o come on, wasn't this funny...?!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
OK, so I was never this bad, but....
OK, so I was never this bad, but....
o come on, wasn't this funny...?!
o come on, wasn't this funny...?!
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Rent Boy
Rent Boy
So my landlord looked at me and the Flatmate in turn, and pronounced in his slurred voice that there was no way on hell that he'd let us stay on in the apartment for the third consecutive term. Nada. And the great House Hunt has begun again.
Anyone who's ever come to live in good ole Bombay will know that this is one of the most vexing, irritating and (just simply) hateful aspects of the city. Getting a house to live in - a nice house to live in, as you think you deserve and need - is terribly hard to come by. You call up brokers and they inform you outright that you were a duncehead to ever think of being able to find a house for the price you're willing to pay. So, a bit nervous, you jack up that price by a couple of thousand or so... and then start the search. And that leads to phase 2 of the process, after phase 1, that was the Goosebump Stage.
In phase 2, the goosebumps disappear altogether, to give way to Humiliation.
That's when the wily broker takes you on a long and tiring search, showing you house after house, slum after slum, and you wonder why on earth you ever worked so hard day in and day out, if all you can afford in the city is a miserable little hovel. And the broker's false staccato laugh doesn't help any, either. House after house, failed hunt after failed hunt, you experience phase 3, Despondency.
Phase 4 is usually when you do come upon the house you eventually buy. That's called Compromise. And as the months go past, first two then three, you start thinking that maybe this is your dream house after all, and that's phase 5, False Hope. Till, soon enough, the eleven months of the contract run out, and you find yourself at the start of a new hunt, all over again.
And that's where I am, now.
The broker laughs at me and says there's no way I'll be able to get another apartment in my present locality for anything less than 15k. 1-bhks here are hard-put to come by cheap, he says, and I have to agree. What's the alternative? Bandra and South Bombay are equally pricey, if not more, so those are out. Kalina has absolutely nothing around - though Natureboy did suggest: "The Grand Hyatt! So much easier to get firang sex that way!" Aaa, but then I declined.
So, then there's Andheri. East is in the boondocks - nothing for miles but BPOs and dust roads. West is not bad - and here's where we encounter another problem. Andheri, the land famed for its gigantic multiplex movie halls and its popcorn-coke combos, seems to be too prudish for the Will-and-Grace combo.
So, this broker informs me very apologetically, that despite all his best intentions and the ample availability of flats, he will not be able to help me because we are an "unmarried couple", and the building society will throw a fit, and how it would be so much easier if we were a boy-boy or a girl-girl combo instead.
Wow, I think wryly to myself, what an unexpected benefit for same-sex couples - where they least expected it, probably!
So, there you go - I'm stll searching for a place: preferably for both me and the Flatmate, or if not, then just for myself but at a reasonable rate. Suggestions from my friends have involved the YMCA, or moving in with one of my other single (and straight) friends. And, of course, the venerable Natureboy suggested this afternoon over chocolate tart, that I end every GB party standing at the door when the lights come back on, with my best Lost Puppy-dog look on my face and a cardboard in my hand, assuring "WILL FCUK FOR ROOF".
And, no, though we had a good fit of the giggles imagining the subtleties of my outfit and expression during such a venture, I cannot say that the idea is particularly appealing.
:(
So my landlord looked at me and the Flatmate in turn, and pronounced in his slurred voice that there was no way on hell that he'd let us stay on in the apartment for the third consecutive term. Nada. And the great House Hunt has begun again.
Anyone who's ever come to live in good ole Bombay will know that this is one of the most vexing, irritating and (just simply) hateful aspects of the city. Getting a house to live in - a nice house to live in, as you think you deserve and need - is terribly hard to come by. You call up brokers and they inform you outright that you were a duncehead to ever think of being able to find a house for the price you're willing to pay. So, a bit nervous, you jack up that price by a couple of thousand or so... and then start the search. And that leads to phase 2 of the process, after phase 1, that was the Goosebump Stage.
In phase 2, the goosebumps disappear altogether, to give way to Humiliation.
That's when the wily broker takes you on a long and tiring search, showing you house after house, slum after slum, and you wonder why on earth you ever worked so hard day in and day out, if all you can afford in the city is a miserable little hovel. And the broker's false staccato laugh doesn't help any, either. House after house, failed hunt after failed hunt, you experience phase 3, Despondency.
Phase 4 is usually when you do come upon the house you eventually buy. That's called Compromise. And as the months go past, first two then three, you start thinking that maybe this is your dream house after all, and that's phase 5, False Hope. Till, soon enough, the eleven months of the contract run out, and you find yourself at the start of a new hunt, all over again.
