Tuesday, February 27, 2007
A little bit of Tiffany's in the closet
A little bit of Tiffany's in the closet

So the other night was spent alone, owing to a freakish asexual mood, and the romantic 'mean reds' took hold of me. After a conversation with Sin, in I popped the VCD of Breakfast At Tiffany's, and immersed myself in Audrey's amazing Holly rendition.

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And even though the movie-ending deviates from the book's, to embrace a totally soppy a la Bollywood happy ending, I'm so glad it does. I couldn't bear to see that yummy George Peppard losing out on the love of his life, and I couldn't bear to not see Audrey finally save herself. All said and done, the movie is terribly sweet, in a way that the book is perhaps sore, so I took the liberty of jotting down my favourite lines from the script.These are the funny lines, the gruesome lines, the quirky lines, the Holly lines. And some of them, are even the Closetalk lines.


Sid Arbuck: Come on baby, you like me.
Holly: I worship you, Mr. Arbuck. Goodnight, Mr. Arbuck.

Holly: Listen. You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul: The 'mean reds'? You mean, like the blues?
Holly: The blues are because you're getting fat. Or it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Don't you ever get that feeling?
Paul: Sure.
Holly: When I get it, what does any good is to jump into a car and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness. The proud look. Nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then... I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name.

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Holly: A girl can't go to Sing Sing with a green face.
Paul: Sing Sing?
Holly: I always thought it was a ridiculous name for a prison, Sing Sing, I mean. Sounds more like an opera house!

Holly: You could always tell what kind of a person a man thinks you are by the earrings he gives you... (tries them on and looks in the mirrr, and the blanches)... I must say, the mind reels!

Holly: I told him, "Look darling, you've got the wrong Holly Golightly." I do as well on trips to the powder room. Any gentleman will give a girl $ 50 for the powder room. And cab fare - that's another $ 50.

Holly: 300. She's very generous. Is that by the week, the hour, or what?
Paul: The Party's over. Out.
Holly: O red, darling Fred, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I was just letting you know I understand. I understand completely.

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Holly: I suppose you think I'm very brazen. Or tres fou or something.
Paul: You're no fou-er than anybody else.
Holly: Yes, you do. Everybody does. And I don't mind. It's useful being Top Banana in the shock department.

Paul: Too dirty? Yea, I... suppose they're dirty, too. But only incidentally. Mainly, they're angry, sensitive... intensely felt, and that dirtiest of all dirty words - promising!

Holly: Do you mind if I just get in with you for a minute? It's all right, really, it is. We're friends, that's all.

O J Berman: Come in! It's a party - lot of characters come who aren't expected.

Holly: O J's a great agent. He knows a lot of phone numbers.

O J Berman: Answer the question - is she or isn't she?
Paul: What?
O J Berman: A phony.
Paul: I don't know. I don't think so.
O J Berman: You don't, huh? Well, you're wrong. She is. But on the other hand, you're right, because she's a real phony. She honestly believes all this phony junk.

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O J Berman: Know how long it took me to smooth that accent? One year. Know how? We gave her French lessons. Figured, once she could imitate French, she could imitate English.

Paul: He's all right - if you like dark, handsome, rich-looking men with passionate natures and too many teeth.

Holly: Rusty Trawler! He happens to be the ninth richest man in America under 50.
Paul: Now, that, indeed, is a remarkable piece of information to have at your fingertips.
Holly: I keep track of these things.

Holly: It's a mistake you always made, trying to love a wild thing. You were always lugging home wild things - a hawk with a broken wing, a full-grown wildcat with a broken leg, remember? There's something - you mustn't give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to fly into a tree, then to higher trees, then to the sky.

Holly: You know the terrible thing, Fred, darling? I am still Lula Mae - 14 years old, stealing turkey eggs and running through a briar patch. except now I call it having the mean reds.

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Holly: Do you think she's talented? Deeply and importantly talented?
Paul: No. Amusing and superficially talented, yes.

Holly: Anyway, every Tom, Dick and Sid sinks-thinks, if he takes a girl out to dinner, she'll just curl up in a litle furry ball at his feet, right? I have, by actual count, been taken to dinner by 26 different rats in the last 2 months. 27, if you count Benny Shacklett, who's in many ways, a Super Rat.

