Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

That's supposed to be our 'song', SnowWhite's Stepmother's (SS) and mine, and even though I tried to resist at first, it's come to Stick. O yes, SS is the new name of the erstwhile decorator/designer, in case you were wondering. (The other choices were Mr Miranda, which sounds like a tranny bar dancer in Mumbai, and Soiree Sistah because he insists on calling parties that, but those were all turned down by the protagonist.) And the other day, seeing that I was in the neighbourhood, we decided to meet up for some... 'fun'.

It was supposed to be a Monsoon Appreciating outing. The unanimous choice was Carter Road Cafe Coffee Day, with its vantage position over the Bandra seafront and its extensive collection of good-looking young studs. As anyone who's lived in Bombay will tell you, when people go to this particular CCD, coffee is the last thing on their minds. The objective is to see and be seen, and so SS announced that he would bring along his Rs 800 Bombay Store designer umbrella, with the city trainstops labelled all over it. I said, That sounds great, and proceeded to roll up my corduroy trouser legs to three-quarter length to get into the Rain Collection mood.



SS, about five minutes after he arrives: "This place sucks, and it's all your fault!"

CT, perplexed: "OK, so it's my fault that it's not raining anymore? How come?"

SS, frowning: "Not the stupid rain. Everyone here is ugly. And the pretty ones aren't looking. Why would they, if you advertise that fat Suketu Mehta book out there like that?! *flails arms* Put that thing away now beneath my umbrella!"

CT, complying: "Happy?"

Evidently not, and it was true: both the rains and the boys had played a cruel joke on us, and so we decided to go walking on Carter Road instead, spotting some beefy hunks jogging past. On the way, we squealed in laughter, as we discussed what it takes to get straight men into bed with you. That's when we saw the First Dud of the day. To be fair, he was masquerading as Adonis. Tight Reebok tanktop which showed off a great chest and arms that could hold up the world (what's a puny gay boy to that?!), and black shorts that showed off his firm ass. Both SS and I cooed together.

SS: "I'm in Lust. That's so much more powerful than being in love."

CT: "O, did I tell you that it's Boy and mine six-month anniversary tomorrow?"

SS, quickening gait: "You are the last thing on my mind right now. Hurry up now, he's walking faster. Let's overtake and see him properly from the front."

Well we finally did overtake the Adonis, but then we came to a shocked standstill almost as fast as we had walked past. Nothing! The guy had nothing!

SS, shocked whimper: "What a waste. What a colossal waste!"

CT, pointing out the 420th Theorem of Gay Life: "Have you noticed that it's always the same, give or take a couple of guys? The guys who're always so pumped out and have the best abs and the best chests and the best arms usually also have the smallest..."

SS, interrupts, still dazed: "Probably smaller than a chilli!"

CT, nods head morosely, agreeing, "And it's not as if his shorts were loose or anything. There was just no trace of anything there!"

First Dud of the Day.



The second one came when we decided to hop over from Carter Road to Just Around The Corner on Waterfield Road. This was the promised land for Bandra's gay boys. At any given time, it's populated by at least half of Bandra's upmarket pansy crowd. But then a voice of caution sounded in my brain: "You know, SS, it's a weekday today, so there may actually NOT be any gay boys here!"

At that, I was accused of being a pessimist, and it certainly seemed as if my fears were unfounded as we spotted two gorgeous young things sitting bang at the entrance, obviously on a date, from the way they were hunched forward on the table. Any closer, and they might have to be arrested, and SS and I sat nearby, pleased that our efforts in voyeurism had finally paid off. And that's when we spotted Second Dud of the Day. Tall and well built again, smooth arms, chest puffed out like a pigeon and wearing a shirt in psychedelic stripes, so that he would have to be gay or a gay Gujju. I was salivating, but SS was scornful: "Ridiculously flouncy. Too old. Easily over thirty."

CT, happy: "Yummy! The charms of an older hunk. O, look, he's coming this way!"

Striped Old Man came close to our table, ostensbily to look at the soccer game on the TV over our heads, even though there was a TV on the wall at his side, pushed his hands in his pants, jutted his hips forward a couple of times, twirled, and walked back to his table.



SS, shocked: "Did you see how tight those pants were?!"

CT, nods in glee: "I could see the outline of his crown jewels! *titters* I want to hit on him!"

SS, looks at me suspiciously: "And what would you say?"