And that's where I am, now.
The broker laughs at me and says there's no way I'll be able to get another apartment in my present locality for anything less than 15k. 1-bhks here are hard-put to come by cheap, he says, and I have to agree. What's the alternative? Bandra and South Bombay are equally pricey, if not more, so those are out. Kalina has absolutely nothing around - though Natureboy did suggest: "The Grand Hyatt! So much easier to get firang sex that way!" Aaa, but then I declined.
So, then there's Andheri. East is in the boondocks - nothing for miles but BPOs and dust roads. West is not bad - and here's where we encounter another problem. Andheri, the land famed for its gigantic multiplex movie halls and its popcorn-coke combos, seems to be too prudish for the Will-and-Grace combo.
So, this broker informs me very apologetically, that despite all his best intentions and the ample availability of flats, he will not be able to help me because we are an "unmarried couple", and the building society will throw a fit, and how it would be so much easier if we were a boy-boy or a girl-girl combo instead.
Wow, I think wryly to myself, what an unexpected benefit for same-sex couples - where they least expected it, probably!
So, there you go - I'm stll searching for a place: preferably for both me and the Flatmate, or if not, then just for myself but at a reasonable rate. Suggestions from my friends have involved the YMCA, or moving in with one of my other single (and straight) friends. And, of course, the venerable Natureboy suggested this afternoon over chocolate tart, that I end every GB party standing at the door when the lights come back on, with my best Lost Puppy-dog look on my face and a cardboard in my hand, assuring "WILL FCUK FOR ROOF".
And, no, though we had a good fit of the giggles imagining the subtleties of my outfit and expression during such a venture, I cannot say that the idea is particularly appealing.
:(
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Fox and the Material Girl
The Fox and the Material Girl
Hopped over to the Sports Bar this evening on a date with a cute guy whom I shall call NextDoorBoy, and they were playing amazing songs from the Retro Age. :) And that's when I thought about Samantha Fox.
NextDoorBoy: "I am so completely blown away by the fact that you remember Samantha Fox! I mean, my brother had a huge poster of her in his bedroom!"
Closetalk, grinning happily (this is beer no.2 and I get drunk fast, rememember?): "What's so strange about that now? I loooooooooooooved her Touch me song!"
NextDoorBoy patting CT's legs (was he hitting on me?): "Just that I haven't even met too many straight men who remember her - even though they may find her name familiar!"
Whereupon, I got up and proceeded to do a very ditsy Samantha Fox version in his ear, while he couldn't stop chuckling -
Somewhere in the city, and the night is young,
I was hungry for love, I was hungry for you...
... take my body like you wanted to....
This is tonight - touch me - touch me
I wanna feel your body - your body on me toniiiiiiggght!
But while NextDoorBoy thinks it's all pretty amazing that I remember Sam Fox, she was pretty much a life-sized idol for me, during my pre-teen years - kinda like Madonna. I remember that video of Sam's, where she wore this tight black swimming costume kinda thing, with black stockings and a jewelled belt and a black jacket, and did all these outrageous pelvic thrusts! Not even the fact that she did that gross Chicken Fry song with Bappi Lahiri for Bollywood could dim the awe in which I held her in. She was just - ethereally hot in those big, 36 D (ugh) boobs. :)
CT, in beer-induced academic frame of mind: "Sam was soooooooo much hotter than Madonna from the very beginning. I mean, don't get me wrong - I loooooove Madge. But whereas Sam pushed her sexy image from the very start with those nude photos and all, Madge came off as the rebellious gal in her early years!"
NextDoorBoy: "The Papa Don't Preach Gal, you mean."
CT nods, triumphant: "Exactly! And even later, when she got all glamorous and sexy, it was always like this good ole romantic sexy - not the trashy slutty thing that made Sam such a rage among all the straight guys!"
And, actually, that's why I think why soooo many women and gay men love Madge even now - perhaps more than straight men do. Madge appealed to the romantic or the breakaway, and only rarely did she try to be outright sexy. When she did, in Erotica and all, she always came a controversial cropper, not a runaway success. It was always Material Girl and Like a Virgin and Frozen and Hung Up where she hit paydirt. And she's not really a slut in those - just the hot gal in yards and yards of fabric loosely wound around her, which threatens to unravel. :) Madonna is the gal in the Venetian gondola dancing with the guy in the lion-mask - something which all fags and hags sigh over. Madonna is the gorgeous gal in red, choosing among chocolates and diamonds, a la Marylin - and no, straight men aren't likely to find the prospect of a lighter wallet very sexual.
