season for long distance relationships, and then earlier this month, it was the season for break-ups, as two close friends and I found ourselves single again. And suddenly, post break-up, it seems to be the season of new encounters and new men.
Some weeks back, during the phase of utter uncertainty as far as Boy and I were concerned, I happened to catch the eye of a very cute guy on the dance floor of a GB party. There was instant attraction, and we met the following day for coffee - just coffee. And as we talked, I wondered to myself how perfect he seemed - how well put-together, how cute, how smart, how sexy, and how very much connected to Bombay, unlike a certain long distance (ex) boyfriend. Since the break-up, I've wondered about him again, and we've planned a date soon. I'm intrigued and interested in him - my first official date after the break-up.
And then, on Christmas eve, I bumped into the Cute Doc again. As usual, we got along famously, we boogeyed on the dance floor, we joked about stilly stuff, we exchanged notes on the GRE exam. And as I was a bit tipsy, after one steamy dance ended, I followed him inside the loo, pushed him up against the wall and kissed him. While it felt nice to remember the old flames - "Nostalgia", he said raspily, after I got my tongue out of his mouth - I thought to myself: why on earth have we never dated? The first time Cute Doc and I met, we got along so well and had such great chemistry, we headed to my place for fun - we never had the conventional date. So this time around, a couple days after the party, I called and asked him out - for a proper date. When I was done with my fumbling, he happily accepted, and we're on track for some time later this week.
And finally there's the man from TinselTown, who I met online at a chat room. Older, yes. But also cute and smart. We've both recently stepped out from relationships, and he joked that we must bitch about our exes when we get together. That was his way of asking me out on a date. So I said yes, and we should catch up later this week, or early the next.
When I told SnowWhite's Stepmother this afternoon over lunch that I was going to play the field now, and not get hung up on any one guy till I knew where I was going, he replied, "When have you not played the field?"
But that's not really right here. I may have been seeing a lot of guys for sex (hell, there's this married guy I know who's arranging some group sex next week!) but I haven't really dated men at the same time. Not since my stint in Delhi, and that was way too complicated for words! This time, though, I've reasoned:
1. Cute Party Guy may be gorgeous and I may have kept in touch with him all this while, but at the end of the day, we've just had one proper date, so there's nothing exclusive here, really, and I can do what I want, when I'm not seeing him.
2. Cute Doc is sweet and great, but hell, it's probably just going to be a great momentary fling, since I'm planning to study abroad, so there's no reason why he should complain.
3. TinselTown man may be nice too, but what the hell, everyone dates simultaneously... at least until they're sure of what or who they want.
And I'm not sure. I thought I was, at one point of time, but then not anymore. So it's up to me then, to just... play my way around, feel around the crevices and make up my mind. It's raining men right now, or so it seems, and for once I don't mind getting soaked!
Some time back, it was the season for long distance relationships, and then earlier this month, it was the season for break-ups, as two close friends and I found ourselves single again. And suddenly, post break-up, it seems to be the season of new encounters and new men.
Some weeks back, during the phase of utter uncertainty as far as Boy and I were concerned, I happened to catch the eye of a very cute guy on the dance floor of a GB party. There was instant attraction, and we met the following day for coffee - just coffee. And as we talked, I wondered to myself how perfect he seemed - how well put-together, how cute, how smart, how sexy, and how very much connected to Bombay, unlike a certain long distance (ex) boyfriend. Since the break-up, I've wondered about him again, and we've planned a date soon. I'm intrigued and interested in him - my first official date after the break-up.
And then, on Christmas eve, I bumped into the Cute Doc again. As usual, we got along famously, we boogeyed on the dance floor, we joked about stilly stuff, we exchanged notes on the GRE exam. And as I was a bit tipsy, after one steamy dance ended, I followed him inside the loo, pushed him up against the wall and kissed him. While it felt nice to remember the old flames - "Nostalgia", he said raspily, after I got my tongue out of his mouth - I thought to myself: why on earth have we never dated? The first time Cute Doc and I met, we got along so well and had such great chemistry, we headed to my place for fun - we never had the conventional date. So this time around, a couple days after the party, I called and asked him out - for a proper date. When I was done with my fumbling, he happily accepted, and we're on track for some time later this week.
And finally there's the man from TinselTown, who I met online at a chat room. Older, yes. But also cute and smart. We've both recently stepped out from relationships, and he joked that we must bitch about our exes when we get together. That was his way of asking me out on a date. So I said yes, and we should catch up later this week, or early the next.
When I told SnowWhite's Stepmother this afternoon over lunch that I was going to play the field now, and not get hung up on any one guy till I knew where I was going, he replied, "When have you not played the field?"
But that's not really right here. I may have been seeing a lot of guys for sex (hell, there's this married guy I know who's arranging some group sex next week!) but I haven't really dated men at the same time. Not since my stint in Delhi, and that was way too complicated for words! This time, though, I've reasoned:
1. Cute Party Guy may be gorgeous and I may have kept in touch with him all this while, but at the end of the day, we've just had one proper date, so there's nothing exclusive here, really, and I can do what I want, when I'm not seeing him.
2. Cute Doc is sweet and great, but hell, it's probably just going to be a great momentary fling, since I'm planning to study abroad, so there's no reason why he should complain.
3. TinselTown man may be nice too, but what the hell, everyone dates simultaneously... at least until they're sure of what or who they want.
And I'm not sure. I thought I was, at one point of time, but then not anymore. So it's up to me then, to just... play my way around, feel around the crevices and make up my mind. It's raining men right now, or so it seems, and for once I don't mind getting soaked!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus...
I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus...
So I get all happy and high every year when Christmas comes knocking, and I'm excited cuz we have this great party planned tonight at the Guppie's place. Thought I'd write a suitable christmasy post, but then changed my mind and decided to collect some XXXmas eye candy instead. So here goes...
So I get all happy and high every year when Christmas comes knocking, and I'm excited cuz we have this great party planned tonight at the Guppie's place. Thought I'd write a suitable christmasy post, but then changed my mind and decided to collect some XXXmas eye candy instead. So here goes...
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Cooling My Heels
Cooling My Heels
The days since my break-up, I've gone down the predictable path of being a Break-up Boy Slut. In the past four days, I've had sex five times. Mindless, brainless fun with loads of chemistry and smiles and deliberate attempts to get the guy out of my place asap after orgasm. I've gone on a couple of dates with some cute guys with some cute smiles and I've been talking to those migratory foreign birds who arrive in Mumbai every December.
And I've been chatting with this other migratory bird who seems so perfect. All smiles and all chemistry and all sex appeal. I'm a bit overwhelmed, or at least I was, before I gave myself my early morning pep talk. It goes like this, a cute li'l ditty sung in a Busta Rhymes beat, complete with finger noddin' Black Gu-url Style:
Sex and Dating is the key
Nothing else will do for me!
I'm not going to get stuck in another relationship. Not till I'm more clear about my life. The Study plans are still on, despite the break-up, and my career needs to get in shape. And no more migratory birds for me, no way. I can deal with the penguins here in Mumbai, but not those stupid squawking birds who promise heaven and sky and then fly, fly away.
***
I've wondered what went wrong with us, and frankly I still don't know. He says, he doesn't either. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Maybe we just burnt up too bright, too fast, and it just wasn't to be. I felt that he never prioritised us enough in his life, even though it was replete with his familial and work problems... and now he says I'm right. Last night, I met him online and he told me he's received my Christmas-cum-Anniversary parcel (I'd mailed it before the break-up) and he cried on reading the cards, and told me how Karma loves the doggy treats I bought for him, and how he misses us... I tried to be all cold and said that it's a pity he didn't miss us enough when we were still together.
What I don't get is: why the f*&k is he saying all this now?! Sin says he's just a prick, and SnowWhite's Stepmother says he was never good for me. The good part, though, is that all that incessant listening to Gloria Gaynor has at least lifted my spirits: if you thought I'm moping around, thinking of my lost love, you'd be sorely mistaken. I'm loving working, joking and chatting with my friends, making Christmas and New Year plans, dating cute guys, and going out with the family (who's in town for the holidays).
Now I hold my head up high...
And you see me, somebody new...
I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you...
And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free
Now I'm saving all my loving for someone who's loving me...!
But of course... much, much later. Back to the ditty:
Sex and Dating is the key
Nothing else will do for me!
The days since my break-up, I've gone down the predictable path of being a Break-up Boy Slut. In the past four days, I've had sex five times. Mindless, brainless fun with loads of chemistry and smiles and deliberate attempts to get the guy out of my place asap after orgasm. I've gone on a couple of dates with some cute guys with some cute smiles and I've been talking to those migratory foreign birds who arrive in Mumbai every December.
And I've been chatting with this other migratory bird who seems so perfect. All smiles and all chemistry and all sex appeal. I'm a bit overwhelmed, or at least I was, before I gave myself my early morning pep talk. It goes like this, a cute li'l ditty sung in a Busta Rhymes beat, complete with finger noddin' Black Gu-url Style:
Sex and Dating is the key
Nothing else will do for me!
I'm not going to get stuck in another relationship. Not till I'm more clear about my life. The Study plans are still on, despite the break-up, and my career needs to get in shape. And no more migratory birds for me, no way. I can deal with the penguins here in Mumbai, but not those stupid squawking birds who promise heaven and sky and then fly, fly away.
***
I've wondered what went wrong with us, and frankly I still don't know. He says, he doesn't either. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Maybe we just burnt up too bright, too fast, and it just wasn't to be. I felt that he never prioritised us enough in his life, even though it was replete with his familial and work problems... and now he says I'm right. Last night, I met him online and he told me he's received my Christmas-cum-Anniversary parcel (I'd mailed it before the break-up) and he cried on reading the cards, and told me how Karma loves the doggy treats I bought for him, and how he misses us... I tried to be all cold and said that it's a pity he didn't miss us enough when we were still together.
What I don't get is: why the f*&k is he saying all this now?! Sin says he's just a prick, and SnowWhite's Stepmother says he was never good for me. The good part, though, is that all that incessant listening to Gloria Gaynor has at least lifted my spirits: if you thought I'm moping around, thinking of my lost love, you'd be sorely mistaken. I'm loving working, joking and chatting with my friends, making Christmas and New Year plans, dating cute guys, and going out with the family (who's in town for the holidays).
Now I hold my head up high...
And you see me, somebody new...
I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you...
And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free
Now I'm saving all my loving for someone who's loving me...!
But of course... much, much later. Back to the ditty:
Sex and Dating is the key
Nothing else will do for me!
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Closetalk-Boy
Closetalk-Boy
(December 29, 2005-December 15, 2006)
It's strange being single again. I thought I'd post some song lyrics here - maybe Don't Go Breaking My Heart, or even I Will Survive (god knows my flatmate is tired of hearing me play that song over and over again), but I thought, everybody already knows I'm 'histrionic', courtesy the last post, so there's really no point in being that extra OTT, is there?
Suffice to say: it didn't work out. It hasn't been working out for almost a month now, and I've been trying to hope it does. But we had a conversation the other day, and I realized I'm not ready to keep on waiting like this, hoping for some miracle. Suffice to say: it feels strange being single again.
(December 29, 2005-December 15, 2006)
It's strange being single again. I thought I'd post some song lyrics here - maybe Don't Go Breaking My Heart, or even I Will Survive (god knows my flatmate is tired of hearing me play that song over and over again), but I thought, everybody already knows I'm 'histrionic', courtesy the last post, so there's really no point in being that extra OTT, is there?
Suffice to say: it didn't work out. It hasn't been working out for almost a month now, and I've been trying to hope it does. But we had a conversation the other day, and I realized I'm not ready to keep on waiting like this, hoping for some miracle. Suffice to say: it feels strange being single again.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Yea, yea, so I'm a Drama Queen. D-uh?!
Yea, yea, so I'm a Drama Queen. D-uh?!
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Tuesday, December 12, 2006
It's A Bombay Rainbow Over Goa!
It's A Bombay Rainbow Over Goa!
It was Goa over the weekend, a loooooong weekend to hang out with pals, soothe the frayed nerves and retrain the ole flirt techniques. So CT hops on the bus with Diamond Choker Diva (Baccha, no more!), SnowWhite's Stepmother and Gupshup, and almost dies of the ensuing backache and headache, but manages to land in Mapusa in one piece nevertheless. The goal for the week: Anjuna and Baga and cute foreign gay men.