Holly: It should take you exactly four seconds to cross from here to that door. I'll give you two.

Holly: Just a minute. Do I have my nightgown on? No, I don't. Would you turn around for a second? Never mind. That's corny anyway. I'll turn around myself.

Holly: It turns out, he owes $ 700,000. Can you imagine anyone owing $ 700,000? Anyway, that's why he decided to marry the queen of the pig people.

Holly: Well, I've got a wonderful idea. We'll spend the day doing things we've never done before.

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Holly: Personally, I think it would be tacky to wear diamonds before I'm 40.

Tiffany's Server: Do they still really have prizes in cracker jack boxes?
Paul: O, yes.
Tiffany's Server: That's nice to know. It gives one a feeling of solidarity, almost of continuity, with the past. That sort of thing.

Paul: Tooley, you're a very stylish girl. can't we end this stylishly?

Paul: Is that what you really think? That I'm no different from all your other rats and super rats? Wait a minute. If that's it... If that's what you really think... there's something I want to give you -
Holly: What's that?
Paul: $ 50 for the powder room.

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Holly (out of jail at 10 am): Quel night!

Holly: Hand me my purse, will you, darling? A girl can't read that sort of thing without her lipstick.

Holly: I'm not hotfooting it after Jose, if that's what you think. O no, as far as I'm concerned, he;s the future president of nowhere. Only, why should I waste a good plane ticket?

Paul: You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken. You got no guts. You're afraid to say, "OK, life's a fact." People do fall in love. People do belong to each other. Because that's the only chance any body's got for real happiness. You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing. You're terrified somebody's going to stick you in a cage. Well, baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded by Tulip, Texas, or Somaliland. It's wherever you go because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

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Moon River, wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style some day.
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,
wherever you're going I'm going your way.
Two drifters off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end--
waiting 'round the bend,
my huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.

- music by Henry Mancini, lyrics by Johnny Mercer

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Monday, February 26, 2007
The Date-A-Base
The Date-A-Base

Sometime back, I found myself jobless at Bandra in the middle of the day, thanks to a client meeting that had finished way too early, and a mind that balked at the thought of going back to work before time like a good li'l lamb. So I roamed Hill Road, picking up lampshades and wondering if I could drop by somebody's place for a quick encounter. A glance through my phonebook showed me, however, that I was in a dry zone indeed as far as my personal acquaintances were concerned, so I called up Vivian for assisstance.

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Vivian: "Sorry, darling. I just deleted all my numbers. I'm stepping away from the Slut Stage now, I've decided. At least for some time. What about you? Hard to believe you don't have Bandra numbers!" *shock and awe*

CT, groans in despair: "I'd gone through that silly phase myself sometime back, you see, and that's when I deleted all my Bandra numbers. Now the only Bandra contacts I have left are hard at work in some boring office in Fort or Nariman Point. Think I should go over and take some dick-tation under the desk?"

Vivian squeals: "Oooooo, you must, dah-ling!"

CT sighs again: "Naaa, if I'm going back to South Bombay, I may as well go back to work. Looks like this is going to be a no-hookey day after all. What we need is a safeguard against such silly situations that crop up because of a moment's deliberation of virtuousity!"

And that's where the idea of the date-a-base was born. Think about it. It's so deliciously simple, really. I mean, every single gay boy goes through those phases, those ups and downs. Those times when we decide we've had enough of searching for heartbreaking love, and sex is the only real thing out there in Gay Bombay, so then we hunt and hunt and hunt some more, collecting numbers like locusts and screwing throughout the city like good ole Bathsheba (actually, she was much maligned, methinks), until, somehow, we get all tired of it all, and arrive at that silly Sanyas Stage.

No sex. No casual sex. Suddenly, all those columns of delicious numbers, arranged in As, Bs, Cs and so on, from Cuffe Parade to Borivili (some even go as far as Dahisar!) , and likes and preferences and body types... those marvelously detailed databases are erased at the press of a button. 57 CONTACTS READY FOR DELETE... DELETE? blinks that foul blue indicator in your phone, and you tell yourself that you are headed for greener pastures, love and longing, to hell with mindless sex, and you get seduced enough to press the button. DELETE.

You exist in your fool's paradise for all of three weeks. Maybe five at the most.

