One evening when the weather in Bombay was much nicer than it is now, and not raining perennially like someone's leaky nose, I was on my way back home from Cotton Green station in a cab. (I love that name: Cotton Green; something so.... fluffy and comfortable about it!) And that's when I called up SnowWhite's Stepmother.
CT, happily gesticulating: "I'm in a cab heading home from meeting a client. Had a nice time."
SS, sniffing airily: "Tart!"
CT chortles: "You don't know the half of it! ;-) But no, that's not the kind of client I meant. So what's your day been like, dah-ling?"
SS: "Aaa, nothing outta the ordinary. Had some time to kill, and so logged on the chatroom to amuse myself. All old men."
CT giggles: "Gonna be 25 soon, ya know, kid."
SS, shocked: "Heavens! Thank god I'm still 17!"
At that, I break out in laughter, because SS is nowhere close to 17, God bless his vanity, but of course we must never disprove that theory. And in the course of that fifteen minute cab ride, as my cabbie negotiated through the crowded streets of Central Bombay, SS and I thrashed out another comprehensive theory - that of the Real Shelf Life of the Gay Bombay Man.
It's actually pretty simple. Go to a GB party and there you have three classes of boys. The Detestable Twink, who's just turned 17 and bought himself a new pair of leather pants, is preening in the middle of the dance floor, as all the hotties try desperately to feel him up. Then there're the Early Twenties, who particularly hate the Detestable Twinks because they remember fondly the not-too-long-ago time when they were DTs themselves, and miss those days. And then there are the Fag Ends, who're going to cross thirty in anything between six months to a year, who're the object of pity by the Early Twenties and the object of sport by the Detestable Twinks. What's playing out at the heart of the great drama? The great theory that proves, in essence, how we're all blonde bombshells, prettier than Barbie could ever hope to be. Ken gone Blonde gone Natural - that's the new superhero.
The Theory that says, your real Shelf Life is always double your actual age (gasp gasp!), and of course, there's an upper limit here. The Shelf Life determines how effective your plummage really is: whether, like the Miss Bennetts, you really know how to catch a man. And of course, just by sheer dint of numbers, the Detestable Twinks have the best shelf lives. At 17, the maximum they're really worth is only 34 years, and so it's clear that they still have a long long way to go, like moronic little robots that run on Energizer Bunnies, and can go through one boyfriend to the other with the refreshing charm of dealing a pack of cards: knave, knave, knave, o god, not a knave again...!
Of course, if you've actually got a brain (Good heavens , why on earth would we need those? They're not even pretty!), you'll realise that your shelf life is best when you're one of the Early Twenties. That's when it's about 50 on the average - the interval available to find a boyfriend is much smaller than it is for the DTs, but then, if you have a brain, you'll probably look for something other than a big appendage and a fat wallet, and you'll probably think about common tastes other than in the bedroom, - which can also be a HUGE bother at times, to tell the truth.
The bother is worst for the hapless Fag Ends. By this time, they have developed *gasp* Individuality. They have developed *ouch* Likes and Habits. They have opted for *wince* Love. That's when your equivalent shelf life becomes a hapless 60. As far as the gay dating scene is concerned, you're a stodgy old Uncle, and your only hope of not staying one till the day you die is if another Fag End like you comes along and you stick it out together. DTs laugh at you behind your backs, as you cavort with them on the dance floor, but ultimately go home with just another Fag End.
CT, giggly on the phone as ever: "I like our theory! But then, there's a prob - what about the rest - what happens you pass by 30? What's your equivalent Shelf Life then?"
SS checks for wrinkles in the mirror on the other end: "O, that's the end. As far as Shelf Lives are concerned, 60 is the max. So, once you're past 30, you might as well just shrivel up and die. You're past the Expiry Date, honey. No one's ever gonna want to pick you up. So you remain at the back of the shelf forever and ever. Simple."
Simple. Sometimes, I love how deliciously mindless and shallow I can get.
***
Just thought that, according to the Theory, that would make Boy a Fag End who would only probably end with some other Fag End, while I would be a borderline Early Twenties-Fag End. Ho hum... Thank God none of my Theories make sense. ;-)
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