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!
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