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And after those three weeks are over (five, at the most), you find yourself slapping your forehead at your momentary lapse of reason and over-reaching principles that made you think that love will come drifting down to you in Gay Bombay as soon as you stop slutting around. But the hormones are still roaring like crazy and you're left high and dry. Without numbers. Without contacts. And you go back to work on a day which could have included a wonderful mid-afternoon lay instead, if you had never been so sodding stupid!

CT: "We need a date-a-base! A technological network equivalent of a Black Book."

Vivian gurgles on the other end: "Oooooo, I like, I like. Go on, go on."

CT, seeing the light of Sudden Inspiration: "Yes, yes.... it will automatically get filled in as soon as any of us - the Family - exchange numbers with any one out of the group. And it stays there, even after we cut ties. Like a reference book, for the rest of us!"

Vivian claps his hands: "And we can label them according to types and preferences!"

CT: "Of course. Top/ bottom/ versatile, hairy/ smooth, old/ twink/ middle ages/ thirties... the works!"










'pure top' - no oral sex, likes being sucked


7 Bungalows



excellent head, anal sex not a specialty

Vivian: "Can we rate them too?! On a scale of one to ten?!"

CT screws up his face: "Well, I dunno about that. That might not work too well. One man's prince is another man's pauper, you know. But maybe we can work things out as we go on.... what do you think?"

Vivian whoops in joy: "I love it! We must spead the word! To SnowWhite's Stepmother and the Penguin and to Helen of Troy and the Guppie and to Diamond Choker Baccha!"


We're putting out the ad in the papers tomorrow, so all you top-notch computer geeks out there who want to make Gay Bombay a cozier place, feel free to apply.

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Friday, February 23, 2007
Closetalk preens in front of the poll-mirror again...
Closetalk preens in front of the poll-mirror again...

So, after my last online poll revealed me to be 60-some-odd per cent histrionic, I got on the poll-wagon again, after hittin on some quirky ones on a friend's blog. So there, you go - candid answers to some hilarious questions which revealed some (ahem ahem) interesting insights...

Your Porn Star Name Is...

Jack in the Box

You Are 82% Sexy

Your Sex Appeal Is: Off the Charts!

Let's face it... you're one of the sexiest people around. And you don't let anyone forget it.
You're crazy hot, and you deliver on what you promise. You are definitely one wild ride.

Your Love Type: ESFP

The Performer

In love, you relish every moment and tend to get caught up in passion.
For you, sex is how you get in touch with all your senses.

Overall, you are creative, popular, and flexible.
However, you tend to dislike criticism and avoid any conflict.

Best matches: ISTJ or ISFJ


Sunday, February 18, 2007
Some Sane Advice
Some Sane Advice

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After being subjected to yet another bout of moaning and groaning about how beautiful love is, SnowWhite's Stepmother bursts out: "O, all you silly gay boys do all this whining for something totally useless - don't you know, the one thing worth living and dying for is a gorgeous Louis Vuitton bag???"


Friday, February 16, 2007
Who's hosting the chat show here?
Who's hosting the chat show here?

Many moons ago, when Allygatorlover had asked me how often I blogged, I replied confidently enough that it was at least two to three times a week. He'd seemed impressed back then. This evening, however, over a late-night coffee conversation with SnowWhite's Stepmother and the Penguin over the online chat phenomenon, I realized, that was hardly the case anymore. The fact is: my blogging activities have been taken over slowly but surely by the rather more lurid promises held out by the Late Night Chat.

I've always looked at online chat as the best form of cruising. No more the roundabout-walkathons of my sallow youth in Minto Park in Calcutta or CP in Delhi. Bombay has been a coming-of-age for me on more counts than one - and Cruising Methods also falls in this category. Listing user profiles, uploading pictures, writing some (hopefully) fun and witty introductory remarks, and then the usual shit about body type, sexual preferences, yadayadayada... The idea of screening who you meet before you meet them was so much more appealing that walking round and round the proverbial mulberry bush, making furtive eye contact, and then probably finding out that the guy you fixed your glare on doesn't know a word of English.

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But the thing is, the damn thing is addictive. The thrill of logging in to the website and seeing that popup window scream out NEW MESSAGE is racy, to say the least. That prompts SS to log in regularly from home, even when his assistants are working in the very next room. That prompts me to regularly sign on and chat till late into the night. I've become so regular on a certain chatroom, I can pretty much predict who I'm going to see there, and who I'm not. That place now holds only one novelty for me - chatting with the foreigners who drop by from time to time, looking to chat with an Indian guy, because as I've told SS, I've somehow come to the conclusion that most of the Indian men in Bombay who're online are thoroughly boring or not my type or both. Somehow, it's the foreign guys I prefer to chat with - not just in the hope they're coming to Bombay soon on a little trip that might mean some great sex, but there's also that fantastic thrill that comes from flirting even when they're not coming anywhere close to the subcontinent...

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Am I the new Gay Jane Goody?

The Penguin asked us this evening, whether we didn't find the entire situation a tad boring. He had profiles of his own on all three or four major sites, but has deleted them lately, citing 'boredom'. (Boredom, by the way, is a common phenomenon with the Penguin. *grin*) But both SS and I replied that we were anything but bored, really.

"You can leave it, if you make up your mind, after a point, that you've had enough of it, and don't want anymore of the whole stuff," said SS, "But no, I don't think there's a situation boredom sets in. It's like CT said - addictive. Quite addictive."

The addiction in my case, of course, goes an extra step than it does for SS. He doesn't find himself awake at 3 am, chatting with NYC-HotBoi (or whatever they're called), a smart, hot 27 year old doctor from New York City, laughing about the lack of edible Bombay boys, and trying to convince him to come over for his next vacation. I do. And he doesn't have a list of five men who've made tentative plans to have sex with him over the weekend. I do. And he doesn't suddenly bump into an ex online in the dead of night. I do.

This morning, after my sex-date left, and the flatmate was finally free to come out of her room, she asked, very matter-of-factly, while pouring out some water for herself, "So, how was it?"

And I thought - Is this routine? Do the flatmates of all gay men ask them this when a sexual encounter has ended?

Or is it because of my apparent addiction?

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Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Diplomatic Immunity
Diplomatic Immunity

On my way to town Saturday morning, and I'm on the phone with the Penguin. As the train courses its way along the Western Line, he and I end up talking about, well, men. I tell him about the extraordinarily hot Australian guy who I'd met the night before (and who's legacy - chapped and sore lips - are still with me, even as I write this), and the Penguin was guffawing as I described why I like Australians... and it's not just because of their terribly cute accents and the fact that they love kangaroos.

Penguin: "You know, you could become a Gay Cultural Ambassador or something for us, CT..."

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CT, grinning modestly while the train chugs along: "Well, if you think that I can help good ole gay folks in any way..." *giggles*

Penguin: "So, is there any country you haven't done? Do tell!"

CT, exercising weak memory cells: "Well, of course there are loads of countries I haven't seen, you know....

I mean, I was glad I did the Pakistani at the Sheraton the other week because that was really really fun and good for neighbourly affection and all that - plus, cuz he was a Punjabi Tiger (if ever they exist!) in the sack - but I haven't really done a Bangladeshi. In our immediate circle of influence, I've also done a Sri Lankan - during the Chennai years, you know - but not up north. No Nepali or Bhutanese...

Never thought I'd be attracted to Chinese men, but then there was that hot guy from Hong Kong who was here on an exchange programme in Andheri West, and he was a pretty vigorous top. Then there was the American of Chinese descent who was a completely great bottom, very smooth, very energetic, very... yummy. And I'm sure it doesn't really count, but then this Aussie fellow lives in Jakarta, so maybe that covers a bit of South East Asia, though not as much as I'd like to...

Americans are the easiest of them all, of course. I mean, they travel to India (and especially Bombay) like anything. Spiritual Upliftment or whatever upliftment - *giggle* LA boys are cute and hot, hot rugged men from the north are very sexy, NYC guys are bindaas like Bombay Boys, and hell, one meets tonnes of Canadians online also - so, am sure I'll do one of those pretty soon.

London's like the S&M capital of the world, you know. It's quite overtaken Amsterdam and all. I mean, I did have this beefy German flight attendant who liked a fair degree of BDSM, but I looove the Brit boys for their sheer versatility - they love it hard and fast, and they also like a good amount of vanilla. The French are pretty sweet and gentle - this one I went out on a date was like the most generous ever - and no, I'm not a hooker... yet! There was the cute Spanish guy in Delhi - very adorable accent, and a powerhouse between the sheets (as if either of us covered up during our encounter - hah!) And the Italian that time in the Hyatt was also damn sweet - and very long lasting too! *shy grin* Had this Swede once, living in Australia, and yes, they are right about colder climates and longer appendages, you know.

O, and did I forget the cute guy from Dubai who was down here from London? The word is Y-U-M-M-Y. :)..."

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Penguin, chortling now: "I repeat my question: Is there any country you haven't done?"

CT, ponders: "O, well, of course I haven't done anyone out of Africa, you know. Never had the opportunity to try 'Once you go Black, you never go back', so I don't know about that. And like I said, I want to expand my South East Asian horizons. Russians - now, that's a breed I'd like to examine in detail - Russians and East Europeans. I mean, let's try some Bel Ami for real now! and o, yes, South America... Any country would do. Peru or Brazil. I think Cuba would be nice too."

Penguin agrees: "Cuba would be nice!"

CT sighs: "A nice long puff on a smouldering Cuban cigar... oops, was I profane now?" *grin*

Anyhow, so later that evening, I meet the Family for dinner at Lokhandwalla, and the first thing I do on seeing the Penguin is grin and amble over to him. "You remember that list we discussed this morning? Well, you can scratch Africa and South America off that list, da-ling!"

Penguin looks speculatively at me, a bit afraid of what to expect, but delightedly thrilled as well.

Closetalk, grinning broader now: "African descent from Venezuella! Two birds with one stone!"

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Wednesday, February 07, 2007
'Slap Him, He's French!'
'Slap Him, He's French!'

Natureboy is standing opposite the Lion Gate at Kaala Ghoda, and I'm panting as I reach him. Of course I'm late.

Closetalk: "Terribly sorry. Had to stop off at the Taj for some work. Shall we walk it then? Not too far away."

Natureboy, absentmindedly: "Aaa, it's ok. Was standing and cruising a very cute specimen here while waiting for you."

CT, whirling around, but we're already quite some distance away from where we met: "Where, where?"

Natureboy, chuckling: "O, he's gone now, I think. Very cute. I was looking at him while chatting on the phone with you, and then he looked back, and when I walked ahead and turned around, he'd turned too."

CT, sighing: "Bad luck he cruised on ya now - anyway, maybe he'll be there at the concert. He may like French."

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Natureboy shrugs. We're on our way to the latest installement of the Kaala Ghoda Arts Festival, and a French rock band named Merzhin will be performing at the *cue to laugh* Horniman Circle. Twenty minutes later, Natureboy and I are in the thick of a noisy concert, surrounded by a mix of corporate executives and runty collegians, all head banging away to glory.

Natureboy, shaking head: "Ummm.. did you know it was going to be this... loud?"

CT, shrugging: "Well, it is a rock concert. But... no. I didn't. Are we just getting older, or are other people getting younger?"

Natureboy screws up his face now, and makes me promise to leave after the next song. The next song starts and finishes, and just when I think we should be heading back, Natureboy brightens when the guitars and the pipes start again, and says, "O, this sounds much better now. Let's stay for this song."

So the song is actually quite fun, and then I spy this paan-vendor type some way ahead going wild at the group with his hands in the air and all, and I nudge Natureboy: "Think he knows French?"

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But my companion screws up his face again, and pronounces a "O dear" when a college kid a little way off screams bloodcurdlingly. While he gazes at the girl in wonder, I groan and say, "I would never act this demented for anyone - except maybe Madonna and Kylie. But only those two. "

The cute frizzy haired frontman for the band announces that they're gonna do a loo-oove song, and the crowd goes crazy again. On cue, a relic from the 70s whips out a lighter, which lasts about ten seconds before it goes off. I'm sniggering, but also enjoying the song. Strange.

Meanwhilel, Natureboy is gazing at a gang of French teenagers who're going wild at the songs, and he's quite intent on the three boys in the group. I follow his line of vision, and wonder aloud, "Do you think they're gay?" as they start dancing with each other. Natureboy sighs, and says, "Naaa, they're French."

Closetalk giggles, but assents.

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