CT: "O, something outrageous and corny. Like, 'I know leopards can't get their spots off, but I'm willing to bet that I'll have your stripes off in a trice, and you'll love it!'"

SS blinks: "I'm going to gag at that. How can you just say something like that?"

CT, proud as punch: "What?! Guys love those lines. They sound great over a cofee date!"

SS groans now: "O, I've had it with coffee dates. I hate going out for coffee, if I know that all I want in the first place is a screw. Too much time wasted, and I don't want to go through all that crap."

At this points, CT flexes his... ahem... muscles, and undertakes to eplain the Award Winning Closet Coffee Date Method. 1. If the guy is cute as hell and you know from your prior net conversation that he's a dim bulb, you flash him an outrageous pick-up line, and skip coffee, heading over for sex, instead. 2. If the guy is cute as hell and also has a head (as opposed to giving head!), you flash the pick-up line after fifteen minutes of coffee, and then have sex. 3. If the guy is not-so cute but smart and you'd like to know more of him in a platonic way, you invest thirty minutes in a great coffee and conversation. 4. If the guy is ugly and dumb, you say that something's come up at home and run, after spending zero minutes at the table.



SS, suitably awed: "But what kind of a line could I give, if I want to go straight for the sex?"

CT, smiles back, looking up from the menu: "Something like, 'Well, they don't have what I want here... but I'm willing to bet that you have more than enough of what I want over at your place'".

SS' jaw drops.

By this time however, we notice that both Striped Old Man and the cute young guys at the entrance have left, and we're the only two faggots left at JATC, and so we decide to hotfoot it ourselves. I need to buy a suitably pansy umbrella in shades of rainbow and a long curved handle, and SS suggests his personal Mecca, the Benetton showroom on Linking Road. Within twenty minutes, we find ourselves within its hallowed portals. (And, o yes, Nature had tp play the bitch and rain torrents when we're on Linking Road, while not showering a drop on us all the time we were at Carter Road.)

No umbrellas, says the attendant at the Holy Shrine, but then ardent devotee that he is, SS happily skips up to the men's floor on the second level to try out what they have in his size. After umpteen bouts of It Suits Me/It Suits Me Not minus the flower petals, we picked up a pink tshirt labelled FREAK for SS, meant to be worn over a collared shirt. As we leave the Sacred Temple, and get into the auto-rick, sheltered by the Rs 800 umbrella, I privately call him the lable on his new tshirt. But then, everyone knows I'm evil.

CT: "Dinner?"

SS: "Something light."

CT: "Where?"

SS: "Lemon Grass?"

CT pouts: "Broke. Cheap, please."

Ten minutes later, we're back at JATC, over a soup and salad, and once again we're the only faggots around. SS glowers at all the people coming through the door, and picks at his soup. "Today must be Uglies Night Out! Look at all these creatures here!"

CT mutters something unintelligable, his mouth full of a combination of beef/chicken/egg/pork/seafood salad.

SS, his spoon clattering on the table: "OMG, just look at that huge table behind us. They look like slumdwellers! U G L Y."

CT starts giggling: "You don't really mean that!"

SS, vehement: "I do! I do! They're awful. Just look at them. All ugly and noisy. *as door opens and another group walks in* Come in, come in. You're at the right place. This is the Ugly Night at JATC!"

CT, chomping: "O hey, look at those two. The guy is H O T."

SS, mollified slightly because of the couple at the salad bar: "OK, he's cute. But look at that horse he's with. I feel like retching, she's so horrid."



CT, nodding: "All the cute guys go that way *sigh*."

SS, perking up: "OMG, just look at his pecs! I love the way they stick out."

CT, examining closely: "No ass, though."

SS: "Who cares, as long as he's got more than the chilli we saw on the Carter Road guy!"

CT, turns and brightens up: "O look, Striped Older Man is back! He's outside on the phone! Let's walk out together, you from that door, and me from this one, and flash him a look."

SS, happy at the prospect of being a cocktease: "O, goody, lets!"

*Sigh* Striped Older Man didn't even turn to look at either of us. And so we lived happily ever after.



***

PS: In related news, Boy and I crossed the six-month mark. Six months into a relationship. For me, this has been the longest time I've ever been hitched to a guy, as bad as it makes me look, but I'm thrilled that we've come this far, and my fingers are crossed multiple times over that we'll take it much, much, much more ahead. OK, so that's where the Mr Sensitive Gay Boyfriend speech ends.