Hopped over to the Sports Bar this evening on a date with a cute guy whom I shall call NextDoorBoy, and they were playing amazing songs from the Retro Age. :) And that's when I thought about Samantha Fox.
NextDoorBoy: "I am so completely blown away by the fact that you remember Samantha Fox! I mean, my brother had a huge poster of her in his bedroom!"
Closetalk, grinning happily (this is beer no.2 and I get drunk fast, rememember?): "What's so strange about that now? I loooooooooooooved her Touch me song!"
NextDoorBoy patting CT's legs (was he hitting on me?): "Just that I haven't even met too many straight men who remember her - even though they may find her name familiar!"
Whereupon, I got up and proceeded to do a very ditsy Samantha Fox version in his ear, while he couldn't stop chuckling -
Somewhere in the city, and the night is young,
I was hungry for love, I was hungry for you...
... take my body like you wanted to....
This is tonight - touch me - touch me
I wanna feel your body - your body on me toniiiiiiggght!
But while NextDoorBoy thinks it's all pretty amazing that I remember Sam Fox, she was pretty much a life-sized idol for me, during my pre-teen years - kinda like Madonna. I remember that video of Sam's, where she wore this tight black swimming costume kinda thing, with black stockings and a jewelled belt and a black jacket, and did all these outrageous pelvic thrusts! Not even the fact that she did that gross Chicken Fry song with Bappi Lahiri for Bollywood could dim the awe in which I held her in. She was just - ethereally hot in those big, 36 D (ugh) boobs. :)
CT, in beer-induced academic frame of mind: "Sam was soooooooo much hotter than Madonna from the very beginning. I mean, don't get me wrong - I loooooove Madge. But whereas Sam pushed her sexy image from the very start with those nude photos and all, Madge came off as the rebellious gal in her early years!"
NextDoorBoy: "The Papa Don't Preach Gal, you mean."
CT nods, triumphant: "Exactly! And even later, when she got all glamorous and sexy, it was always like this good ole romantic sexy - not the trashy slutty thing that made Sam such a rage among all the straight guys!"
And, actually, that's why I think why soooo many women and gay men love Madge even now - perhaps more than straight men do. Madge appealed to the romantic or the breakaway, and only rarely did she try to be outright sexy. When she did, in Erotica and all, she always came a controversial cropper, not a runaway success. It was always Material Girl and Like a Virgin and Frozen and Hung Up where she hit paydirt. And she's not really a slut in those - just the hot gal in yards and yards of fabric loosely wound around her, which threatens to unravel. :) Madonna is the gal in the Venetian gondola dancing with the guy in the lion-mask - something which all fags and hags sigh over. Madonna is the gorgeous gal in red, choosing among chocolates and diamonds, a la Marylin - and no, straight men aren't likely to find the prospect of a lighter wallet very sexual.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Noticeboard: Trip, Fling, Ex, Party
Noticeboard: Trip, Fling, Ex, Party
Nothing really to talk about, but it's just been ages (read: five days) since I last posted here, so the fake heartstrings called and I decided to come back and write some crap. In bullet form, one by one -
Nothing really to talk about, but it's just been ages (read: five days) since I last posted here, so the fake heartstrings called and I decided to come back and write some crap. In bullet form, one by one -
- G4M is getting terribly boring. I know I've said that a million times already and I find myself going back online every evening nevertheless, but here I'm saying it again. Forget guys to have relationships with, there aren't even cute guys to fcuk anymore in Bombay. SnowWhite's Stepmother is right: why on earth did I leave the Jat/ Punjabi boys in Delhi? *wails*
- Ok, so that was the usual whiny where-are-all-the-men moment. What else is happening to me? A) Am going to the motherland next week; B) Am having a sort-of-fling with an NRI here in Bombay; C) The ex sent me flowers on V-Day and is now quiet. One by one, then -
- Calcutta beckons. By next week, this time, I shall indeed be in the land of poor Bongs and uncouth Marus and all the other stereotypes people have about us. Yes, I hate rassagullas, and yes, I'm not very fond of ilish (hilsa) either, and no, I don't go about wearing a starched dhoti all the time. They say I speak with a funny accent, and I'm the most non-Bong Bengali you ever saw. Wat-eva. :) I'm going home for a week.