Of course, I'd already elucidated in an earlier post, how the hot gay firang men in Goa head for cover whenever CT is in the vicinity, and the situation was much the same this time around. So while we all drooled at the guy in red shorts and chiselled abs with the Microsoft backpack on his very well sculpted back, and the cute furry Israeli guy sunning himself on the beach with his wife, all of our fervent prayers could not get Microsoft man to stumble and fall on top of us, or drown the Israeli's cute wife. All of which leads me to Hypothesis 1: It's actually easier to sleep with hot gay firang men in good ole Bombay, than it is in supposedly libido-strung morally-deficient Goa - us morally-deficient gay Bombay boys didn't get any candy in Goa. *sigh*
Then, there's also Hypothesis 2, which was strung together after consultations with the rest of the boys: The online gay community in Bombay seems to be shrinking in variety and spread. It's usually the same guys night after night who come online, with the same pick-up lines and the same pictures, and the only new elements happen to be visiting foreigners or visiting NRIs. Suddenly, there's a spurt of gay NRIs - something to be expected, I suppose, every December. The new breed of Migratory Birds.
Regardless of theories and hypotheses, the boys had FUN. Breakfast (rather, brunch) at the most awesome places by the ocean, beer and more beer till we shifted to suitably pansy breesers, and plenty of rave nights to bond over. It's clear that the gay boys in Goa have a horrible deal, given the utter lack of places to hang out at, and all of this suddenly makes GB parties appear the coolest shindigs this side of the Big Apple. While SS and I were crooning godawful karaoke at Paradise, we were woefully aware that Velocity in amchi Mumbai must have been rocking at that same time to the strains of gay Shakiras and their ample hips that always lie. Aa, well, no matter - we sang I Will Survive in a way it's never been sung before (and hopefully, never will again!) and we got tremendous applause from the assembled old gay men, ugly gay men, old straight couples. (You get the point.)
But we were at our element as far as beach gear is concerned. That's where CT slips on his teeny-tiny black trunks and proceeds to cup his groin and parade up and down the Baga road. That's where DCD drapes on a pink sarong with a pink sleeveless, sashays up and down the beach a la Ursula Andress, dances like a gigolo on the steps of the beach shack when they played Shakira, and promptly gets invited for "a private party we're having later tonight". That's where SS suddenly looks dynamite in his Posh Spice pout and oversized Guess glasses, and the two of us get into rather Slutty Diva Poses on the beach, right after we shoot a spreadeagled SS in a snap that would get even me aroused! And that's where a finicky Gupshup tosses and turns his head angrily, whining that none of our snaps do him justice, till he is finally mollified by a side profile under the rainbow umbrella that looks very Greta Garbo.
Cyndi Lauper was right: girls do just wanna have fun! And we do it soooo well!
It was Goa over the weekend, a loooooong weekend to hang out with pals, soothe the frayed nerves and retrain the ole flirt techniques. So CT hops on the bus with Diamond Choker Diva (Baccha, no more!), SnowWhite's Stepmother and Gupshup, and almost dies of the ensuing backache and headache, but manages to land in Mapusa in one piece nevertheless. The goal for the week: Anjuna and Baga and cute foreign gay men.
Of course, I'd already elucidated in an earlier post, how the hot gay firang men in Goa head for cover whenever CT is in the vicinity, and the situation was much the same this time around. So while we all drooled at the guy in red shorts and chiselled abs with the Microsoft backpack on his very well sculpted back, and the cute furry Israeli guy sunning himself on the beach with his wife, all of our fervent prayers could not get Microsoft man to stumble and fall on top of us, or drown the Israeli's cute wife. All of which leads me to Hypothesis 1: It's actually easier to sleep with hot gay firang men in good ole Bombay, than it is in supposedly libido-strung morally-deficient Goa - us morally-deficient gay Bombay boys didn't get any candy in Goa. *sigh*
Then, there's also Hypothesis 2, which was strung together after consultations with the rest of the boys: The online gay community in Bombay seems to be shrinking in variety and spread. It's usually the same guys night after night who come online, with the same pick-up lines and the same pictures, and the only new elements happen to be visiting foreigners or visiting NRIs. Suddenly, there's a spurt of gay NRIs - something to be expected, I suppose, every December. The new breed of Migratory Birds.
Regardless of theories and hypotheses, the boys had FUN. Breakfast (rather, brunch) at the most awesome places by the ocean, beer and more beer till we shifted to suitably pansy breesers, and plenty of rave nights to bond over. It's clear that the gay boys in Goa have a horrible deal, given the utter lack of places to hang out at, and all of this suddenly makes GB parties appear the coolest shindigs this side of the Big Apple. While SS and I were crooning godawful karaoke at Paradise, we were woefully aware that Velocity in amchi Mumbai must have been rocking at that same time to the strains of gay Shakiras and their ample hips that always lie. Aa, well, no matter - we sang I Will Survive in a way it's never been sung before (and hopefully, never will again!) and we got tremendous applause from the assembled old gay men, ugly gay men, old straight couples. (You get the point.)
But we were at our element as far as beach gear is concerned. That's where CT slips on his teeny-tiny black trunks and proceeds to cup his groin and parade up and down the Baga road. That's where DCD drapes on a pink sarong with a pink sleeveless, sashays up and down the beach a la Ursula Andress, dances like a gigolo on the steps of the beach shack when they played Shakira, and promptly gets invited for "a private party we're having later tonight". That's where SS suddenly looks dynamite in his Posh Spice pout and oversized Guess glasses, and the two of us get into rather Slutty Diva Poses on the beach, right after we shoot a spreadeagled SS in a snap that would get even me aroused! And that's where a finicky Gupshup tosses and turns his head angrily, whining that none of our snaps do him justice, till he is finally mollified by a side profile under the rainbow umbrella that looks very Greta Garbo.
Cyndi Lauper was right: girls do just wanna have fun! And we do it soooo well!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
The Date Diet
The Date Diet
The question you're most likely to come across in a gay chatroom (after the all-too-regular "do you have place?") is "bored and horny?" That signifies: you're ready for action. Not a week later, not three days later, not even later that night - the buzzword is now. And that's quite exciting in its own right. The other day, however, while chatting with a cute investment banker based in South Bombay, he asks me how I usually prefer to have my dates.
For a second, I'm stumped. I 'm wondering whether I should just be carnal and say something like "Sex sunny side up, coffee on the side, conversation brief", but then decide against it. This guy is one of those who don't get around much - and my frankness might well cause the poor cloistered fellow heartburn. So I play safe, and ask him what he means. His reply: lunch/dinner?
Whew. Safe.
But this is actually a question I haven't dissected before, so I think for a minute, before giving him my answer: coffee. Coffee, I say, is the safest option for a first date, followed by lunch and then dinner, last of all.
This flummoxes the staid investment banker. From what he's told me, I 've gathered that a lot of his dates have met him for a movie, and attempted to neck in the dark hall - something which I find a bit icky, really - though I shouldn't, given my record of exhibitionism in the past. So, anyhow, he asks me to explain my reasoning. And I launch into my flowchat stream of Logic. (capital L).
Coffee is best, because... It's a neutral venue, got bright lighting so that you can see what the blind date (not-so-blind, if you've seen his snap online before agreeing to meet), and best of all: has flexible timings. If the guy is a complete zilch, you can a) beg off coffee, saying you got an urgent call from work and you're wanted back right away, or b) be a bit more considerate and gulp your coffee down in five minutes and rush out of the door. Or, if things start going well, you can take your time licking the cream off the rim, look longingly into his eyes, touch his fingers 'accidentally' when he reaches for the sugar cubes, and suggest that you do something else after your looooong coffee date reaches its end.
Lunch is next, because... The timings are less flexible than for coffee. You can still come up with the 'have work must run' excuse, but that has to be used as soon as you see him and not later. And, if you do decide to stick around, the coffee-in-five-minutes thing doesn't work. You have to make more of an effort at conversation here, though, because there's all that food to eat. The good part is, if it doesn't go the way you'd like it to go, you can still use the 'have lots of work' stunt to run as soon as you pay the bill - strictly, Dutch, by the way.
By this time, I'm sure than the investment banker thinks he's netted a Complete Professional, but then I'm beyond caring in my fervour, and carry on with my Logic...
Dinner is worst, because... There's that awful thing called Obligation. Plus, there's the time factor. Not so easy to duck out of the dinner thing altogether, or convert it into a coffee thing instead of a dinner thing - not unless you're a whiz at polite dismissals. Dinner is a longer deal than lunch or coffee - and the work excuse just cannot make an appearance here. Things are that much more convoluted, so you have to spend at least an hour with him. And then there's the question of "what now?" after the meal is over. The question is that much more loaded and ominous than it ever was with coffee or even lunch. That's when you gulp... and wonder what you're going to do.
CT: "So, yea, coffee is definitely best for a first date!"
Investment Banker, after two minutes of cyber-silence: "You're mad!"
Huh?!
The question you're most likely to come across in a gay chatroom (after the all-too-regular "do you have place?") is "bored and horny?" That signifies: you're ready for action. Not a week later, not three days later, not even later that night - the buzzword is now. And that's quite exciting in its own right. The other day, however, while chatting with a cute investment banker based in South Bombay, he asks me how I usually prefer to have my dates.
For a second, I'm stumped. I 'm wondering whether I should just be carnal and say something like "Sex sunny side up, coffee on the side, conversation brief", but then decide against it. This guy is one of those who don't get around much - and my frankness might well cause the poor cloistered fellow heartburn. So I play safe, and ask him what he means. His reply: lunch/dinner?
Whew. Safe.
But this is actually a question I haven't dissected before, so I think for a minute, before giving him my answer: coffee. Coffee, I say, is the safest option for a first date, followed by lunch and then dinner, last of all.
This flummoxes the staid investment banker. From what he's told me, I 've gathered that a lot of his dates have met him for a movie, and attempted to neck in the dark hall - something which I find a bit icky, really - though I shouldn't, given my record of exhibitionism in the past. So, anyhow, he asks me to explain my reasoning. And I launch into my flowchat stream of Logic. (capital L).
Coffee is best, because... It's a neutral venue, got bright lighting so that you can see what the blind date (not-so-blind, if you've seen his snap online before agreeing to meet), and best of all: has flexible timings. If the guy is a complete zilch, you can a) beg off coffee, saying you got an urgent call from work and you're wanted back right away, or b) be a bit more considerate and gulp your coffee down in five minutes and rush out of the door. Or, if things start going well, you can take your time licking the cream off the rim, look longingly into his eyes, touch his fingers 'accidentally' when he reaches for the sugar cubes, and suggest that you do something else after your looooong coffee date reaches its end.
Lunch is next, because... The timings are less flexible than for coffee. You can still come up with the 'have work must run' excuse, but that has to be used as soon as you see him and not later. And, if you do decide to stick around, the coffee-in-five-minutes thing doesn't work. You have to make more of an effort at conversation here, though, because there's all that food to eat. The good part is, if it doesn't go the way you'd like it to go, you can still use the 'have lots of work' stunt to run as soon as you pay the bill - strictly, Dutch, by the way.
By this time, I'm sure than the investment banker thinks he's netted a Complete Professional, but then I'm beyond caring in my fervour, and carry on with my Logic...
Dinner is worst, because... There's that awful thing called Obligation. Plus, there's the time factor. Not so easy to duck out of the dinner thing altogether, or convert it into a coffee thing instead of a dinner thing - not unless you're a whiz at polite dismissals. Dinner is a longer deal than lunch or coffee - and the work excuse just cannot make an appearance here. Things are that much more convoluted, so you have to spend at least an hour with him. And then there's the question of "what now?" after the meal is over. The question is that much more loaded and ominous than it ever was with coffee or even lunch. That's when you gulp... and wonder what you're going to do.
CT: "So, yea, coffee is definitely best for a first date!"
Investment Banker, after two minutes of cyber-silence: "You're mad!"
Huh?!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Back to Basics
Back to Basics
Samantha Jones: I'm a trisexual. I'll try anything once.
That's more or less the way I feel. When I get down to gay.com and the stupid asses online ask me that same clinical question: what do you like sexually, I'm really not sure how to react. A part of me would have slapped the ass if he was in front of me, the other part is chewing my lip, trying to come up with an answer that is not too insulting, exhibits my witty side, discourages him from asking too many dumb questions, and tells him that I'm the best lay he's ever going to get. Samantha has just provided me with the best quote of all for these occassions.
:)
The other night, I met up with the Penguin and Vivian for some SATC Season One viewing, and we ordered in pizza and went out to grab gelato after a couple of episodes. While chatting about stuff, I made a comment to something Vivian said, and Penguin responded with "Of all of us, I'd thought you'd be the last guy to get shocked by that!" I don't really recall now what comment I'd made, but later on, it struck me that I have this funny reputation of a Jack-of-all-trades. With good reason, perhaps. SnowWhite's Stepmother, for instance, says I routinely shock him when I tell him about my exploits - and then I wonder whether I really am that sensational. A part of me is thrilled at the thought, mind you.
Sex in the shower? Love it.
Sex in an elevator? Done it.
Sex in a park? Ho hum.
Sex with a hooker? Tick.
Getting paid for sex? I call it a 'learning experience'.
Sex in the office complex? Exciting.
Sex on the dance floor? Watch me at a GB party.
Sex with an underage kid? Yep.
Sex with a married guy with/without kids? Yes.