Next Episode: So what's the Real Shelf Life of a gay guy in Bombay? A CT-SS Exclusive!!!

Closetalk: Sexing the City UP!

Closetalk: Sexing the City UP!

I'll admit it: at first, I didn't get what the big deal was about Sex and the City. I mean, ok, so here you are, a gang of four women: the cribbing writer, the slut, the horsey powerbabe and the prudish cinderella, but so what? Then I spent three days watching Season Six on my laptop, and I was hooked. Line and sinker.



Wafted into flatmate's room and told her how it was so completely a gay series, and she jumped in her seat, as she is wont to do, whenever I classify so-and-so as 'gay', etc.

FM: "Why on earth is Sex and the City gay, of all things? It's about women!"

CT, flitting over to the sink to try on apricot scrub: "O, please, it's wasted on women! Women don't obssess about things or enjoy them half as much as gay men do! And there's just soooo much de-lish male nudity! It's just picturised on women to be safe!"

FM: "You're hopeless!"

CT, happily, through walnut bits: "I am! But then, think about it! I can easily place all my gay friends there... and not just as either Carrie or Samantha or whoever, but as a combination of them!"

So, that evening, I sat on the computer and hunted out the Sex and the City quizzes available online, and decided to see which said what about me! As predicted, none of them came up with the same answer.

Quizilla, for instance, proclaims that I'm that gorgeous Slut, Samantha. I got on the phone then and assaulted designer/decorator, who completely agreed that with my sex drive and penchant for shock value when he least expected it, I could be no one else! And I must say, she was the one I was looking forward to being the most. That woman has profound insight into human character, some great nuggets of wisdom (and we're not talking about her boobs here!), and I can only hope to be as sexy and smart as she is! And yes, I completely adore her relationship at the end with Smith Jared.



Another one whch agreed on the Samantha card was this one by Cosmo. This one was not about whether you were like any of the gals, but rather, who your style quotient resembled. It had all to do with: what would you wear to a gals' night out, or in our case, a GB party, and of course, I fitted the bill for 'curve hugging with skin show', which in my case means 'tight tshirt with nipples protruding'. There's also the fact that I'm the bubbly one in the group at these parties, the first one usually out on the dance floor, and that ties in what Cosmo says about Samantha: "encouraging other women to walk on the wild side without apology". Lucky for Boy that my idea of foreplay is "not printable!", my ideal date-dress is "matching gstrings and fluffy slippers", and lucky for me that Boy fits the bill of my "best love match: A man who can unlock your heart as well as your bra (= g's) with one hand - he dresses to impress, and wears tight black boxers underneath. "

;-)

Then there was a surprise by YNR, which said I was most like Charlotte. But then, when I heard their reasons why, I realised a part of me is quite like Prudish Cinderella. As the quiz said, I'm the Ultimate Romantic Idealist: "hurt in love before, but that hasn't caused me to give up on love, and if anything, the resolve to fall in love is stronger than ever." And as I realised, while giving the test, what was my main problem with dating? Hoping that things go smooth very fast - and that's as Charlotte as anyone can get!



Crossing my fingers, though, cuz the quiz verdict also said: That guy you are seeing (or crushing on)? Could be very serious - if you play your cards right! *wide grin on face*

And then there was Quizfarm, which said that I resembled that Mistress of Manolo, Carrie Bradshaw herself. Shouldn't really have surprised me too much, since I tend to worry about my relationships a trifle too much like her, and tend to gossip about them with my friends like her, and have writing ambitions like her as well. But, when push comes to shove, I would like to be Samantha, rather than Carrie. In the end, though, the quiz was not about who I would like to be, but rather who I am.



Strangely enough, the quiz thought that, after Carrie's 75%, I'm most like Miranda, who comes in at a close 67%. And that's not only Quizfarm. There was this other quiz, perhaps the most comprehensive of them all, because it sees how much of me is proportionally like the foursome, and it concluded I'm most a Carrie-Miranda mix. I turned out to be 40% Carrie, 30% Mirandra.

What pegs me as Carrie? Well, there's the fact that I'm inquisitive like hell - I discovered my dad's porn mags when I was 13! - and am very much into Indecision and Avoiding Tough Issues - their language, not mine. I love to talk, and need my mate to be a good listener (thank you, Boy!), and I Exude A Quirky Charm, or so say the guys I've slept with. Meanwhile, much like Miranda , I would prefer to be Cautious In Love And Seek Stability - though, where a LDR comes in here, I frankly don't know! And yes, I have those Seething Career Ambitions.

