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.

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. ;-)

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*

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.

;-)

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*

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?

;-)

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. ;-)