Sex with an old guy? Don't get shocked, but yes.
Sex with poppers? I used to live in Delhi, you know!
Sex for seven hours? *beams*
S&M sex? On both sides of the great divide.
Group sex/threesomes? That's not even considered 'kinky' these days.
Sex with foreigners? Only not with an African.
Hell, I'm even having a Long Distance Relationship, for crying out loud - and according to me, that's probably the most outrageous of everything I've done! But even as I model myself on gorgeous gorgeous Samantha Jones, I'm also aware that I'm pretty Carriesque at times. And that's scary. I whine and obsess too much about my relationships - ultra-cool Samantha never does that! And I have this blog, which is as newspaper-columny as you can get. And while I don't have frizzy unmanageable hair like Carrie Bradshaw, I'm smart enough to notice I have enough of her to make my life complicated. I have enough of her for Penguin to make that observation of me, the other day. That was one of the virtues of being Samantha - no hang-ups.
Right now, however, I have a mission: back to basics. The idea is to go back to being as much of Samantha as I used to be. No hang-ups. No obsessing. And no regrets. I'm trisexual. I'll try anything once.
Samantha Jones: I'm a trisexual. I'll try anything once.
That's more or less the way I feel. When I get down to gay.com and the stupid asses online ask me that same clinical question: what do you like sexually, I'm really not sure how to react. A part of me would have slapped the ass if he was in front of me, the other part is chewing my lip, trying to come up with an answer that is not too insulting, exhibits my witty side, discourages him from asking too many dumb questions, and tells him that I'm the best lay he's ever going to get. Samantha has just provided me with the best quote of all for these occassions.
:)
The other night, I met up with the Penguin and Vivian for some SATC Season One viewing, and we ordered in pizza and went out to grab gelato after a couple of episodes. While chatting about stuff, I made a comment to something Vivian said, and Penguin responded with "Of all of us, I'd thought you'd be the last guy to get shocked by that!" I don't really recall now what comment I'd made, but later on, it struck me that I have this funny reputation of a Jack-of-all-trades. With good reason, perhaps. SnowWhite's Stepmother, for instance, says I routinely shock him when I tell him about my exploits - and then I wonder whether I really am that sensational. A part of me is thrilled at the thought, mind you.
Sex in the shower? Love it.
Sex in an elevator? Done it.
Sex in a park? Ho hum.
Sex with a hooker? Tick.
Getting paid for sex? I call it a 'learning experience'.
Sex in the office complex? Exciting.
Sex on the dance floor? Watch me at a GB party.
Sex with an underage kid? Yep.
Sex with a married guy with/without kids? Yes.
Sex with an old guy? Don't get shocked, but yes.
Sex with poppers? I used to live in Delhi, you know!
Sex for seven hours? *beams*
S&M sex? On both sides of the great divide.
Group sex/threesomes? That's not even considered 'kinky' these days.
Sex with foreigners? Only not with an African.
Hell, I'm even having a Long Distance Relationship, for crying out loud - and according to me, that's probably the most outrageous of everything I've done! But even as I model myself on gorgeous gorgeous Samantha Jones, I'm also aware that I'm pretty Carriesque at times. And that's scary. I whine and obsess too much about my relationships - ultra-cool Samantha never does that! And I have this blog, which is as newspaper-columny as you can get. And while I don't have frizzy unmanageable hair like Carrie Bradshaw, I'm smart enough to notice I have enough of her to make my life complicated. I have enough of her for Penguin to make that observation of me, the other day. That was one of the virtues of being Samantha - no hang-ups.
Right now, however, I have a mission: back to basics. The idea is to go back to being as much of Samantha as I used to be. No hang-ups. No obsessing. And no regrets. I'm trisexual. I'll try anything once.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Her Majesty's Service
Her Majesty's Service
Well, after all the brickbats have been fired and everything, Daniel Craig is supposed to be one of the best James Bonds ever. Personally, while I think he looks more CIA than MI5, with that compact muscular body and blond tufts of hair, I don't really care about all the 'Is he the right Bond?' arguments. Honestly speaking, I thought Connery was over-rated, and Brosnan defines sexy for me, but Craig is not too bad really on the ooomph quotient. One thing I'm definitely glad of, is the fact that finally after all the Ursula Andresses and whoever they get a hunky man out of the water, dripping wet. Excuse me while I lick my lips. :)
And then, of course, there's the fact that our man is supposed to have loads of gay fans worldwide because in his latest film Infamous, he's done a man-to-man kiss, while playing Truman Capote's gay lover (rather, one of his gay lovers). Add the fact that he apparently broke his teeth in his first Bond fight sequence, and the pansy tag gets attached to him. Of course, judging from the pic down there, not much about Daniel looks pansy to me... (amen)
Then there are the amusing little online tidbits where you hear that the next Bond movie is going to keep in mind Craig's huge homosexual fan following, and include a 'homo-erotic' angle between Super Spy and Arch Villain. Wonder if our hero will then give up the tux for... tights?
And there are other strange bits of gay Bond trivia. Sample this: Pierce Brosnan thought he was gay when he was 16. Of course, good ole Pierce hurriedly adds that he didn't turn out to be actually faggoty, but there it is - the confession.
And while we've all heard about a certain flamboyant black star wanting to be the next black James Bond in Her Majesty's Service, there's also my favourite living gay personality, Rupert Everett, who says he wants to be the next gay 007.
Personally, I think he's much more MI-5 than Daniel!
Well, after all the brickbats have been fired and everything, Daniel Craig is supposed to be one of the best James Bonds ever. Personally, while I think he looks more CIA than MI5, with that compact muscular body and blond tufts of hair, I don't really care about all the 'Is he the right Bond?' arguments. Honestly speaking, I thought Connery was over-rated, and Brosnan defines sexy for me, but Craig is not too bad really on the ooomph quotient. One thing I'm definitely glad of, is the fact that finally after all the Ursula Andresses and whoever they get a hunky man out of the water, dripping wet. Excuse me while I lick my lips. :)
And then, of course, there's the fact that our man is supposed to have loads of gay fans worldwide because in his latest film Infamous, he's done a man-to-man kiss, while playing Truman Capote's gay lover (rather, one of his gay lovers). Add the fact that he apparently broke his teeth in his first Bond fight sequence, and the pansy tag gets attached to him. Of course, judging from the pic down there, not much about Daniel looks pansy to me... (amen)
Then there are the amusing little online tidbits where you hear that the next Bond movie is going to keep in mind Craig's huge homosexual fan following, and include a 'homo-erotic' angle between Super Spy and Arch Villain. Wonder if our hero will then give up the tux for... tights?
And there are other strange bits of gay Bond trivia. Sample this: Pierce Brosnan thought he was gay when he was 16. Of course, good ole Pierce hurriedly adds that he didn't turn out to be actually faggoty, but there it is - the confession.
And while we've all heard about a certain flamboyant black star wanting to be the next black James Bond in Her Majesty's Service, there's also my favourite living gay personality, Rupert Everett, who says he wants to be the next gay 007.
Personally, I think he's much more MI-5 than Daniel!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Strong Arm Tactics
Strong Arm Tactics
The other day, while the music was blaring loud at this funky pub in downtown Bombay, Helen of Troy told me that I was "very strong" for sticking on in a Long Distance Relationship, and that I was doing something really "good". At the time, I suppose I must have beamed in joy, thinking about Boy, but didn't really consider what his words meant. Hell, I've heard variations of that comment so many times from Vivian. So it really didn't hit me. Till, perhaps last night, when I was pondering over them, and wondered why they think I'm "strong" to carry on in a LDR.
Is it because of the no-everyday contact? Probably.
Is it because of the no-everyday sex? Perhaps.
Is it because I cut a sorry figure at GB parties, all dressed to kill and slut around, but going home alone each night? Most definitely!
:)
My friends are beautiful, and of course they would never imply I'm pathetic(ally strong) because I don't get laid every GB night these days. So it's not the sex part. It's the part where you realize you've found the guy you want to spend the rest of your life with - but you have to stay apart for a significant period of time. It's all about the lack of companionship, the holding hands, the everyday phone conversations, the every night dinners, and all of the stuff that you would do with someone you're crazy about. So that makes me... "strong".
And then I thought about it? Why on earth do I do it? The other night, Chimneypot and I were having this conversation, and she was telling me, she realy hoped things went well for the long haul with her boyfriend - because quite frankly, she was too tired to start from scratch if this relationship didn't succeed. I identified with her. Walking out of a GB party alone, even though I hate the fact that I'm not going to get laid, I also love the fact that I don't have to work/charm/ cruise my way so that I can find myself a mate - pun intended. Like Chimneypot, I am terrified at the thought of having to start all over again, if things with Boy don't work out - especially, since it just sort of... fell into my lap, really, without me having to really try.
But that's not the reason why I stuck it out through the absence - nor should it ever be. I don't ever want to be with a man just because I'm terrified of being without one. The reason why I'm still wearing his ring is because it felt so natural... because it fell into my lap.
Does that make sense? I want to preserve this beautiful feeling that I have for this creature who just walked into my life one fine day, and showed me such grand things. I've given him so many nicknames, attributed so many special qualities to him, and all of it because they're true. His voice on the telephone gets me grinning, and I'm thrilled to bits that he loves the sound of my laughter. I've been with my Boy, despite the distance, because in spite of all my bitching against the LDR, this one has taught me some special things.
It's taught me to be patient. To be much more at ease with myself than I have ever been. It taught me to not turn my lover into a superhuman demigod - he's human, I'm human, we're silly creatures who might slip up now and then, so be kind. It taught me to stop living my love affairs all the time like a teenager. And, yes, it did teach me to dream.
So, if HoT and Vivian thinks I'm "strong" for sticking onto this relationship, the real reason is because this relationship has made me Strong.
The other day, while the music was blaring loud at this funky pub in downtown Bombay, Helen of Troy told me that I was "very strong" for sticking on in a Long Distance Relationship, and that I was doing something really "good". At the time, I suppose I must have beamed in joy, thinking about Boy, but didn't really consider what his words meant. Hell, I've heard variations of that comment so many times from Vivian. So it really didn't hit me. Till, perhaps last night, when I was pondering over them, and wondered why they think I'm "strong" to carry on in a LDR.
Is it because of the no-everyday contact? Probably.
Is it because of the no-everyday sex? Perhaps.
Is it because I cut a sorry figure at GB parties, all dressed to kill and slut around, but going home alone each night? Most definitely!
:)
My friends are beautiful, and of course they would never imply I'm pathetic(ally strong) because I don't get laid every GB night these days. So it's not the sex part. It's the part where you realize you've found the guy you want to spend the rest of your life with - but you have to stay apart for a significant period of time. It's all about the lack of companionship, the holding hands, the everyday phone conversations, the every night dinners, and all of the stuff that you would do with someone you're crazy about. So that makes me... "strong".
And then I thought about it? Why on earth do I do it? The other night, Chimneypot and I were having this conversation, and she was telling me, she realy hoped things went well for the long haul with her boyfriend - because quite frankly, she was too tired to start from scratch if this relationship didn't succeed. I identified with her. Walking out of a GB party alone, even though I hate the fact that I'm not going to get laid, I also love the fact that I don't have to work/charm/ cruise my way so that I can find myself a mate - pun intended. Like Chimneypot, I am terrified at the thought of having to start all over again, if things with Boy don't work out - especially, since it just sort of... fell into my lap, really, without me having to really try.
But that's not the reason why I stuck it out through the absence - nor should it ever be. I don't ever want to be with a man just because I'm terrified of being without one. The reason why I'm still wearing his ring is because it felt so natural... because it fell into my lap.
Does that make sense? I want to preserve this beautiful feeling that I have for this creature who just walked into my life one fine day, and showed me such grand things. I've given him so many nicknames, attributed so many special qualities to him, and all of it because they're true. His voice on the telephone gets me grinning, and I'm thrilled to bits that he loves the sound of my laughter. I've been with my Boy, despite the distance, because in spite of all my bitching against the LDR, this one has taught me some special things.
It's taught me to be patient. To be much more at ease with myself than I have ever been. It taught me to not turn my lover into a superhuman demigod - he's human, I'm human, we're silly creatures who might slip up now and then, so be kind. It taught me to stop living my love affairs all the time like a teenager. And, yes, it did teach me to dream.
So, if HoT and Vivian thinks I'm "strong" for sticking onto this relationship, the real reason is because this relationship has made me Strong.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Shopping List Item #24678
Shopping List Item #24678
Despite what men may say and what men may want to hear, the fact is that Size Does Matter. There's a reason why I'm so proud that my Boy is B-I-G. There's a reason why size S is preferred to size M. There's a reason why the Dud of the Day is the Dud of the Day. And there's a reason why Australia's latest invention has seen HUGE sales (no pun intended) since the seven days it was announced.
The Wonderjock is a hit.
This morning, I was leafing through my copy of BombayTimes, and there was an article there asking our homegrown 'celebs' what they think of men displaying their bulges for the rest of the world to see. While some made myopic har-de-har comments about it, and others gave the usual "men still don't know what we women really want!" quote (well, of course not, dimwit dah-ling, they know what other men want!), there were a couple who were brash enough to say it like it is: well, why the heck not?! If perverted straight men like seeing big boobs on a woman, what's wrong with perverted homo/straight men seeing a big bulge beneath a hot guy's pants? The battle of the sexes is finally getting interesting, methinks!
So, this evening, I amble over to the website for those responsible for giving us the wonderjock (beautifully titled Aussie-bum) to see what they have to offer. While I grinned at the silly name of the wonderjock - it's called PATRIOT, and comes in four editions of four countries: Property of Australia/ USA/ England/ France - it's also breathtaking to see just how far the damn thing makes your package stick out. I mean.... the makers say there's no padding or rings or strings or whatnot at work here - just a simple case of a 'cup' - and yet - the effect is startlingly mouthwatering. I would love to see a guy walking with that around at the beach.
Now I know what I need to buy, ahead of my Goa trip.
Despite what men may say and what men may want to hear, the fact is that Size Does Matter. There's a reason why I'm so proud that my Boy is B-I-G. There's a reason why size S is preferred to size M. There's a reason why the Dud of the Day is the Dud of the Day. And there's a reason why Australia's latest invention has seen HUGE sales (no pun intended) since the seven days it was announced.
The Wonderjock is a hit.
This morning, I was leafing through my copy of BombayTimes, and there was an article there asking our homegrown 'celebs' what they think of men displaying their bulges for the rest of the world to see. While some made myopic har-de-har comments about it, and others gave the usual "men still don't know what we women really want!" quote (well, of course not, dimwit dah-ling, they know what other men want!), there were a couple who were brash enough to say it like it is: well, why the heck not?! If perverted straight men like seeing big boobs on a woman, what's wrong with perverted homo/straight men seeing a big bulge beneath a hot guy's pants? The battle of the sexes is finally getting interesting, methinks!
So, this evening, I amble over to the website for those responsible for giving us the wonderjock (beautifully titled Aussie-bum) to see what they have to offer. While I grinned at the silly name of the wonderjock - it's called PATRIOT, and comes in four editions of four countries: Property of Australia/ USA/ England/ France - it's also breathtaking to see just how far the damn thing makes your package stick out. I mean.... the makers say there's no padding or rings or strings or whatnot at work here - just a simple case of a 'cup' - and yet - the effect is startlingly mouthwatering. I would love to see a guy walking with that around at the beach.
Now I know what I need to buy, ahead of my Goa trip.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Some smokin' times
Some smokin' times
Chimneypot is the first friend I came out to. Ages back, over an impromptu cup of coffee at a Barista, there was an impromptu coming out, and the best part was, how well she understood me. There have been so many cups of coffee shared at that particular Barista with her, when I've accused her of flirting with the coffee-guy and she's accused me of the same, where I told her about Boy, and she told me about the love of her life.
So that, when she informed me today that she's leaving the city to be with her boyfriend by the end of this month, I was quite speechless. My first reaction: terrible! Of course, I couched that properly. I know this is what she's been looking forward to for so long now, and I know that this is probably the best thing for her. But I always kept on hoping that her boyfriend would come down here to Bombay, instead of taking her away like this from me. The thing is, in Long Distance Relationships, the rules rarely stay unbroken. And that's another reason why I hate LDRs, despite being in one myself: it forces you to choose between the love of your life and the friends who have meant so much to you for so long...
I probably shouldn't say 'choose' here. It's not that exactly - there's email, there's sms, there's the phone and all, I know, but it's not really the same, is it? Somehow, even though you tend to meet just once a week or so, knowing that the person is there, just a mere hour away, feels... reassuring. But I'll have to survive without knowing the Chimneypot is right there nearby... Hell if I can make the LDR work, I can make the Long Distance Friendship work!
In the meantime, I'm going to reproduce here, something that she wrote about me - about us - ages ago. She wanted to post it on her blog, but at that time, I asked her not to, and she gave me a copy instead. I'd given it to Boy to read while he was here, and he loved it. It's the kind of thing Chimneypot does.... the Nutcracker that she is...
An observation. I have been spending a lot of time with my gay friend. He is fun. He is perpetually happy, though certain speed breakers in his rampant sex marathon in the city finds him frowning a bit from time to time.
I walk with him, we hug each other a lot. We show affection physically. The relationship is as platonic as platonic gets. It is just good ole friendship, though we do end up talking about our sex lives a lot, my non existant one and his rampant one which is a novella-like experience each time. He gets lucky more than anyone I know. Which is good for him. Do you smell jealousy here?
So you watched 'Will and Grace', and you don't need another rext version of it. He is a friend with whom I share an increased level of comfort. (I think the fact that the 'sex' part is totally negated makes it more comfy.)
But thanks to him there have been so many firsts for me - in terms of how I have been perceived around people.
- I was the 'in-law' when I met his boyfriend.
- I am termed a fag hag by my absolute straight cousin.
- Talking about relationships, both of us bitching about guys in detail. We are on the same side of the discussion. Most people around us have their eyes knotted wondering how a man and a woman can have this sort of conversation while waiting for a play to start. (It is always too quiet before plays start. Everyone around is all ears.)
- When I am pissed of at him, I shout 'bitch', 'slut' and he does actually get offended sometimes. Flattered, most of the time.
- A cute guy walks in, and we both are looking at him. And my friend always has to smile at the guy first.
:)
Just observations.
He is my bestest friend.
And she is mine.
Chimneypot is the first friend I came out to. Ages back, over an impromptu cup of coffee at a Barista, there was an impromptu coming out, and the best part was, how well she understood me. There have been so many cups of coffee shared at that particular Barista with her, when I've accused her of flirting with the coffee-guy and she's accused me of the same, where I told her about Boy, and she told me about the love of her life.
So that, when she informed me today that she's leaving the city to be with her boyfriend by the end of this month, I was quite speechless. My first reaction: terrible! Of course, I couched that properly. I know this is what she's been looking forward to for so long now, and I know that this is probably the best thing for her. But I always kept on hoping that her boyfriend would come down here to Bombay, instead of taking her away like this from me. The thing is, in Long Distance Relationships, the rules rarely stay unbroken. And that's another reason why I hate LDRs, despite being in one myself: it forces you to choose between the love of your life and the friends who have meant so much to you for so long...
I probably shouldn't say 'choose' here. It's not that exactly - there's email, there's sms, there's the phone and all, I know, but it's not really the same, is it? Somehow, even though you tend to meet just once a week or so, knowing that the person is there, just a mere hour away, feels... reassuring. But I'll have to survive without knowing the Chimneypot is right there nearby... Hell if I can make the LDR work, I can make the Long Distance Friendship work!
In the meantime, I'm going to reproduce here, something that she wrote about me - about us - ages ago. She wanted to post it on her blog, but at that time, I asked her not to, and she gave me a copy instead. I'd given it to Boy to read while he was here, and he loved it. It's the kind of thing Chimneypot does.... the Nutcracker that she is...
An observation. I have been spending a lot of time with my gay friend. He is fun. He is perpetually happy, though certain speed breakers in his rampant sex marathon in the city finds him frowning a bit from time to time.
I walk with him, we hug each other a lot. We show affection physically. The relationship is as platonic as platonic gets. It is just good ole friendship, though we do end up talking about our sex lives a lot, my non existant one and his rampant one which is a novella-like experience each time. He gets lucky more than anyone I know. Which is good for him. Do you smell jealousy here?
So you watched 'Will and Grace', and you don't need another rext version of it. He is a friend with whom I share an increased level of comfort. (I think the fact that the 'sex' part is totally negated makes it more comfy.)
But thanks to him there have been so many firsts for me - in terms of how I have been perceived around people.
- I was the 'in-law' when I met his boyfriend.
- I am termed a fag hag by my absolute straight cousin.
- Talking about relationships, both of us bitching about guys in detail. We are on the same side of the discussion. Most people around us have their eyes knotted wondering how a man and a woman can have this sort of conversation while waiting for a play to start. (It is always too quiet before plays start. Everyone around is all ears.)
- When I am pissed of at him, I shout 'bitch', 'slut' and he does actually get offended sometimes. Flattered, most of the time.
- A cute guy walks in, and we both are looking at him. And my friend always has to smile at the guy first.
:)
Just observations.
He is my bestest friend.
And she is mine.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Closetalk and Don
Don: Jungli billiyan mujhe pasand hain (I like wild cats like you)
Closetalk: Mujhe bhee! (Me too!)
Sometime back, I'd blogged about how yummy and uber-cool SRK has been looking in the promos of Don. Well, I finally went to catch the movie tonight, with Viv (earlier, named Emily) and it was simply awesome! For those who came in late, it's a remake of a 1978 Hindi movie, complete with international gangsters across continents and all sorts of amazing Matrix moves and costumes. My stupid assistant at work commented, "It has everything but the blind mother", and though she didn't mean that kindly, I'll agree with her on the sheer versatlity of the film - the movie has everything you would ever dream of in cinema: humour, romance, action (tons of it!), mistaken identity, adopted children, gangsta rap, sexy molls, scintillating music, and a twist in the tale. The plot is way too complicated for a single blog post, so I'm not going to even attempt that here.
Viv and I had been dying to see the movie, ever since the promos with SRK first started airing. The man wears his coolest clothes ever here, and the new way to wear a tie nowadays is inside the shirt, not over it. His sunglasses are the hippest ever, and his shoes are divine. Memorable line any (and every) gay man will treasure: when Don tells his colleague, after killing his traitorous assisstant, "Always make sure you check the shoes before you hire anyone!" *in Hindi* Clappity-clap go all the Red Tapes and Manolos! ;-)
Aside from SRK, Viv and I were going gaga over most of the men onscreen. List of candidates include:
1. The cute police inspector who looked dapper in his suit while briefing the Malaysian cops, and showed off his sexy butt like anything in his tight khaki police uniform while chasing Don in the jungles - the camera for some reason kept on panning to his butt, not that we complained. Sadly, I just could not find out his name on imdb.com.
2. India's First Beauty King, Grasim Mr India 1998 Diwakar Pundir who plays a sidey role as the informant who Don bumps off. Viv says, Diwakar has appeared in TV serials in Speedos - that means, I must start seeing soaps now. *drool*
3. An ugly ape called Mac who plays Don's moll's pet poodle. Viv kept on gushing about his barrel chest. Loudly.
4. Arjun Rampal, who of course had Viv gasping every time he did a push-up. Beats me though, how the character is able to beat Don to a pulp if he's supposed to be limping throughout.
Viv also informed me that the two producers of the movie, Farhan Akhtar and Ritesh Sidhwani are rumoured to be gay lovers. When I pointed out that both were married and Farhan's wife is expecting their second child, Viv promptly pointed back that that was hardly an obstacle to be gay lovers, ala SRK and Karan Johar. So, then, Viv and I started fantasising about possible sexual roles (top/ bottom/ whatever) between SRK and Karan, SRK and Farhan, Farhan and Ritesh, and even maybe Farhan and Hrithik Roshan (Hrithik was the original choice for Don, but then SRK was roped in instead). And all this at voices loud enough for the entire theatre to hear whom we considered 'hotttt' and who was 'sexxxxyy' *please include giggly gay squeals*.
I'm hoping I won't be sued for this post.
But let it not be said that all our attention was focused on the men. When Guest Star Kareena did her Helen-number lying down on the rug, I nudged Viv in the ribs and coo-ed, "I looooove that rug!" and Viv agreed with me. Honestly, that golden dress they dressed Kareena in for thatnumber was garish like hell - and every time she did her jhatkas, you could see the cellulite dangling on her arms. Ew, ew and all that...!
Isha the Moll was perfect. She did absolutely nothing, had about three lines of dialogue to say in the movie, looked suitably devilish in her Item Number and the climax, suitably jealous in Title Song as Don flirted with the Heroine. She kept on changing her hairdos with such vigour that Viv and I were left gasping in admiration. First the bouffant, then the empire wig, then the plaits, then the.... most perfect moll ever!
Heroine Priyanka enters the scene with a very weird set of karate exercises and then proceeds to get all Power Puff Girl-meets-Mushy Thing for the rest of the movie. Her all-white outfit, teamed with the white bike, when she she 'rescues' Don was superb. And though she replied to Isha's jealous glares with great bugger-off-lassie looks of her own, she was looking a teeny weeny plump in that hideous pink gown she wore during Title Song.
Best songs from the album: Aaj ki raat is wonderfully pacy and retro - complete with shiny disco ball in the video, and has Hero, Heroine and Moll boogeying together in a line. Waiting for GB to play it at their next party - pretty please! Then there was the famous oldHelen-newKareena number, Ye Mere Dil, which was a great remix. Title Song, Main Hoon Don was so racy, it was simply great - old tune but wonderfully remixed to set the dance floor on fire. Perfect for egoistic divas like me on the GB dance floor to proclaim to the world. :)
O, and you must check out SRK's outfit in Title Song: dark purple silk shirt under dark purple velvet jacket having Chinese collar and huge lace-embroidered buttons, teamed with slim-fitted cord trousers, and sleeeeeeeeeeek Givenchy shades.
Instant hard-on.
Closetalk: Mujhe bhee! (Me too!)
Sometime back, I'd blogged about how yummy and uber-cool SRK has been looking in the promos of Don. Well, I finally went to catch the movie tonight, with Viv (earlier, named Emily) and it was simply awesome! For those who came in late, it's a remake of a 1978 Hindi movie, complete with international gangsters across continents and all sorts of amazing Matrix moves and costumes. My stupid assistant at work commented, "It has everything but the blind mother", and though she didn't mean that kindly, I'll agree with her on the sheer versatlity of the film - the movie has everything you would ever dream of in cinema: humour, romance, action (tons of it!), mistaken identity, adopted children, gangsta rap, sexy molls, scintillating music, and a twist in the tale. The plot is way too complicated for a single blog post, so I'm not going to even attempt that here.
Viv and I had been dying to see the movie, ever since the promos with SRK first started airing. The man wears his coolest clothes ever here, and the new way to wear a tie nowadays is inside the shirt, not over it. His sunglasses are the hippest ever, and his shoes are divine. Memorable line any (and every) gay man will treasure: when Don tells his colleague, after killing his traitorous assisstant, "Always make sure you check the shoes before you hire anyone!" *in Hindi* Clappity-clap go all the Red Tapes and Manolos! ;-)
Aside from SRK, Viv and I were going gaga over most of the men onscreen. List of candidates include:
1. The cute police inspector who looked dapper in his suit while briefing the Malaysian cops, and showed off his sexy butt like anything in his tight khaki police uniform while chasing Don in the jungles - the camera for some reason kept on panning to his butt, not that we complained. Sadly, I just could not find out his name on imdb.com.
2. India's First Beauty King, Grasim Mr India 1998 Diwakar Pundir who plays a sidey role as the informant who Don bumps off. Viv says, Diwakar has appeared in TV serials in Speedos - that means, I must start seeing soaps now. *drool*
3. An ugly ape called Mac who plays Don's moll's pet poodle. Viv kept on gushing about his barrel chest. Loudly.
4. Arjun Rampal, who of course had Viv gasping every time he did a push-up. Beats me though, how the character is able to beat Don to a pulp if he's supposed to be limping throughout.
Viv also informed me that the two producers of the movie, Farhan Akhtar and Ritesh Sidhwani are rumoured to be gay lovers. When I pointed out that both were married and Farhan's wife is expecting their second child, Viv promptly pointed back that that was hardly an obstacle to be gay lovers, ala SRK and Karan Johar. So, then, Viv and I started fantasising about possible sexual roles (top/ bottom/ whatever) between SRK and Karan, SRK and Farhan, Farhan and Ritesh, and even maybe Farhan and Hrithik Roshan (Hrithik was the original choice for Don, but then SRK was roped in instead). And all this at voices loud enough for the entire theatre to hear whom we considered 'hotttt' and who was 'sexxxxyy' *please include giggly gay squeals*.
I'm hoping I won't be sued for this post.
But let it not be said that all our attention was focused on the men. When Guest Star Kareena did her Helen-number lying down on the rug, I nudged Viv in the ribs and coo-ed, "I looooove that rug!" and Viv agreed with me. Honestly, that golden dress they dressed Kareena in for thatnumber was garish like hell - and every time she did her jhatkas, you could see the cellulite dangling on her arms. Ew, ew and all that...!
Isha the Moll was perfect. She did absolutely nothing, had about three lines of dialogue to say in the movie, looked suitably devilish in her Item Number and the climax, suitably jealous in Title Song as Don flirted with the Heroine. She kept on changing her hairdos with such vigour that Viv and I were left gasping in admiration. First the bouffant, then the empire wig, then the plaits, then the.... most perfect moll ever!
Heroine Priyanka enters the scene with a very weird set of karate exercises and then proceeds to get all Power Puff Girl-meets-Mushy Thing for the rest of the movie. Her all-white outfit, teamed with the white bike, when she she 'rescues' Don was superb. And though she replied to Isha's jealous glares with great bugger-off-lassie looks of her own, she was looking a teeny weeny plump in that hideous pink gown she wore during Title Song.
Best songs from the album: Aaj ki raat is wonderfully pacy and retro - complete with shiny disco ball in the video, and has Hero, Heroine and Moll boogeying together in a line. Waiting for GB to play it at their next party - pretty please! Then there was the famous oldHelen-newKareena number, Ye Mere Dil, which was a great remix. Title Song, Main Hoon Don was so racy, it was simply great - old tune but wonderfully remixed to set the dance floor on fire. Perfect for egoistic divas like me on the GB dance floor to proclaim to the world. :)
O, and you must check out SRK's outfit in Title Song: dark purple silk shirt under dark purple velvet jacket having Chinese collar and huge lace-embroidered buttons, teamed with slim-fitted cord trousers, and sleeeeeeeeeeek Givenchy shades.
Instant hard-on.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The Bitchy Avatar, Anonymity be damned!
The Bitchy Avatar, Anonymity be damned!
The first rule of starting this blog very clear: I'm going to be nameless. That's why I invented the ridiculous name of Closetalk/CT/whatever to fit the role of the gay immigrant guy in Bombay, and tried a myriad of silly things that would cloak my identity. Enter the whole 'delete blog name from the username profile'. Delete all reference to the other (sort-of straight) blogs. All of that was not just cuz I was in the whole closet thing, but also cuz I knew from the very start, being the kind of guy I am, I'd soon end up dissing some guys here and there, be a first-rate bitch now and then, and I just didn't want to deal with any of that on my conscience. So, Closetalk was supposed to be nameless, faceless.
Obviously, I haven't been exactly successful.
I don't know if it's inevitable or not, with blogs like this one - that you tend to get to know the readers out of cyberland, and that same old level of anonymity of course doesn't exist any more then. And I don't know whether it's just as inevitable, that once that threshold is crossed, another one gets crossed too: sometimes, it's not just your readers who know who you are; sometimes, the reader turns out to be someone who knows who you are in real life. And that can be embarassing when you've just penned a not-so-flattering account of that person.
I felt awkward when that happened, but then, at the risk of sounding inconsiderate, I shrugged my shoulders, and decided that there's no use in crying over spilt milk: if I bitched about someone online on my (supposedly anonymous) blog, then it's pretty obvious I didn't care too much for this person ever, and hell, it's supposed to be a flaky blog in any case. If you're going to get all ruffled up about a random blog account by a (more or less random) guy whom you met here and there, (may have slept with a couple of times), but then that's it - hell, you seriously need to get a life.
Ummm.. ok, that sounded decidedly inconsiderate, na? O shucks, what the hell...!
***
On a tangential note, I love playing around with Yahoo Avatars these days. Have designed some ten-odd avatars already, and I'm going to keep on changing/adding new ones to my existing list. It helps that you can now convert them into JPEG form and store them in your online/offline album. So, while the one below was my first avatar, labeled Corporate Kaleido, the one I've put in the left hand column on the side is my Rainbow Boy avatar...
Pink is pretty, na? Even on a suit. Aaa, well.... Fashion Week is on, so I'm excused! *grin*
The first rule of starting this blog very clear: I'm going to be nameless. That's why I invented the ridiculous name of Closetalk/CT/whatever to fit the role of the gay immigrant guy in Bombay, and tried a myriad of silly things that would cloak my identity. Enter the whole 'delete blog name from the username profile'. Delete all reference to the other (sort-of straight) blogs. All of that was not just cuz I was in the whole closet thing, but also cuz I knew from the very start, being the kind of guy I am, I'd soon end up dissing some guys here and there, be a first-rate bitch now and then, and I just didn't want to deal with any of that on my conscience. So, Closetalk was supposed to be nameless, faceless.
Obviously, I haven't been exactly successful.
I don't know if it's inevitable or not, with blogs like this one - that you tend to get to know the readers out of cyberland, and that same old level of anonymity of course doesn't exist any more then. And I don't know whether it's just as inevitable, that once that threshold is crossed, another one gets crossed too: sometimes, it's not just your readers who know who you are; sometimes, the reader turns out to be someone who knows who you are in real life. And that can be embarassing when you've just penned a not-so-flattering account of that person.
I felt awkward when that happened, but then, at the risk of sounding inconsiderate, I shrugged my shoulders, and decided that there's no use in crying over spilt milk: if I bitched about someone online on my (supposedly anonymous) blog, then it's pretty obvious I didn't care too much for this person ever, and hell, it's supposed to be a flaky blog in any case. If you're going to get all ruffled up about a random blog account by a (more or less random) guy whom you met here and there, (may have slept with a couple of times), but then that's it - hell, you seriously need to get a life.
Ummm.. ok, that sounded decidedly inconsiderate, na? O shucks, what the hell...!
***
On a tangential note, I love playing around with Yahoo Avatars these days. Have designed some ten-odd avatars already, and I'm going to keep on changing/adding new ones to my existing list. It helps that you can now convert them into JPEG form and store them in your online/offline album. So, while the one below was my first avatar, labeled Corporate Kaleido, the one I've put in the left hand column on the side is my Rainbow Boy avatar...
Pink is pretty, na? Even on a suit. Aaa, well.... Fashion Week is on, so I'm excused! *grin*
Monday, October 30, 2006
It's All About Voodoo
It's All About Voodoo
As much as I get peeved when Emily proclaims that this blog is 'all about the boi', it's true that the Boy often gets noticed in asides here and there in various blog posts - when he's not the theme of an expanded ode, per se.
*goofy grin*
Like, the other night, when the Inner Circle hit Voodoo's at Colaba, and I couldn't help but remember back to when Boy and I would visit the place, while he was in Bombay. And though I would moan and groan and complain that it was too seedy for words, I would usually give in, and go along with him, cuz he had a point when he said there was a paucity of place in the city where two men can slow-dance. ;-) And, no matter how many men jerk off in the loos at Voodoo's, or how many trannys hit on old uncle-jis, Voodoo's continues to have indelible memories for me. Despite bumping into four very hot old f*(&buddies on the dance floor the other night, and no pun intended on 'bumping into',...
... indelible memories.
As much as I get peeved when Emily proclaims that this blog is 'all about the boi', it's true that the Boy often gets noticed in asides here and there in various blog posts - when he's not the theme of an expanded ode, per se.
*goofy grin*
Like, the other night, when the Inner Circle hit Voodoo's at Colaba, and I couldn't help but remember back to when Boy and I would visit the place, while he was in Bombay. And though I would moan and groan and complain that it was too seedy for words, I would usually give in, and go along with him, cuz he had a point when he said there was a paucity of place in the city where two men can slow-dance. ;-) And, no matter how many men jerk off in the loos at Voodoo's, or how many trannys hit on old uncle-jis, Voodoo's continues to have indelible memories for me. Despite bumping into four very hot old f*(&buddies on the dance floor the other night, and no pun intended on 'bumping into',...
... indelible memories.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Surprise, surprise...!
Surprise, surprise...!
It's funny how you bump into your old One Night Stands when you least expect it. I mean, when you're grooving on the floor of a GB party, you're sort of mentally prepared when a hot ONS comes by and grabs your ass - you know how to grin back naughtily and act all slutty for him just the right amount, so that he gets a hard-on the next time he sees you, but then knows fully well that you're not having sex unless you call him for it. Or when, you see him lurking at the bar, a specimen that you're not particularly ptoud to have bedded, so after the initial spurt of nausea, you turn smartly away and don't let it spoil your evening.
But what about when you're walking down the street, just a couple of blocks away from your office, and coming towards you from the other end, is this guy whom you had sex with ages ago...? I disovered the other week that the Antiques Store next to my office building is owned by one such ONS, whom we shall label Snooty Antiques Guy.
Now I met SAG first at a party thrown by my friend the Travel Agent, and while it was clear that he was pretty hot (one of those rare Parsi boys who visit the gym regularly and are bestowed with bulging ripplying muscles), it was also clear that he had a major attitude problem. The man hung around with Page 3 types, and strictly Page 3 types - and possessed none of the humility that Travel Agent does, even though he hangs around with the same people. But then, there's nothing really to break down your self-inflicted class barriers than a good horny spell, and so many weeks later when I encountered SAG in a gay chatroom, he figured that at least I knew Travel Agent and wasn't a complete pariah... and so he came over.
No use in lying: it was an excellent bonk! *grin*
But, predictably enough, he never called back, and neither did I. And even though, I may have asked Travel Agent about SAG's whereabouts a coupla times later after the bonk, it was purely out of carnal curiosity. SAG was firmly swept under the let's-not-talk-about-this carpet.
Until I see him on the sidewalk in front of my office the other week.
Clearly, he recognized me, even as I did him, and though both of us were a bit shocked at first, we quickly pulled the nonchalance blinds back up, masters of the game that we both are, and strolled past each other. Four, five, six paces, and then I discreetly turn back to see him enter the antique store next to my office, and that's when he had also stopped to hazard a glance back at me. He disappeared inside then, and I walked on, and that's when I remembered him saying, many moons ago, how he was into old furniture restoration and antiques. When I saw him a second time, smoking outside the door with some assisstant, it was quite amusing, really, to realise that I now work next door to a very snooty ONS. *chuckle*
***
And then, there're the times when you bump into someone at the GB party whom you never really expected to or wanted to. In my case, it was another snooty specimen, Pansy School Friend, with whom I was all pally straight through my eighth and tenth standards. We formed a trio, PSF, another guy and myself. My parents hated PSF, because they felt he was responsible for some of my effeminate actions - permit me to giggle here awhile - but I resolutely stuck on with him, even though he was rather offhand with me, and kept on going gaga over the other guy in our trio. That was when he kept on saying that CT looked stupid in the school tie, and wasn't as good looking as himself and the other guy.
Many, many, many years later - my, how the tables have turned. CT has lost oodles of weight since those Puppy Fat Years, and dances like a complete diva/dervish at GB parties. And PSF stands like a lecherous old swine, with a big bumpy paunch sticking straight out, waiting to hit on hotties like me.
*grin* I love how deliciously evil fate can be.
Though I'm fairly certain that it is PSF at these parties, I haven't ever gone over and reintroduced myself. I think I saw a start of recognition from him, when we made eye contact briefly, but I turned around quickly then and dragged my drink (and my arm candy) to the dance floor.
No point saying hello to the ugly people, as SnowWhite's Stepmother would have said. ;-)
It's funny how you bump into your old One Night Stands when you least expect it. I mean, when you're grooving on the floor of a GB party, you're sort of mentally prepared when a hot ONS comes by and grabs your ass - you know how to grin back naughtily and act all slutty for him just the right amount, so that he gets a hard-on the next time he sees you, but then knows fully well that you're not having sex unless you call him for it. Or when, you see him lurking at the bar, a specimen that you're not particularly ptoud to have bedded, so after the initial spurt of nausea, you turn smartly away and don't let it spoil your evening.
But what about when you're walking down the street, just a couple of blocks away from your office, and coming towards you from the other end, is this guy whom you had sex with ages ago...? I disovered the other week that the Antiques Store next to my office building is owned by one such ONS, whom we shall label Snooty Antiques Guy.
Now I met SAG first at a party thrown by my friend the Travel Agent, and while it was clear that he was pretty hot (one of those rare Parsi boys who visit the gym regularly and are bestowed with bulging ripplying muscles), it was also clear that he had a major attitude problem. The man hung around with Page 3 types, and strictly Page 3 types - and possessed none of the humility that Travel Agent does, even though he hangs around with the same people. But then, there's nothing really to break down your self-inflicted class barriers than a good horny spell, and so many weeks later when I encountered SAG in a gay chatroom, he figured that at least I knew Travel Agent and wasn't a complete pariah... and so he came over.
No use in lying: it was an excellent bonk! *grin*
But, predictably enough, he never called back, and neither did I. And even though, I may have asked Travel Agent about SAG's whereabouts a coupla times later after the bonk, it was purely out of carnal curiosity. SAG was firmly swept under the let's-not-talk-about-this carpet.
Until I see him on the sidewalk in front of my office the other week.
Clearly, he recognized me, even as I did him, and though both of us were a bit shocked at first, we quickly pulled the nonchalance blinds back up, masters of the game that we both are, and strolled past each other. Four, five, six paces, and then I discreetly turn back to see him enter the antique store next to my office, and that's when he had also stopped to hazard a glance back at me. He disappeared inside then, and I walked on, and that's when I remembered him saying, many moons ago, how he was into old furniture restoration and antiques. When I saw him a second time, smoking outside the door with some assisstant, it was quite amusing, really, to realise that I now work next door to a very snooty ONS. *chuckle*
***
And then, there're the times when you bump into someone at the GB party whom you never really expected to or wanted to. In my case, it was another snooty specimen, Pansy School Friend, with whom I was all pally straight through my eighth and tenth standards. We formed a trio, PSF, another guy and myself. My parents hated PSF, because they felt he was responsible for some of my effeminate actions - permit me to giggle here awhile - but I resolutely stuck on with him, even though he was rather offhand with me, and kept on going gaga over the other guy in our trio. That was when he kept on saying that CT looked stupid in the school tie, and wasn't as good looking as himself and the other guy.
Many, many, many years later - my, how the tables have turned. CT has lost oodles of weight since those Puppy Fat Years, and dances like a complete diva/dervish at GB parties. And PSF stands like a lecherous old swine, with a big bumpy paunch sticking straight out, waiting to hit on hotties like me.
*grin* I love how deliciously evil fate can be.
Though I'm fairly certain that it is PSF at these parties, I haven't ever gone over and reintroduced myself. I think I saw a start of recognition from him, when we made eye contact briefly, but I turned around quickly then and dragged my drink (and my arm candy) to the dance floor.
No point saying hello to the ugly people, as SnowWhite's Stepmother would have said. ;-)
Friday, October 20, 2006
Night OUT!
Night OUT!
Hitting a GB party usually means getting drunk while dressing furiously, checking yourself out regularly in the full-length mirror, and playful 'gal-pal' phone conversations with Inner Circle members. Not that any of us treat GB parties with so much prominence, but you have to admit: going to Velocity to dance your twinkle toes off, hitting on cute hunks, and jiving to that latest track from Don does get the adrenaline pumping.
Decided look of the night: Gay Preppie College Boy.
Mix: Blue T-Shirt with big white DISCO letters asking cockily Can You Afford Me? worn over white and blue striped full-sleeve shirt, Benetton style, teamed with white three-fourths, white sneakers and white ankle socks.
Net effect: Uttery Devastating. CT preens before full-length mirror for a full ten minutes, and glugs a glasss of red wine, before skipping down the stairs of his apartment building and hopping into a cab.
Velocity is rocking tonight! Hugs galore with Gay Journo Activist at door, and then we're through. Apologies to Allygatorlover for not making his party last week, schmooze schmooze, sometimes I like to play the social butterfly, flit, flit, fly. The DJ is playing iconic tracks like I Will Survive and YMCA, and CT is jumping up and down ecstatically, accusing Hotel Boy of being a Bihari-type because he wants to ditch the upper lounge for the lower level which is playing Beedi at the momemt. This is a complete 'egads' moment, and I admit I'm a snooty prick.
Spied in the corner: Parsi couple engaging in latino dance steps, a lot of silly twirling and pansy sidestepping. Screams out loud: wannabe. Yawn, yawn, especially since both are complete nerdy types whom nobody else would want to sleep with. Steps go wrong in a bout of wilfulness, and one Parsi flings his hand at Hotel Boy's drink, spilling it. Mortification.
Leave it to the masters, dah-lings: CT steps onto the podium with Sexy Parsi, and the two set about grabbing eyeballs immediatelly. Variety of sexy moves, thrusts and jhatkas, and I looove dancing with Sexy Parsi. The boy has oodles of attitude and oomph. ;-)
Eye Candies from bygone era: There was Steamy Irani and Muscled Event Guy who sauntered over to hug. Sweet and surprising, and it took a lot of willpower to not go over and dirty-dance with them, because I know what that will lead to - the inevitable question between breathless bouts of passionate kissing on the dance floor: your place or mine? Instead, I kept on chanting to myself, You have a boyfriend, you have a boyfriend, and focused all my slutty energies on SnowWhite's Stepmother - which really doesn't count. CT pushes SS down on the couch and mounts him, performing a very raunchy lapdance that goes down in the annals of GB party sights.
SMS sent during the course of the party to Boy: At t Diwali GB party and I miss you. We're gonna be great when we dance together again, darlling. *smiley face* I love you.
Yes, I know it's 4-fuckin-a.m in the morning now, and I'm a taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad high right now, but my Boy is beeeeaaaa-yooooo-teeee-ful. *bashful grin*
Hitting a GB party usually means getting drunk while dressing furiously, checking yourself out regularly in the full-length mirror, and playful 'gal-pal' phone conversations with Inner Circle members. Not that any of us treat GB parties with so much prominence, but you have to admit: going to Velocity to dance your twinkle toes off, hitting on cute hunks, and jiving to that latest track from Don does get the adrenaline pumping.
Decided look of the night: Gay Preppie College Boy.
Mix: Blue T-Shirt with big white DISCO letters asking cockily Can You Afford Me? worn over white and blue striped full-sleeve shirt, Benetton style, teamed with white three-fourths, white sneakers and white ankle socks.
Net effect: Uttery Devastating. CT preens before full-length mirror for a full ten minutes, and glugs a glasss of red wine, before skipping down the stairs of his apartment building and hopping into a cab.
Velocity is rocking tonight! Hugs galore with Gay Journo Activist at door, and then we're through. Apologies to Allygatorlover for not making his party last week, schmooze schmooze, sometimes I like to play the social butterfly, flit, flit, fly. The DJ is playing iconic tracks like I Will Survive and YMCA, and CT is jumping up and down ecstatically, accusing Hotel Boy of being a Bihari-type because he wants to ditch the upper lounge for the lower level which is playing Beedi at the momemt. This is a complete 'egads' moment, and I admit I'm a snooty prick.
Spied in the corner: Parsi couple engaging in latino dance steps, a lot of silly twirling and pansy sidestepping. Screams out loud: wannabe. Yawn, yawn, especially since both are complete nerdy types whom nobody else would want to sleep with. Steps go wrong in a bout of wilfulness, and one Parsi flings his hand at Hotel Boy's drink, spilling it. Mortification.
Leave it to the masters, dah-lings: CT steps onto the podium with Sexy Parsi, and the two set about grabbing eyeballs immediatelly. Variety of sexy moves, thrusts and jhatkas, and I looove dancing with Sexy Parsi. The boy has oodles of attitude and oomph. ;-)
Eye Candies from bygone era: There was Steamy Irani and Muscled Event Guy who sauntered over to hug. Sweet and surprising, and it took a lot of willpower to not go over and dirty-dance with them, because I know what that will lead to - the inevitable question between breathless bouts of passionate kissing on the dance floor: your place or mine? Instead, I kept on chanting to myself, You have a boyfriend, you have a boyfriend, and focused all my slutty energies on SnowWhite's Stepmother - which really doesn't count. CT pushes SS down on the couch and mounts him, performing a very raunchy lapdance that goes down in the annals of GB party sights.
SMS sent during the course of the party to Boy: At t Diwali GB party and I miss you. We're gonna be great when we dance together again, darlling. *smiley face* I love you.
Yes, I know it's 4-fuckin-a.m in the morning now, and I'm a taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad high right now, but my Boy is beeeeaaaa-yooooo-teeee-ful. *bashful grin*
Monday, October 16, 2006
Shopping Cart
Shopping Cart
Today, I decided to take the plunge. So I walked across the street of my office, and strode upto the guy who always stands there, adorning the wall behind him with magazines having covers of semi-naked men. A gay porn dealer right there in the middle of Bombay's busy busy financial district, a stone's throw away from a girls' school.
Note to self: First law of Entrepreneurship is Location, location, location...!
So the guy looks at me, with a very cheesy grin on his face, and asks me what I want. I briefly considered feigning naivette and asking whether these were all bodybuilding mags, but his cheesy grin told me I would have no reason to. So, the guy proclaims proudly, "All I have is gay dvd. Good quality gay dvd. Nowhere else in Bombay", even as his ratty looking assisstant (probably a nephew from Ulhasnagar) shrinks back in obvious mortification.
A part of me was wondering whether the guy was gay himself, and whether he watches the stuff that he sells, but I decided to be all business-like and went on to price issues, instead. "Not worth Rs 500," I dismissed, when he told me what he was charging, "The guys outside there charge Rs 80 for straight porn - "
"They charge Rs 80, because they have what everyone else does, sir! My shop is the only one in Bombay with pure gay dvd," interrupted the smooth operator, quite proudly. "How much will you give? Tell me."
And then his face blanched when I told him my limit was Rs 100. "How many will you take? Ok, I'll give you for Rs 200, how's that?"
I was quite enjoying myself, engaging in not-so discreet haggling about gay porn right there in the middle of a busy intersection, where the nuns from the nearby school could easily have been passing by, and I wondered to myself, whether he gets a lot of business from the 'straight-acting' bankers that flock to this part of town everyday. Wondered whether the guy's shop could be used as a slightly sleazy pick-up joint, but then I told him that a hundred bucks was as far as I was willing to go, and that I would first take one and check the quality at home before venturing to buy more.
He sadly shrugged his shoulders, while I smiled and resumed my walk towards the office.
I'm thinking of passing by his stall again tomorrow, with my straight colleague (who I'm out to), and scandalize them both, by pointing out the stall to him. That would ensure, the guy knows I'm a regular, and if he gives me a dvd cheap and which doesn't hang my system, I'll be back for more. On day three, I'll suggest that he gives me two for three hundred bucks, instead of one for two hundred.
;-)
Today, I decided to take the plunge. So I walked across the street of my office, and strode upto the guy who always stands there, adorning the wall behind him with magazines having covers of semi-naked men. A gay porn dealer right there in the middle of Bombay's busy busy financial district, a stone's throw away from a girls' school.
Note to self: First law of Entrepreneurship is Location, location, location...!
So the guy looks at me, with a very cheesy grin on his face, and asks me what I want. I briefly considered feigning naivette and asking whether these were all bodybuilding mags, but his cheesy grin told me I would have no reason to. So, the guy proclaims proudly, "All I have is gay dvd. Good quality gay dvd. Nowhere else in Bombay", even as his ratty looking assisstant (probably a nephew from Ulhasnagar) shrinks back in obvious mortification.
A part of me was wondering whether the guy was gay himself, and whether he watches the stuff that he sells, but I decided to be all business-like and went on to price issues, instead. "Not worth Rs 500," I dismissed, when he told me what he was charging, "The guys outside there charge Rs 80 for straight porn - "
"They charge Rs 80, because they have what everyone else does, sir! My shop is the only one in Bombay with pure gay dvd," interrupted the smooth operator, quite proudly. "How much will you give? Tell me."
And then his face blanched when I told him my limit was Rs 100. "How many will you take? Ok, I'll give you for Rs 200, how's that?"
I was quite enjoying myself, engaging in not-so discreet haggling about gay porn right there in the middle of a busy intersection, where the nuns from the nearby school could easily have been passing by, and I wondered to myself, whether he gets a lot of business from the 'straight-acting' bankers that flock to this part of town everyday. Wondered whether the guy's shop could be used as a slightly sleazy pick-up joint, but then I told him that a hundred bucks was as far as I was willing to go, and that I would first take one and check the quality at home before venturing to buy more.
He sadly shrugged his shoulders, while I smiled and resumed my walk towards the office.
I'm thinking of passing by his stall again tomorrow, with my straight colleague (who I'm out to), and scandalize them both, by pointing out the stall to him. That would ensure, the guy knows I'm a regular, and if he gives me a dvd cheap and which doesn't hang my system, I'll be back for more. On day three, I'll suggest that he gives me two for three hundred bucks, instead of one for two hundred.
;-)
Friday, October 13, 2006
A new story for the Penguin
A new story for the Penguin
Sometime back, I blogged about how most gay men in Bombay find Miranda Priestly uber-cool, hearkening back to a conversation with Emily - well, the other day, I discovered that another friend actually has very Miranda-esque traits while at work - and when I pointed this out, the said friend decided to hit blogging with a vengeance. So check out Miranda In Mumbai and you'll die laughing at the antics - and no, I'm not getting a commission for the plug.
***
From Miranda, to my friend, the Penguin. I gave him this name in a blog post that was vitriolic at being dumped by him, after a three-week dating stint, and since then, that name has stuck. Our relationship has, however, changed. By virtue of the fact that he is part and parcel of the Inner Circle, we have had to adjust, and move on from being awkward and gawky around each other, to friends. Of course, there have been moments here and there, silent moments when we've each prayed that the other coughs to break the pindrop quiet when we've been left alone together... but at the end of the day, we both realised that it was time for the moniker to change.
"So what new name do you want me to assign you?" I asked him, and he shrugged on the other end of the phone - I could imagine his grin and shrug and all, and he replied, "I have no idea. You gave me Penguin, because you had a story to tell of me there. That was when I was being... flipfloppish. So I guess that's our story."
"Well, then it's time that we get a new story," I decided.
After that conversation, we met up on different occassions - party nights, birthday nights, movies, etc etc etc - and I kept on suggesting various names that i could use for him: Mad Ad Boy, LifeBoy... yadayadayada, but of course, he hated all those gruesome names, and I drew a blank.
And then, I told him the other day, when we went to see a movie, "Do you remember the penguins in Madagascar? The one movie we've seen before this, just the two of us?"
That elicited a chuckle from him, and I went on, "Actually, that's why I called you the Penguin. Because, watching that movie was such a strong association for whenever I thought about you - watching that and cracking jokes afterwards - cuz, we both loved the penguins there!"
And, now he crooked up his left eyebrow and said, "The plotters, eh?" Chuckle.
Going by movie memories, the only other option is calling him Circuit, and this sounds even worse than Penguin. So, I've decided to do away with my search for a new nickname for him. He remains as is. It's the association that changes, though: he's no longer the flipfloppy creature I railed against, who I thought incapable of having a relationship - he's now the fiercely protective friend (another character trait of penguins, in case you didn't know), the one with the evil grin, beautifully hectic boy, and undeniably as plotter-ly as a penguin can get.
Someone I'm glad to count as a friend. *cue for mushy awwwwwwwwwwwww sound*
Sometime back, I blogged about how most gay men in Bombay find Miranda Priestly uber-cool, hearkening back to a conversation with Emily - well, the other day, I discovered that another friend actually has very Miranda-esque traits while at work - and when I pointed this out, the said friend decided to hit blogging with a vengeance. So check out Miranda In Mumbai and you'll die laughing at the antics - and no, I'm not getting a commission for the plug.
***
From Miranda, to my friend, the Penguin. I gave him this name in a blog post that was vitriolic at being dumped by him, after a three-week dating stint, and since then, that name has stuck. Our relationship has, however, changed. By virtue of the fact that he is part and parcel of the Inner Circle, we have had to adjust, and move on from being awkward and gawky around each other, to friends. Of course, there have been moments here and there, silent moments when we've each prayed that the other coughs to break the pindrop quiet when we've been left alone together... but at the end of the day, we both realised that it was time for the moniker to change.
"So what new name do you want me to assign you?" I asked him, and he shrugged on the other end of the phone - I could imagine his grin and shrug and all, and he replied, "I have no idea. You gave me Penguin, because you had a story to tell of me there. That was when I was being... flipfloppish. So I guess that's our story."
"Well, then it's time that we get a new story," I decided.
After that conversation, we met up on different occassions - party nights, birthday nights, movies, etc etc etc - and I kept on suggesting various names that i could use for him: Mad Ad Boy, LifeBoy... yadayadayada, but of course, he hated all those gruesome names, and I drew a blank.
And then, I told him the other day, when we went to see a movie, "Do you remember the penguins in Madagascar? The one movie we've seen before this, just the two of us?"
That elicited a chuckle from him, and I went on, "Actually, that's why I called you the Penguin. Because, watching that movie was such a strong association for whenever I thought about you - watching that and cracking jokes afterwards - cuz, we both loved the penguins there!"
And, now he crooked up his left eyebrow and said, "The plotters, eh?" Chuckle.
Going by movie memories, the only other option is calling him Circuit, and this sounds even worse than Penguin. So, I've decided to do away with my search for a new nickname for him. He remains as is. It's the association that changes, though: he's no longer the flipfloppy creature I railed against, who I thought incapable of having a relationship - he's now the fiercely protective friend (another character trait of penguins, in case you didn't know), the one with the evil grin, beautifully hectic boy, and undeniably as plotter-ly as a penguin can get.
Someone I'm glad to count as a friend. *cue for mushy awwwwwwwwwwwww sound*
Monday, October 09, 2006
Dance Like A Man...!
Dance Like A Man...!
Friday night, and the gang heads over to Zenzi, for a couple of drinks. As soon as we enter, I spy Upen Patel with his Delectable Cleft In The Chin, and VJ Yudishter in an o-so-awesome tight white shirt, and as far as I'm concerned, the Rs 250 for the shooter has been worth it. For the record, I tried a concoction called Lemon Woo Woo, not half-bad really, a mix of peach schnappe, vodka and cranberry juice. I was all ready, if the waiter turned out to be a hot and hunky Upen type, to get up and whisper in his ear: "I want your Lemon Woo Woo, please...!"
But, dancing free style with some firang chick, there was this other specimen at Zenzi, who completely grabbed my attention. At first, Emily was being bitchy about the guy's completely random moves, while I was being o-so-cooey about how 'the guy is dancing with his soul and heart and thoroughly enjoying himself!', but as the moves became more and more (um....!) retarded, I was soon gaping openly. He was doing these weird crosses between your Hindi film jhatkas and the dirty salsa moves I'd learnt recently, punctuated with bursts of hiphop hand movements, shrieking 'Yay, bab-ay!' to his firang co-dancer who looked impressed and mortified alternately.
"He's embarassing!" shrieked Emily, and after a point of time, I had to agree. Even though he was kinda cute, with a great smile, trimmed French beard and obviously very flexible body, I was entranced with how whacky he made the whole dance thing look. My salsa dance teacher would have fainted.
Saturday night, I found myself at a performance by the New York-based Battery Dance Company, courtesy tickets from Chimneypot. Enigmatic dances, while the music was a decidedly eerie cross between jazz and world music, and the entire recital was simply divine! Flatmate, sitting next to me, whispered enviously, "Do these people have any bones at all in their bodies?" and I had to murmur my agreement to that one. Of course, I was also thinking at the back of my mind, that the gorgeous men doing those scandalously astounding moves were probably gay, - blame it on the stereotypical thinking! - and I might see them at the GB party later that night.
So, when finally I hit the GB dance floor at Liquid Lounge, in my slinky black shirt and tight dark blue jeans, I was eagerly scanning all the firang hotties around, trying to make out if I had seen them on the stage an hour back or not. But even though, there were quite a few handsome Caucasian faces on the floor that night, I couldn't recognize anyone at all.
And besides, even if I did, what would I go and tell them? Ask for another Lemon Woo Woo?
;-)
Friday night, and the gang heads over to Zenzi, for a couple of drinks. As soon as we enter, I spy Upen Patel with his Delectable Cleft In The Chin, and VJ Yudishter in an o-so-awesome tight white shirt, and as far as I'm concerned, the Rs 250 for the shooter has been worth it. For the record, I tried a concoction called Lemon Woo Woo, not half-bad really, a mix of peach schnappe, vodka and cranberry juice. I was all ready, if the waiter turned out to be a hot and hunky Upen type, to get up and whisper in his ear: "I want your Lemon Woo Woo, please...!"
But, dancing free style with some firang chick, there was this other specimen at Zenzi, who completely grabbed my attention. At first, Emily was being bitchy about the guy's completely random moves, while I was being o-so-cooey about how 'the guy is dancing with his soul and heart and thoroughly enjoying himself!', but as the moves became more and more (um....!) retarded, I was soon gaping openly. He was doing these weird crosses between your Hindi film jhatkas and the dirty salsa moves I'd learnt recently, punctuated with bursts of hiphop hand movements, shrieking 'Yay, bab-ay!' to his firang co-dancer who looked impressed and mortified alternately.
"He's embarassing!" shrieked Emily, and after a point of time, I had to agree. Even though he was kinda cute, with a great smile, trimmed French beard and obviously very flexible body, I was entranced with how whacky he made the whole dance thing look. My salsa dance teacher would have fainted.
Saturday night, I found myself at a performance by the New York-based Battery Dance Company, courtesy tickets from Chimneypot. Enigmatic dances, while the music was a decidedly eerie cross between jazz and world music, and the entire recital was simply divine! Flatmate, sitting next to me, whispered enviously, "Do these people have any bones at all in their bodies?" and I had to murmur my agreement to that one. Of course, I was also thinking at the back of my mind, that the gorgeous men doing those scandalously astounding moves were probably gay, - blame it on the stereotypical thinking! - and I might see them at the GB party later that night.
So, when finally I hit the GB dance floor at Liquid Lounge, in my slinky black shirt and tight dark blue jeans, I was eagerly scanning all the firang hotties around, trying to make out if I had seen them on the stage an hour back or not. But even though, there were quite a few handsome Caucasian faces on the floor that night, I couldn't recognize anyone at all.
And besides, even if I did, what would I go and tell them? Ask for another Lemon Woo Woo?
;-)
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
For Sale?!
For Sale?!
When the doorbell rang some 30 minutes back, I knew it was the home delivery guy with my dinner. The usual suspect, he grinned at me, and then arched his back beautifully to bend down to get my food packet from his box on the floor. A single fluid motion that made me grin, as I imagined him on the pole of a stripclub, but of course, this sullen scion of my Marathi-dominated neighbourhood would blink his eyes in terror and scamper away, had I had the temerity to inform him that i saw his future assured in a New York gay hooker club. And so, I kept my mouth shut, paid the delivery boy with the latent pole-dancing skills his due (plus a Rs 10 tip for the exhibit), and decided to write a blog post about the male hookers I have known in my o-so-boring life.
*blush*
A gay gigolo comes cheap in good ole Calcutta, much cheaper than the Rs 1500 upwards rate that Delhi swears by. The boys in Calcutta are usually sweet and shy, but not when it comes to getting their jollies in bed. Yes, I've had sex with a hooker. Those were the not-exactly-misguided and terribly yummy days of my youth, when I decided to take the plunge and see for myself what the 'full body massage' advertised in the papers really meant. I wasn't disappointed, either. Enter honey-skinned, doe-eyed Bong/Maru Bang Boy, who spelt out his rates: Rs 200 for an ordinary massage, Rs 300 for an 'erotic' one, an extra Rs 50 for oral sex, an extra Rs 50 for anal sex, and yet another extra Rs 50 if his client expected him to orgasm. Quite an inexpensive menu, and for a callow youth such as me, it proved too irresistable an offer, and so I caved. I haven't exactly regretted, though.
Of course, I wasn't exactly the goody-two-shoes who would never err again - I still am not - and so that wasn't the end of my tryst with 'painted people' after that thrill of a First Experience. The thrill of a hooker was quite different from the random sex that I anyway indulged in, on a non-payment basis. The gigolo gene tickled me pink - it got me excited that in this position, I was completely and irrefutably in control. Call it a kind of a power trip, a mental kink - I enjoyed being the one who told the guy to strip when I wanted, to strip the way I wanted, to touch himself the way I wanted, to touch me the way I wanted... it all inflamed me. And, with the rental rates so low, and the quality on offer so much better than your cinematic Deuce Bigalow fare, that I saw little reason to stop.
... Until, of course, Boredom got to me. *sigh*
When I hit Delhi, I was informed that the hookers were far more handsome, and their prices were much higher. By that time, I was bored of the whole thing as well, and so I tracked the scene more as a voyeur, rather than a participant. I went to the weekly meat market (aka Pegs 'n' Pints) and almost all of the big beefy Punjus or Jats I pointed at were said to be for sale, so I was all agog with curiousity about what the price tag was. My friends giggled and told me that most of saddi dilli was for sale, but I refused to buy that theory, of course. I still hoped to find that one hot guy who was not a hooker, who was actually boyfriend material. Turns out, even though I found several, my Delhi stint was not to last for too long. Anyhow, it's not as if Delhi turned out to be the gay Chippendales, at any rate - nor any of the seedy sex clubs and saunas that NYC and London boast of. In its own little way, Delhi remained the collection of Punjabil and Haryanvi villages it always was - and its hookers remained the sweet little (?) Punjabi and Haryanvi peasants who slipped on their Ps and Qs, and asked a discounted rate from you because they thought you were 'saxy'.
(Delhi being Delhi, that's when you haggled over whether you felt you deserved a 10% or a 20% discount.)
My fascination for the Bombay gigolo has similarly been from the sidelines, despite my observation (and appreciation) on the home delivery guy's catwalk moves. O, I've seen the obvious hookers at the GB parties, on the sidewalk in front of Voodoo's, at 'The Wall' in front of the Gateway of India, and I've also seen the not-so obvious hookers. And that second category is what gets me particularly interested. That's Human Nature, really: number 1 is the fact that we all want what we can't get, and number 2 is that when we realise we can get what we want, albeit for a mindblowing price, it's somehow amazing for Shock Value. That's when you see the hot guy dancing in the middle of the party, or the guy with the smokin' profile in the gay chatroom, and then you realise that he's For Sale, and if you had a couple of grands to tuck inside his g-strings, he'd let you pull them off him and do whateva the f*&% you wanna do to them and him!
A word of advice: most gay hookers these days prefer unsoiled currency. ;-)
When the doorbell rang some 30 minutes back, I knew it was the home delivery guy with my dinner. The usual suspect, he grinned at me, and then arched his back beautifully to bend down to get my food packet from his box on the floor. A single fluid motion that made me grin, as I imagined him on the pole of a stripclub, but of course, this sullen scion of my Marathi-dominated neighbourhood would blink his eyes in terror and scamper away, had I had the temerity to inform him that i saw his future assured in a New York gay hooker club. And so, I kept my mouth shut, paid the delivery boy with the latent pole-dancing skills his due (plus a Rs 10 tip for the exhibit), and decided to write a blog post about the male hookers I have known in my o-so-boring life.
*blush*
A gay gigolo comes cheap in good ole Calcutta, much cheaper than the Rs 1500 upwards rate that Delhi swears by. The boys in Calcutta are usually sweet and shy, but not when it comes to getting their jollies in bed. Yes, I've had sex with a hooker. Those were the not-exactly-misguided and terribly yummy days of my youth, when I decided to take the plunge and see for myself what the 'full body massage' advertised in the papers really meant. I wasn't disappointed, either. Enter honey-skinned, doe-eyed Bong/Maru Bang Boy, who spelt out his rates: Rs 200 for an ordinary massage, Rs 300 for an 'erotic' one, an extra Rs 50 for oral sex, an extra Rs 50 for anal sex, and yet another extra Rs 50 if his client expected him to orgasm. Quite an inexpensive menu, and for a callow youth such as me, it proved too irresistable an offer, and so I caved. I haven't exactly regretted, though.
Of course, I wasn't exactly the goody-two-shoes who would never err again - I still am not - and so that wasn't the end of my tryst with 'painted people' after that thrill of a First Experience. The thrill of a hooker was quite different from the random sex that I anyway indulged in, on a non-payment basis. The gigolo gene tickled me pink - it got me excited that in this position, I was completely and irrefutably in control. Call it a kind of a power trip, a mental kink - I enjoyed being the one who told the guy to strip when I wanted, to strip the way I wanted, to touch himself the way I wanted, to touch me the way I wanted... it all inflamed me. And, with the rental rates so low, and the quality on offer so much better than your cinematic Deuce Bigalow fare, that I saw little reason to stop.
... Until, of course, Boredom got to me. *sigh*
When I hit Delhi, I was informed that the hookers were far more handsome, and their prices were much higher. By that time, I was bored of the whole thing as well, and so I tracked the scene more as a voyeur, rather than a participant. I went to the weekly meat market (aka Pegs 'n' Pints) and almost all of the big beefy Punjus or Jats I pointed at were said to be for sale, so I was all agog with curiousity about what the price tag was. My friends giggled and told me that most of saddi dilli was for sale, but I refused to buy that theory, of course. I still hoped to find that one hot guy who was not a hooker, who was actually boyfriend material. Turns out, even though I found several, my Delhi stint was not to last for too long. Anyhow, it's not as if Delhi turned out to be the gay Chippendales, at any rate - nor any of the seedy sex clubs and saunas that NYC and London boast of. In its own little way, Delhi remained the collection of Punjabil and Haryanvi villages it always was - and its hookers remained the sweet little (?) Punjabi and Haryanvi peasants who slipped on their Ps and Qs, and asked a discounted rate from you because they thought you were 'saxy'.
(Delhi being Delhi, that's when you haggled over whether you felt you deserved a 10% or a 20% discount.)
My fascination for the Bombay gigolo has similarly been from the sidelines, despite my observation (and appreciation) on the home delivery guy's catwalk moves. O, I've seen the obvious hookers at the GB parties, on the sidewalk in front of Voodoo's, at 'The Wall' in front of the Gateway of India, and I've also seen the not-so obvious hookers. And that second category is what gets me particularly interested. That's Human Nature, really: number 1 is the fact that we all want what we can't get, and number 2 is that when we realise we can get what we want, albeit for a mindblowing price, it's somehow amazing for Shock Value. That's when you see the hot guy dancing in the middle of the party, or the guy with the smokin' profile in the gay chatroom, and then you realise that he's For Sale, and if you had a couple of grands to tuck inside his g-strings, he'd let you pull them off him and do whateva the f*&% you wanna do to them and him!
A word of advice: most gay hookers these days prefer unsoiled currency. ;-)
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Queer As Closetalk
Queer As Closetalk
I'm not exactly your usual nut for television serials - my last regular was Friends, and even Will and Grace was more like a 'Ho hum, o, look what I accidentally channel-surfed to!' - so that's why I make a big deal about the series I've watched with serious and real enthusiasm. That's what prompted that very lengthy post on Sex and the City sometime back, and since then I've been meaning to post something on Queer As Folk (American version) as well.
To be honest, I've only caught Season Six of SATC on DVD, and Season Two of QAF, but that's been enough to label SATC 'profound' and QAF as, well, getting to 'profound'.
The DVD of QAF had been doing the rounds for quite sometime, and when I finally borrowed it, my Flatmate wanted to see the episodes too. So there we were, staying up late nights, watching successive episodes on our individual laptops. And drooling at different men.
Flatmate has the hots for the very enigmatic Brian Kinney. He strikes me as a Samantha Jones-wannabe, to tell the truth, but of course the Flatmate will hear none of that! Brian is rude, obsessed with sex, a chhupa rustum softy, and usually the guy who bails everyone else out in the end. Wiki says, "Heterosexual women and lesbians have often embraced the character more than gay men", and I think they've got it right to some extent - Brian is sooooo the gay guy other gay guys hate, but who they would want to be like, or so says the Flatmate! I started out with the last coupla episodes of QAF - II first, where Justin chooses the violin prodigy guy (cuuuutttee!) over Ice Cold Daddy Brian, and I hated Brian for treating Justin so offhandedly, and was quite glad when he gets dumped. But then, I saw the other episodes in order, and then changed my mind about the whole Justin-Brian drama. Just when you start asking, who broke the rules first, you realise that the rules are soooo lacking in gay relationships.
*gulp*
Ted is whiny. And so is Michael, though he's much cuter than Ted. I identify the most with good ole Emmett. I love the fact that he's a complete slut and unaplogetic about it. I love the little nuggets of wisdom that Wise Em spouts now and then, a la Ms Jones of SATC. And the ending of Season Two, with Ted and Em ending up together is simply too cute for words. Wise Em saves the day again, ra ra!
;-)
Hottie of the series: Without a doubt, Robert Grant, who plays the HIV+ Professor Ben Bruckner lucky Michael is dating. I guess, being whiny has its share of unexpected benefits!
I'm not exactly your usual nut for television serials - my last regular was Friends, and even Will and Grace was more like a 'Ho hum, o, look what I accidentally channel-surfed to!' - so that's why I make a big deal about the series I've watched with serious and real enthusiasm. That's what prompted that very lengthy post on Sex and the City sometime back, and since then I've been meaning to post something on Queer As Folk (American version) as well.
To be honest, I've only caught Season Six of SATC on DVD, and Season Two of QAF, but that's been enough to label SATC 'profound' and QAF as, well, getting to 'profound'.
The DVD of QAF had been doing the rounds for quite sometime, and when I finally borrowed it, my Flatmate wanted to see the episodes too. So there we were, staying up late nights, watching successive episodes on our individual laptops. And drooling at different men.
Flatmate has the hots for the very enigmatic Brian Kinney. He strikes me as a Samantha Jones-wannabe, to tell the truth, but of course the Flatmate will hear none of that! Brian is rude, obsessed with sex, a chhupa rustum softy, and usually the guy who bails everyone else out in the end. Wiki says, "Heterosexual women and lesbians have often embraced the character more than gay men", and I think they've got it right to some extent - Brian is sooooo the gay guy other gay guys hate, but who they would want to be like, or so says the Flatmate! I started out with the last coupla episodes of QAF - II first, where Justin chooses the violin prodigy guy (cuuuutttee!) over Ice Cold Daddy Brian, and I hated Brian for treating Justin so offhandedly, and was quite glad when he gets dumped. But then, I saw the other episodes in order, and then changed my mind about the whole Justin-Brian drama. Just when you start asking, who broke the rules first, you realise that the rules are soooo lacking in gay relationships.
*gulp*
Ted is whiny. And so is Michael, though he's much cuter than Ted. I identify the most with good ole Emmett. I love the fact that he's a complete slut and unaplogetic about it. I love the little nuggets of wisdom that Wise Em spouts now and then, a la Ms Jones of SATC. And the ending of Season Two, with Ted and Em ending up together is simply too cute for words. Wise Em saves the day again, ra ra!
;-)
Hottie of the series: Without a doubt, Robert Grant, who plays the HIV+ Professor Ben Bruckner lucky Michael is dating. I guess, being whiny has its share of unexpected benefits!
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Courtesy, an Angel...
Courtesy, an Angel...
tara vina shyam ekaldu lagay,
raas ramva ne vehlo aav aav aav jay
;-)
Boy is quite peeved that in his town, no one makes/wears proper kedias.
tara vina shyam ekaldu lagay,
raas ramva ne vehlo aav aav aav jay
;-)
Boy is quite peeved that in his town, no one makes/wears proper kedias.
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