Sultry Samantha finally comes in at this point, and contributes 20% with my leo fire sign. Enter the Thoughtless, Selfish and Audacious part, which gets caught up in Immediate Gratification. At odds with this, is my 10% Charlotte: Romantic At Heart, complete with that Boy who Completes Me and Tethers me to the earth when I get carried away with my fantasies. And yes, I Cry At Commercials And Sappy Movies.

After five tests, two phone calls, much giggling on the phone and many more comparisons, the material for this post was ready. This was going to be one of those Introspective ones. The ones where I stand in front of the mirror, and go swishing with wands to see what I'm like. Not many occassions to really do that when you're happy. Most people tend to do that only when they're in a purple funk, and that's not a great option. Naaa, this is way better. So, here, instead of The Big Apple, we have this Giant Train Line which passes off for a city, and instead of four rather unidimensional (now that you come to think of it!) girls, you have one very complex gay man.

Entry to the closet is free.

No scrubs!

No scrubs!

The other day, I was lounging over at Delhi Designer Friend's Bandra home, and I peeked into his loo. Reappeared a second later with a grin on my face and remarked, "Do you think that every gay man in Bombay uses apricot face scrub?"

Now, DDF has seen it all, done most of it, and taught a little bit of it, and so he says, grinning back, "Every gay man in India, yes."

CT, shutting loo door: "Every gay man in the world?"

DDF, stretching and yawning like the lazy Delhi faggot that he is: "Possibly, probably, hopefully."

CT, puzzled grin on his face now: "But why on earth, apricot? Why nothing else?"

DDF: "Don't you like apricot? What have you got against apricot now?"

CT, rolling over in laughter: "Nothing, actually. I use the stuff myself."



DDF, feeling vindicated in a lovely gay bitch sort of way: "There you go! It's... nice! And it feels so lovely to use apricot as a base. Something decidedly... faggoty about it."

At this point, CT glances over the room they're in - the blood red crimson linen curtains over the French windows, the overhanging mini-chandeliers, the six foot mirror against the wall, the kitschy cushion covers sprawled over his bed with Marylin Monroe grinning out of them - and decide that he's right about the 'faggoty' part. Not even a combination of Gujju and Shetty would be able to cover this one! So CT nods, and: "And strawberry too. I think there's something very gay about strawberry."

DDF frowns, pats his Marylin cushion: "Didn't your straight ex flattie use strawberry flavoured face cream?"

CT grins happily at the memory of discovering ex-crush's cream in the loo a long, long time ago, and proclaims: "i'm soooooo sure that he was a confused little boy!"

DDF, in the lovely sarcastic manner that Delhi bitches have mastered: "Yes, yes, and waiting for a good little boy like you to deliver him from a fate worse than death!"

At this point, CT being the calm, dignified, poised, elegant and non-bitchy creature that he likes to believe he is, deigns to not reply, and the conversation shifts to other topics. But earlier today, while chatting with the Wicked Witch of the West, I wondered whether there are any so-called Favourite Cosmetics that men - straight, gay, trannies, what-have-you - use. A background check is necessary at this point: WWW works for one of the country's foremost girly mags, and CT was enquiring as to whether the aforesaid girly mag might want some freelance stuff from the closet. That's when WWW crooned, "It's a shame you can't write anything about beauty products and all", and thereupon I remembered my earlier conversation with DDF. "Well," I responded, "You never know: I could just do that!"

Think about it. What do men use and what do they don't?

From my experience of rummaging through the bathroom shelves of Indian men, a large number of whom were of the... ahem ahem... 'faggoty kind', here are my findings:

a) Everybody loves a large and ugly hunk of herby or some-such ayurvedic soap. Usually concocted from the weeds found in and around Pondicherry, and usually a deep forest green or muddy brown in colour, the soaps are ugly to behold, and smell like a bunch of tulips. Can be procured from those Fabindia or Khadi Udyog-like places. And yes, they usually cost a bomb. The days of Pears are long gone.

b) Shampoos must always be ayurvedic as well. Same principles as the soap apply here, again. Usually the bottles are very dowdy looking, but the users swear to the glossy effects of the muddy brown liquid contained therein. Dr Batra's usually packages the same stuff in smarter looking bottles.

c) The much-discussed apricot face scrub. A must have and you're a social nincompoop if you don't agree.

d) Conditioner for the hair. Usually only for gay men. Haven't seen on too many straight men's shelves, myself.

e) Face wash or face mask. Generally speaking, men tend to go for the former, though a minority of the 'faggoty kind' go for the mask/pack as well. My mum used to favour the cucumber mask, but I'm not sure whether people still go for that these days. Rose water concoctions are also popular. Sweet smelling and all that. Orange peels are supposedly hep, but personally, I think they look ghastly.

f) Does hair gel actually count as a cosmetic? I mean, hey, even the poodle uses it these days! And no, the really sexy guys don't use Brylcream.