- The fling with the NRI. Began as a Sex Thing, like they all do. Chatted online, when he was still in NRI-land, and knew from beforehand that he has this boyfriend he's been with since Donkey's Ears, so it was clearly gonna just be a Sex Thing. Well then, what happened? - Oops. Not to mean, it's still not a Sex Thing, but it's a nice Sex Thing - with dates and laughs and great romantic sex and stayovers and coffees/ brunches the day after. Dangerous territory? I know it is. I told him the other night, "You're a Boyfriend Proxie for me", and he found it amusing, I think. I think he feels very tenderly towards me too, but like I said, he's got a boyfriend, and I'm not interested in being a LTR creature again. Definitely not a Boyfriend No. 2 in a LTR. So it remains a Sex Thing - a nice Sex Thing - for the five-odd months he's got in amchi Mumbai. That's the whole NRI story.
- And yes, the ex sent me flowers for Valentines Day. He has been messaging me a coupla tmes since we broke up, and I've been terse with those, but three days before V-day he sees me online and tells me that he's realized what he's been missing, and that he was a fool to let me go, so can we please Get Back Together? Confusion. So I tell him, dahling, I'm not a yoyo you own, and no I'm not going to 'come back', because frankly all the problems that we had earlier (familial, professional, long distance etc etc etc) are still very much there. So I said, maybe it's all just a "O, look, it's V-day tomorrow and I'm all alone" thing, so just get over it. But, floozy that I am, I succumbed when he asked if he could call me the next day and talk some more. He did, we talked, yadayada, and he told me that he didn't want to pressurize me (wateva!) but would like to be in touch. I said exactly that - wateva. :)
Two days later, I get the flowers. Nice ones, really, but SnowWhite's Stepmother thinks they're hideous Gujju things and I should have thrown them out ten seconds after the delivery man left. But I didn't - cuz I'm a floozy who's never received flowers from anyone before. So I kept them. And I actually let myself wonder, after that mandatory "thanks for the flowers"sms-and-reply, why there hasn't been any word from him yet. Yes yes, I know I sound like Pathetic Relationship Rani, and I daresay I am, despite all the random fcuking. Fact of the matter is, it's quite obvious to me that I was right at the very beginning - that this is just that "O, look, it's V-day tomorrow and I'm all alone" thing and he did get over it. And while I'm glad I got the flowers (my first, yay!) I'm also glad that he's not smsing me anymore. The problems really are still there - and they're even harder now, because of the break-up. I don't know how to deal with this, even though I know I'll probably always remember the great times we had.
- OK, that was the PRR showcasing herself again, so we'll just take a break here.
- O, and I'm having a party this weekend. The OTTT party - Over The Top Tarts Party, if you must know. Nothing really out-of-the-box - basically a variation of my Slutty Bloggers Party last year. Promises to be fun, so watch out. :)
Monday, March 05, 2007
Thong Throng
Throng = To crowd, press into, gather around
Thong = Sexy little number
Think the similar sound is a coincidence?
I had a Samantha moment the other night with my friends, when I was recounting my experience at the g-string shop.
"G-STRING shop????!!!!" exclaimed the Penguin, whirling around so hard from the front passenger's seat, I was half-afraid he might get whiplash.
"Yes, yes, you heard him right," said SnowWhite's Stepmother in a bored voice, composed only because his jaw had already dropped open three hours back when I'd told him about my purchase then.
And suddenly, I felt like I was Samantha Jones. That one who always talks about blowjobs and advises random sex with no commitments to her friends and is well informed about what grade vibrator to buy and what kind of workout one should get during sex, and so on and so forth. A Samantha moment, because SS says I apparently shock him on a routine basis.
But as far as I'm concerned, a gstring/ thong is hardly that news breaking. I mean, sure, it's racy - but then, it's meant to be! It's meant to liven things up in the bedroom when you're bored of good ole cotton boxers between crisp ole cotton sheets. That's when you want to don that black mesh gstring that exposes your butt and you wanna buckle on a great big belt on your waist and slip into those boots. Sure, it's not PG, but then, isn't everyone an A over here?
My first time in an 'exotic underwear shop' was in Calcutta, at the tender age of 17. I had seen an ad of this shop in a magazine, traced it down, and decided to pay it a visit. There was a mousy looking Gujarati man behind the counter, and I walked up and down in front of the store, but wasn't brave enough to actually go in. Finally, the next day, I summoned up my courage and walked in to buy something. And there, next to the mousy Gujju guy, was this complete hunk who was o-so totally droolworthy. I go over and ask him to show me some 'fancy underwear' - I need it for a party, I say - and the mousy fellow gives me a wink and takes a catalogue out. He probably thinks I'm a stripper who's going to perform or something, but I don't really care - I'm too lost in that brochure he's showing me - picture after picture of hot European/ American men in the tiniest and kinkiest of underwear, and I actually asked the mouse whether I could purchase the catalogue, as I had 'lots of friends who also want somethings for the party'.
The things I come up with!
Anyhow, so I buy two pieces from the mouse and his hunky assistant (probably a brother or brother-in-law), and leave. Over the next two years, I use my two purchases (1. black mesh, and 2. leopard print - yes, corny, I know) to my utmost advantage. When you have it, you thong it, dah-ling! :)
***
Coming back to the recent past, there I was, in this shop at Bandra, face to face with some more Gujaratis selling gstrings. (What is it with Gujjus and g-strings now? :) The G-connection...!) The old lady asks me whether I want the 'regular' or the 'fancy' stuff, and when I erm...erm, she shows me Chromozome. That's when I stop being shy and ask for something a bit more 'exotic', and then the old man pipes up, flashes me a big grin with 28 teeth and 4 cavities, and says that what I need definitely is the 'fancy' stuff! So out come the reds, blues, blacks and yellows in nylon, mesh, knit and leather, and I'm sorting through them.
Nicely cheap, at Rs 200, and I'm happy. So is the old man, when he sees my final choice, and he compliments me on my kinky taste and offers me his business card - "Give it to your friends. Spread the word."
From the Penguin and SS' reaction, though, I'm guessing that my friends would prefer I keep the word - and thongs - to myself!
Thong = Sexy little number
Think the similar sound is a coincidence?
I had a Samantha moment the other night with my friends, when I was recounting my experience at the g-string shop.
"G-STRING shop????!!!!" exclaimed the Penguin, whirling around so hard from the front passenger's seat, I was half-afraid he might get whiplash.
"Yes, yes, you heard him right," said SnowWhite's Stepmother in a bored voice, composed only because his jaw had already dropped open three hours back when I'd told him about my purchase then.
And suddenly, I felt like I was Samantha Jones. That one who always talks about blowjobs and advises random sex with no commitments to her friends and is well informed about what grade vibrator to buy and what kind of workout one should get during sex, and so on and so forth. A Samantha moment, because SS says I apparently shock him on a routine basis.
But as far as I'm concerned, a gstring/ thong is hardly that news breaking. I mean, sure, it's racy - but then, it's meant to be! It's meant to liven things up in the bedroom when you're bored of good ole cotton boxers between crisp ole cotton sheets. That's when you want to don that black mesh gstring that exposes your butt and you wanna buckle on a great big belt on your waist and slip into those boots. Sure, it's not PG, but then, isn't everyone an A over here?
My first time in an 'exotic underwear shop' was in Calcutta, at the tender age of 17. I had seen an ad of this shop in a magazine, traced it down, and decided to pay it a visit. There was a mousy looking Gujarati man behind the counter, and I walked up and down in front of the store, but wasn't brave enough to actually go in. Finally, the next day, I summoned up my courage and walked in to buy something. And there, next to the mousy Gujju guy, was this complete hunk who was o-so totally droolworthy. I go over and ask him to show me some 'fancy underwear' - I need it for a party, I say - and the mousy fellow gives me a wink and takes a catalogue out. He probably thinks I'm a stripper who's going to perform or something, but I don't really care - I'm too lost in that brochure he's showing me - picture after picture of hot European/ American men in the tiniest and kinkiest of underwear, and I actually asked the mouse whether I could purchase the catalogue, as I had 'lots of friends who also want somethings for the party'.
The things I come up with!
Anyhow, so I buy two pieces from the mouse and his hunky assistant (probably a brother or brother-in-law), and leave. Over the next two years, I use my two purchases (1. black mesh, and 2. leopard print - yes, corny, I know) to my utmost advantage. When you have it, you thong it, dah-ling! :)
***
Coming back to the recent past, there I was, in this shop at Bandra, face to face with some more Gujaratis selling gstrings. (What is it with Gujjus and g-strings now? :) The G-connection...!) The old lady asks me whether I want the 'regular' or the 'fancy' stuff, and when I erm...erm, she shows me Chromozome. That's when I stop being shy and ask for something a bit more 'exotic', and then the old man pipes up, flashes me a big grin with 28 teeth and 4 cavities, and says that what I need definitely is the 'fancy' stuff! So out come the reds, blues, blacks and yellows in nylon, mesh, knit and leather, and I'm sorting through them.
Nicely cheap, at Rs 200, and I'm happy. So is the old man, when he sees my final choice, and he compliments me on my kinky taste and offers me his business card - "Give it to your friends. Spread the word."
From the Penguin and SS' reaction, though, I'm guessing that my friends would prefer I keep the word - and thongs - to myself!
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