And inspite of all that brouhaha last year about that new 'fairness cream for men', I haven't seen it on any guy's bathroom shelf. Or maybe they're hiding it, like the company that markets the cream claims/claimed they do. Honestly speaking, I don't think too many men would care. I mean: most of the guys I've met are those that hanker after darker toned ('wheatish' in gay chat room lingo) guys. I mean, that's one of the reasons I've met them! So, that's one cream that doesn't seem to be too much in high demand.



Just called up DDF and informed him that I told a friend about our apricot face scrub conversation, and darling boy responds with: "Aren't lubes also considered 'cosmetics'? What have you recommended in that category?"

Well... I don't really kiss and tell...

Untitled and Unknown

Untitled and Unknown

A party the other night, and the drink of the order was hibiscus juice protracted from Pondicherry, laced with vodka. The Penguin made a face, but the young gay interior designer/decorator was in no mood to take criticism about his beloved drink and made a face back, while I was threatening Emily that I'd bone him in the kitchen, Flight Attendant was mesmerized by the number of people who wanted to get into his pants online, and Gupshup surveyed all, in the serene knowledge that in a day or two he would be jet-setting it to the Maldives, away from all the chaos.

What troubled lives we do lead!

It always feels very nice when you go to a new website and make a new profile, and see how quickly the other carnivores online rush towards you in the heat of 'new meat'. One gets flattered by all the attention, and it gets heady. You tend to spend more and more time in front of the screen then, a modern-day Mirror, Mirror... not without its own pitfalls.

I have no idea why this post took the line it has taken. I must be troubled. This was supposed to be a fun post about the party the other night, the beautiful people, and the laughs and the jokes. It was supposed to be a post about watching Sex and the City episodes on the computer non-stop, and wondering which of them, or which combination of all of them, I would slot myself as. It was supposed to be a fun post.

And instead, it's turned out to be this. I must not be in a writing mood. Or if I am, I must not be in a mood for writing fluff. Serious yet divine, and I wonder why on earth I use these mouldy words. No, I'm not troubled. Not really. Not anything. Blank.

Close the closet doors hurriedly, lest anyone walk in.

Musings

Musings

Sometimes, I wonder how my relationship with Boy sounds to the world at large. Perhaps, if I were much more private, I would have hated baring my soul and my relationship like that, but then there's the exhibitionist streak in me that overcompensates...

We're heading onto six months over here. Much of that time has been spent well. Getting to know each other better. Loving each other. Involving each other in our lives and schedules. Boy's work at the university and the dance classes. My work at the TV channel. We've talked to each other about prospective job changes. About the GRE and the complications it involves. When my parents were down here, and they were worried about my elder brother not getting a suitable mate, I felt stifled somehow, unable to tell them that I had found the love of my life... wanting some sort of warmth from them, but of course that was quite inevitable. Boy would call me at night, and we would talk about his mum and his old school teacher... and how good it would be to live together, finally.

Of course, things have not been all rosy. Issues have cropped up, time and again. We've been torn because of our libidos, for one. Webcams have a limitation, after all... and with both our new jobs, even camming has proved to be elusive. It has been ages since I saw his face - live - and I miss that. He knows that. I hate the fact that because of our now busier skeds, it's so much tougher to stay in touch and reply to every sms message. And I must confess, there have been so many times I've behaved like the shrill housewife angry when hubby is late from work.

I've grappled with issues like: where does one draw the line between seeking reaffirmation as a measure of uncertainty, and seeking reaffirmation as a measure to stay involved. There have been superstitious issues as well - none of my previous relationships have lasted beyond five months, and I think that made me more itchy in my head. I've tried to toe the line between two extremes: being so up-close as to be intrusive and pushy, and being so withdrawn as to allow the relationship to fall into a rut.

So, yes, it's been a tremulous time, not without its shocks and jolts. And not without its moments of tenderness. Moments when I can hear him sing into my ears - hume tumse pyaar kitna... And though my Gujju Boy is no Kishore, his words are music to my ears. Recently, I made mum listen to the rendition of the Bengali song aay re aay, that I'd taped of Boy singing when he was in Bombay, and Mum loved it. I was so tempted to tell her all then, but I didn't. Despite all the frustration at the LDR crap, I remember why I've fallen in love with him. Despite all the temptation to have sex and forget, I remember the way his lips made me feel, the words he says, the touch he evokes, the tenderness in his eyes. The advice he renders. The inscription on our rings...

Now?

... Always.

My Cup Runneth Over

My Cup Runneth Over

A warning is necessary from the very first line here, that this is a strictly adult-rated gay post, but if you have permissable parents, then PG is allowed. Since I'm neither an adult, nor am I 'out' to my parents, it basically means I'm not going to be allowed to see my own post, but what the hell, just the fact that I wrote it down in rainbow hues is good enough for me!

World Cup fever! And while dad and bro are watching the game excitedly, yours truly is sitting hunchbacked in the closet, fantasising about which players he would like to Do. Let's face facts: soccer is vastly more exciting than cricket could ever hope to be, the uniforms are tighter, there's so much more sweat factor, and the shorts fly higher. Irfan Pathan may be hot, but hell, he's all covered up, and those ugly white costumes and pads make you exercise your imagination so much that quite frankly, it's not worth the effort!

So here's a list of the Top Hotties on the field that Closetalk would like to get down and dirty with. Every little sordid detail of it...

First off, let's eliminate that stupid monkey with awful hair and severely flawed teeth who's supposed to be the toast of Brazillian football. I mean, the man gets his stoooopid galfriend to dance with her big jugs in a football bra and you can't get any more camp than that, it's true, but in sheer U.G.L.Y (Unceasingly Grovellingly Loathesome and Yellowish) terms, that is one Brazillian who is un-humpable.



Closet Reject No 1 is: Ronaldinho!

However, thankfully for world soccer, there are far more delectable men on the field, and so the closet moves on next to that Guru of Gayness, England's very own David Beckham. In fact, in the current English line-up, there is a whole host of beautiful men I'd like to get into so many fascinating positions here (we're only playing ball here, honey!), but Becks still gets a special mention. (And Veed is having an orgasm as we type this out here!) His Mohawk, or his black nail polish, his very obvious flaunting of the fact that he loves the gay idolatry, his Spice Girls wife and his flings with the nanny, all earn him a Major Star from the Closet.



Closet Award: Chocolate Candy First Class.
Becks is to be tied down on a chair in a deserted warehouse, only in his soccer shorts, and hot chocolate is to be dripped slowly down over his face, neck, shoulders, chest, o-so-smooth tummy, till he is coated with the gooey stuff, the smell of hot warm bubbling cocoa is everywhere, and all anyone can do is DIG IN with a vengeance. I expect Becks to make a lot of noise by the way, and of course, we want to encourage that in every way.

After we have made use liberally of the paper napkins at hand (bbye, Becks!), we shall move onto the next soccer sexbomb. Luis Figo of Portugal is not a new name, or a young one, but the man simply typifies the saying, Old is Gold. Personally, I would love to have him covered him in molten gold *screw chocolate!* and installed in a secret chamber underneath my bed, but since that would amount to culpable homo-cide of such a fantasmatic piece of MAN, I will instead award him a special prize from the Closet. With his tall, hunky frame, sinful smile that would make a witch's tits sprout warm milk (ewwwwww, ewwwww and all that!), wisps of curly black chest air that would make a bitch in heat howl into the night, this hot wolf gets me on fire!



Closet Award: Wolverine First Class
Figo cannot be tamed, so he must clearly be the one in charge. Picture bed with crimson satin sheets, and Figo's tanned, hairy frame swathed in yards and yards of the fabric. The creature bounds up to you suddenly and overpowers you, lowers himself in such an enigmatic way that you can feel the searing heat from the tall candles placed all around the bed, and locks eyes with you... a touch.. a whiff... a growl. The best course of action is to turn your head and expose your neck and shoulders and wait for the bites.

After we've faced the envious stares at the red welts on our necks in the morning, we must work on the strategy to ensnare our next Football Flame into our boudoir. What is it about Italians? All that romance and all that reputation, and just when you think it's all bunkum, up comes running towards you at a hurricane's pace is Franceso Totti. The man has modelled for Armani himself, and you don't need to wonder why. Totti is not about devil-attitude ala Becks, or sheer-intensity ala Figo - he's the God you want to see dressed up in his suit, and stripped down in his bare un-essentials, in your bedroom. Totti's the beautiful man, the one who is smart enough and sexy enough to know what you want from him in bed (and on the field, but that's secondary here!) even before you ask for it. The result: heaven is a place here on earth.



Closet Award: Sauve Killer First Class
Totti is the date guy. So there must be the red rose, the violins, the impeccable Italian accent whispering in your ears, and midway through the elevator ride, that's when his hand snakes out to halt the car, and he's all over you in the dark. Armani slithers off, belts buckles off, throaty voices in the dark, urgency at its peak. Totti is pushed back till his back is against the glass wall of the elevator, and within view of a shocked city of glittering lights, you get down on your knees to pleasure a god.

Ahem ahem. And the cup goes to...



Closetalk
*shy grin*

Fa(r) - a long, long way to run...

Fa(r) - a long, long way to run...

Last week, I found myself in a funny position as the Wise Old Sod on the mountain, when two friends came to me for Relationship Advice. That was actually scary. The strange situation that catapulted me to this position? - well, both my friends have opted for the rather circuitous and long-winded route to happiness - the Long Distance Relationship.



My good friend Chimneypot recently met a guy whom she calls Boo. It's actually amazingly cute, the fact that they call each other the same nickname - Boo. Boo, however, happens to live in saddi dilli, whereas Chimneypot is very much the Bambaiyya chick. Which thus leads her to think of me as the gospel on LDRs and how to navigate them. The other week, when Boo (the dilli one) was in town, all of us met him, and I was suddenly thrust into the role of the Parent, very similar to something I'd encountered myself earlier. So, I tried to put on my best Parent face - friendly and yet protective, and made the appropriate noises:

CT, clearing throat with hot chocolate at Barista's: "So (young man)... what is it that you do?"

Boo, grinning: "Well, I'm a journalist in Delhi, and I do scientific reporting."

CT, wondering whether I should ask him his 'prospects': "O, cool... is it... interesting?"

Boo, thinking to himself that this guy is a flake: "Ummm... er... yea, sure."

CT, harrumphing away his doubts: "So, you guys have known each other for... how long again was it?"

Chimneypot interrupts: "Chatting for almost three weeks now"

CT, eyes slightly widening: "Three weeks? That's... umm... fast!" (nervous laughter)

At the end, however, wisdom finally kicked in, and I realised that I usually sleep with a guy after knowing him for less than three hours - forget weeks! - and since the two of them are so obviously in love, I gave my blessings. Tathastu!

And then, there was the architect of my own 'Meet the Parents' episode, many eons ago. NatureBoy called me the other day, and informed me that he had fallen in love - and the object of his affections was another Delhi-based lad. So that led to another conversation about farway loves and what they entail - the problems of being in touch and the issues sex maniacs like NatureBoy and I have to face when faced with the prospect of a drastic cutdown in our sex skeds.

NatureBoy: "But how do you get by? I mean, not just the sex part, but the bonding part also?"
CT, nods sagely: "Aaaa, well... there's the phone and there's the internet chat sessions... I guess, there's nothing more you can do, but be involved all the time. Involved in his life."

NatureBoy: "I've got huge phone bills, and it's not been a month as yet!"

CT, recognizing similar financial problems: "You'll soon have to change your internet usage plan to a more expensive one also. And tell yourself, that it's acceptable."

NatureBoy: "What do I do?"

CT, with a patient smile: "Let yourself be. And stay in love."



Moronic advice to give, I admit. But I never actually said I agree with the idiots that I was the LDR expert. Hell, I'm the first one to admit that Boy and I, we're a growing phenomenon. It takes a lot of hard work to stay involved, and I'm not just talking about the phone bills here. There's the whole issue of being in touch. And sex... Fidelity... is a whole different ball game. We all want to stay celibate, and yet often don't turn out to be the romantics we wish we could have been. And while I would so want to know for sure whether they'll be able to make it, I'm keeping my own fingers crossed that I'm able to make it myself!

And that's the honest truth about LDRs.

Meet Kit

So, since a lot of people I know are getting PETA friendly, I decided to choose an adorable kitty of my own.

Meet: