Friday, June 27, 2008
Existantial Angst...
So there I am chatting online, when a window opens up on my screen. It's from Wandercock, who has a very appealing picture of himself pressed up against the wall, wearing some kind of stretchy tight pants, and that furry chest and clipped beard is kind hot, really.

Wandercock: 7'' here, lookin'? Need a tight ass to ram.

O, my. Very nice, I think to myself, saying that it can't hurt to be civil, but then a bit weirded out also that here's another guy who automatically assumes I'm a "bottom" without even bothering to ask first - must be the pic of me in the humongously sexy shades. Anyhow, just as I'm about to reply to Wandercock that I think his pic and his measurements are both abso-fuckin-lutely charming, what should happen, but...

*PING*

Assbanger27 pops up, with full frontal nudity, and very impressive apparatus of his own, proclaiming that he's Russian, wants to do exactly as his chat nickname suggests he should, and that I should get myself right there at his apartment in 20 minutes.

I mean... do I wear a sign or something around my neck that says B-O-T-T-O-M?! I have nothing against bottoms, and I think that's a fabulous way to get laid now and then, but I hate being typecast into either "top" or "bottom" roles. Especially, even before the guy has even spoken to me.

More importantly, how come I get hit on by Russians and Lebanese hunks (o, yes, did I mention that about Wandercock?) when I'm all cozy in a relationship, but none of these assholes give me the time of day when I'm single and actively lookin', as they say here in the Midwest?

***

Onto other, more important news, Queer Pride is marching into India: simultaneously in three cities: Delhi, Bangalore, and Calcutta, this Sunday afternoon, June 29. :) I am so frikkin' thrilled, and wish I could be there...!

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'Fraid I couldn't find any logo of the Calcutta Pride march on facebook, where I took the Delhi and Bangalore pics from... But then, Cal was the first Indian city to have started the march thing in India, so hat's off to those guys! :)

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Monday, June 23, 2008
I left my hat in... New York City...
So I don't have Tony Bennett's magical croon, and I worry about leaving my gorgeous fedora back in New York, New York much more than I do about my heart, but there it is: second time I've misplaced my headgear, after losing my cap in Chicago last year. :( In any case, I still have pictures of me wearing them, and that's one of the reasons that led me to post the picture below. That, and the fact that I'm finally breaking the ban on pictures of myself here (even though this one is suitably darkened via Photoshop), and also that I wanted to make a sort of "Fag-ulous Guide to the Big Apple in Pictures" kind of a post. So there you go - Closetalk, at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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And when you're done with imbibing the arts, head over down to Broadway, rub shoulders with the pretty people and catch them on the stage. Now that you have to watch Mary Poppins in particular, but I mean - flying through the air with a magic rod... how fag-ulous is that?!

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Time to hail a cab and walk down the meandering little streetways and not-so meandering avenues out at Central Park West. Stop for lunch at one of the gorgeous sidewalk cafes, and expect Carrie Bradshaw to pop out from one of those beutiful brownstones any second now...

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Next stop: The American Museum of Natural History. So there was me and this Chinese chick in the Greco-Roman Sculpture Court, both of us looking for Hercules...

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... Both of us moved in for the wide-angle kill. First, Hercules as the young man about town (what's with the teeny penis, though?!), and the second as the buff older guy in the lion skin. Now that's the kind of beast I like. :)

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... And how strange is that... out of the sight of hunky young men (albeit, marble ones) and into the bedchamber.... *sigh* Look at me, going all ga-ga about satin sheets and brocade partitions and gorgeous gilted wood carvings... Get me a bed like that, baby, and I'm never surfacing for air! *wink*

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When you finally get yourself out of the arty environs (despite the most stimulating visuals), head over to catch the most phallic statement of them all - the Empire State Building.

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Imagine my surprise, though, when I spot rickshaw drivers in Manhattan! Thought they were a purely Asian phenomenon, but wikipedia informs me better now. Wowee... there really is a recession, huh?! Kidding aside, let's be honest: if they had yummy drivers like him in Calcutta, I would be ALL for keeping them around! Every city needs to look pretty.

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And if you're wondering what to do, once you've mounted his machine, get a clue from this poster art I picked up from the Lexington Street Fair...

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If it's the less carnal entertainment you're looking for, and Broadway is a bit too far for you to hike it, head over to the Winter Garden Theatre and catch the latest showing of Mamma Mia, the hit show. A whole play based on ABBA's songs - and soon to come out on the big screen... fag-ulous!

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... Or, if you're more into the leg-kicking, soul-shrieking variety (Not that ABBA won't do that for you, too), come back in December to watch the Rockettes in action at Radio City Music Hall (love the costumes!)...

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Towards the end of the "Fag-ulous Guide to the Big Apple in Pictures", so make sure you get your own cheesy pic of the biggest queen in the world - Lady Liberty. Just to let you know that phallic symbols like the Empire State aren't all they're cut out to be: grab a fancy hat, swishy robes and a torchlight, and you're all set for the good times! :)

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Wanted to close the guide with a pic of the good ole Indian flag, on a nice mushy note. At the Rockefeller Center, with all the other national flags... It's amazing, to think that Calcutta, Bangalore and Delhi will have their official Queer Pride Marches next week.

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Jai Hind! :)

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Friday, June 20, 2008
Weight and watch
Alright then, so I've bitched here before about my propensity to gain weight unless I check my food intake and exercise regimen. But the thing is, I have a tendency to fall of the wagon, so to speak. Took an online quiz sometime last year that proclaimed I was one of the sad individuals who would forever be fighting to maintain their weight. *sigh* Such a tragedy for a cute gay boy like me. :( And though the boyfriend is terribly sweet to say he doesn't really care, somewhere there's that lost bit of Gay Thin Pride that's resurgent....

So, here I go again.

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Realized the other night, that a large part of my keeping-trim strategy back in Bombay was thanks to the don't-give-a-damn nights of dancing at least once a week. And now that I'm this stick-in-the-mud academic who's up to his eyeballs in "Participatory Development..." and not really boogeying his way, it's no wonder that those ole skinny jeans are presenting an obstacle these days. *sigh* O, and the other thought was that, single boys get way more exercise than doubletons do - it's all that wham-bam-gimme-more-sam sex that Single Me used to have in those days that burnt up sooo many calories. Calorific sex doesn't happen quite as much, what with my being able to catch Irish Coffee only over the weekends! *double sigh*

It's like a curse, something like what supposedly happens to those Punjabi women after marriage. They have babies and eat a lot of dal makhni, and get fat. Gay academics don't have as much sex or dance as much as they did, and get fat. The sheer tragedy of it all.

(Can you believe I actually couldn't find a single pic of a "fat Punjabi woman" online to post at this spot, after hunting Google images for forty-fuckin-five minutes?! Damn Ekta Kapoor and her stereotype-busting, exercycle-running Punjabi bahus!)

But now, I'm on a Mission. Renewed my pledge to take my PHAT plan seriously, and really hit the exercise mats. No more fries with that burger. Get rid of the burger altogether, in fact. No more popcorn in the movie hall. Cereal in the morning - only, and no sugar. Lean chicken breast sandwich. Buy loads of those Lean Cuisine meals. Make sure to walk everyday. Buffets are bad, and sit-ups are sexy. Learn the new mantra. Dance everyday. Even if I'm the nerd who dances in the bedroom.

... O, and with the boyfriend due to return from his sister's place tonight, I can look forward to some calorie-burning sex, too! :)

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Tuesday, June 17, 2008
How Cliched could my Lust Life get?!
Honestly. I never thought the day would come that I'd be this cliched! Of all the things/boys that could happen to me, this one did. How predictable. Sheesh. The Hot College Boy Lawn Mower. (in capitals, in case you fail to see the enormity of the porn-movie-touches-reality irony thing.)

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So, no, he wasn't in a black tank top and cut-offs, but he was wearing a torn blue sleevless tee and some pretty nice tan shorts. He was hunched over his noisy machine and chug-chugging along outside my window, mowing the damn grass. Lucky grass. His motor kept giving way now and then, and he gave the sexiest curses - "Damn! Fuck!" - and it was not very hard imagining him saying those delicious things doing something else in here with me, loads more energetically. He grunted and kept up a steady sheen of sweat on his fabulous body, and wiped his face now and then with his wet (and strong!) forearm, tossing his dark brown hair back now and then. Again - "Damn! Fuck!"

:)

My reading of "Participatory Development Communication and A Thesis for Empowerment" didn't stand a chance. I was feeling empowered in quite a different zone of my body, rather than my cerebrum.

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Now, I know I'm in a relationship right now, and I'm not really supposed to be naughty or anything, but Santa Claus, can I have that for an early-Christmas gift? I'll be extra bad, I promise! *wink* And as these (and other) idiotic thoughts went through my head, I sat there on my couch, book held open, trying my hardest to read while peeking out, not being able to prevent some doodling happening down there in my pants, and kinda hoping that the lawnmower hunk would notice... What would I say or do if he did? I dunno... maybe I'd do something corny like open the window, and call out to him - "Hey, that looks like hard work you got there! You wanna come in for a quick beer... or something?"

(Oops. Note to self: remember to stock fridge with beer for future imaginary encounters with hot lawnmower boys.)

... and of course, once I got him inside, there would be the suggestive POP of the beer bottle, the frothing on the top as I handed it over to him with another suggestive wink and then quite clumsily (but charmingly) proceeded to spill it on his pants, obviously necessitating their prompt removal... "O, maybe it'll dry faster if I blow....?"

*sigh*

He finished his noisy chore, packed up his trunk and left. And I went back to "Participatory Development..." How come they don't discuss the really important participation stuff (the kind with your hunky lawnmower) in these books...?

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Saturday, June 14, 2008
Wanted: Sanity
So, yes, I tend to be a bit... over-the-top, as I revealed in the last post. I tend to be a bit... insecure, for the silliest of reasons, when I'm with a guy. And that's why having a gay best friend is so bloody important for me. And this silly present situation, where SnowWhite's Stepmum is halfway across the world in frikkin' Bombay doesn't really help. It's tough being in a situation where your boyfriend is your gay best friend, as is the case here with me. I tell him things I should probably not, and I don't tell him things I probably should have... and God only knows what he thinks of me, then. Thankfully, as I realized last night, he doesn't think I'm too weird. :)

So this is how it all unfolded:

Irish Coffee's supposed to go to his sister's place some 5 hours away, and that means our usual weekend sojourn isn't happening. While he was initially supposed to go yesterday, that plan got postponed to today. So... I proposed that he come pick me up, and we spend the night together. All good and fine, till he has this really hard day where he had to travel all over the city, so he returns home at night and asks me on the phone if he can put off the trip down to my place, and we just meet up later today. Ummm... that actually sounds pretty reasonable on hindsight. So then, why on earth did I get all whiny and try my very best to coax/persuade/pressure him to shrug off his tiredness and drive 45 minutes to come fetch me...? The charitable answer is, I don't know. The less charitable one is: I'm a needy prick.

*sigh*

So he says then, that he'll call me back in about 30 minutes and decide, and I go back to folding laundry... and then reason hits me. Hard. (Thank God.) I'm a dummy. He's tired. He's had a long day. Why on earth am I getting on his back and forcing him to make that long trip all the way here, and especially so, since he has to leave town in less than 24 hours?! O good gosh, I'm like one of those horribly nagging wives who want everything done their way. I've probably already irritated him, now I'm going to completely annoy him with my crap. Where on earth is SnowWhite's Stepmum, with all his brilliant advice on playing it cool in relationships and not throwing oneself at him... O, damn.

So, I called Irish Coffee back, told him I'd been acting like a dunce, told him why, and that I was sorry, and that he should understand I'm a flake, but usually reason does shine through (though it may be a bit late), and since he's got to make that horribly long trip in any case, it doesn't make sense for him to come by. He laughed, said I wasn't too weird after all, that he understood, and we ended up having a nice long chat over the phone, till we both got sleepy. And yes, he's coming over for a late lunch here, on his way to his sister's place.

All's well that ends well, I suppose, but see - flakes like me NEED gay best friends around in my immediate vicinity! *sigh* Perhaps I should put out an ad in the local paper or something.

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Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Confessions. Confusion. Connotations. Conundrums... And, Closetalk.
Whippy wants to know ten secrets about me. Now, while I have done a me-me of this sort earlier (I think it was six secrets in that one, not ten!) I haven't been able to find that post in my archives, and since it's been absolutely ages since I've done a me-me (partly because I used to get inundated with them in the early blogger days, so much so that I hated them after a point of time), I thought I'd give it a shot. Not very sure about how "secret-y" they are, though - I pretty much do spill all the beans here in the closet...

  1. I love to dance. I do, I do, I do. I always did. Ask any of my friends of boyfriends. I don't care much either whether what I'm doing is the right way or the wrong way. As far as I'm concerned, it's all just about expressing that I'm likin' it! *head jerk* So, I tap my toes, move my shoulders, wiggle my body, thrust my pelvis, and then we have lift-off. MY specialties: steamy dances in the gay clubs, to which SnowWhite's Stepmum will attest to, and a peculiar motion that Irish Coffee calls the "happy jig". Hint: the "happy jig" is performed without pants on. *giggle*

  2. I love "dressing up". Ummmm... yes. That means, owning clothes in fabulously weird fits and patterns. That means, having an authentic pair of black tight overalls that I wear to the gay club. That means, buying Irish caps, leather duds, a fedora, a cowboy hat, pointy shoes, cloth mojras, silver dogtags with pink pigs emblazoned on them, tee shirts with wonderfully suggestive slogans and a host of other delightful accessories that I could never do without. :)

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  3. I'm histrionic, they say. And if you want an objective opinion, check out the results of the online quiz I took ages ago. I'd like to say I've improved, but I was never very good at lying. Why do ya think I switched from PR to Academese? :) In my defence, I have to quote good ole Willy: the world's a stage, guv'nor, and all of us got a part to play, so gimme more drama, blimey!!!

  4. I can actually do without Indian food for an appreciably long amount of time. Not that I don't like Indian food - much to the contrary. But the thing is, I can actually survive on burgers and fries and salads and chicken breasts and American Chinese food for a loooong time, without turning green and sickly. That comes in for a lot of perplexed looks flashed my way from the Indians here in the midwest whom I may chance to meet - and that leads on to the number 5 below.

  5. I'm persona non grata in the South Asian community in my teeny midwest hamlet. I don't become "best buds" with every Indian/South Asian around me, regardless of whether or not I like the person, have anything in common with him/her, have a reason to know the person. I don't take every opportunity to yak in either Hindi or my native language, and even dream in English. I don't try to flirt with Indian/ South Asian girls (and the boys are too yucky here). I take every opportunity to head off to the "big" city where Irish Coffee lives, rather than stick around for "desi" parties in the midwestern hamlet with the rest. Ergo.

  6. I'm lazy. I'm lazing right now. I'm supposed to be doing a million other things. I'm supposed to be making coffee. I'm supposed to be researching my final term paper. I'm supposed to be rehashing scores of my earlier papers for publication. But... I like to vegetate. O, and surf porn. (Which is actually a fabulous way of vegetating...)

  7. I write fast. I'm doing it right now. It's my saving grace, given my many deadlines and my tendency to procrastinate and vegetate. Irish Coffee says, my typing speed is in BPS - Bullshit Per Second. :)

  8. I love being gay. Is there anything really to add to this? :) And yes, this isn't really a secret, since it's pretty clear in almost every post on this blog. Yet, it's a truth. An undeniable one. And so it bears mentioning.

  9. I do care about the comments. There. I said it. I do, I do, I do. I told myself at first that this blog is about catharsis, and it's about me. That part is true enough. But I'm also honest enough to realize now that no blogger is an island. The comments and feedback that every blogger receives is so frikkin' important to the whole blogging process. It's about holding a mirror forth, it's about dialogue, it's about thinking how one blog post could be interpreted in so many different ways. And yes, let's be honest, looking at that surge in numbers on google analytics does feel good! :)

  10. I've often toyed with posting a picture of myself here on the closet. But I guess that defeats the idea of "the closet", doesn't it? I mean, it's not that being in the closet in the conventional gay sense is all too important for me in the my current situation, but being faceless and nameless in the blogging community does afford you certain.. privileges. And yes, part of that is you get to be catty and melt into the darkness! :) But the picture idea is always tantalizing...

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Saturday, June 07, 2008
"Come out, come out, wherever you are...!"
Sometimes, you build up the coming-out thing way so big that you tend to scare yourself much more than you really need to. Not really the great words of wisdom you'd expect (or even want) to hear from the ole man of the mountain, I know, but there it is. Take it from me - the guy who writes behind the moniker of Closetalk/CT/what-have-you from a place called "Talking Closets" - coming out has its comedy of errors, as well as its fair share of melodrama. When I read accounts of how younger (gasp) gay South Asians manage and negotiate their gay-ness, there's a strange sense of "O, wow, I suppose I went through all this at one time too!", mingled with the curiosity of the external onlooker. That's especially true in the case of someone like me, who's "out" in almost all senses of the word - my friends know, my colleagues have no excuse to not guess at least - and yet, like so many other South Asian gay men, I'm not "out" to my family. Well, not officially, at least.

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I mentioned in an earlier post, how I'd come out to brother, while we were in the Big Bad Apple. Now, I've had reason to believe for quite some time now that my brother knows I'm gay. Let's see: there was the instance, when I was seventeen, that I confessed I liked both guys and gals (I was lying, I never did have a thing for broads, no offence intended); then there was the completely intimate knowledge of fashion trends and styles, Bombay clubs and pubs, the glitteratti and all that jazz that no normal hetero guy can ever hope to pull off; the various smirks and jokes from dah-ling brother that indicated he knew I'd lost my (ummm..) cherry (?) and planted my own sapling (?) here and there; and of course, the insinuation that I was "busy" every night whenever there was a GB party underway... So... yep, I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that I was gay. And the world is wonderfully knotty/naughty and comes full ellipse.

But sometimes, the thing of coming "out" is that even though you know that everyone knows, you want to spell it out explicitly. Kick of the sneakers and try out the stilletoes brazenly, as it were. You want to talk about the fact that you're a fag, that you think other fags (well, some of them) are hot/cute/delectable/whatever, and perhaps even that you're in love. And for sometime now, I've wanted to grab that bull by its horns, jerk it around a bit (no pun intended, believe me), and basically come out - officially - to my bro. Here's how it happened...

Plans were made, before leaving for NYC, on how, where, when etc to break the news... perhaps over a coffee, perhaps back at the hotel after a fun day out, perhaps on the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building (hope he doesn't jump!)... but all those planned events came and went, and I didn't say a word. In my nightly phone-calls to Irish Coffee, I said, there just hasn't been the right time, the right moment... it has to be natural, I don't want to force it... yadayadayada. So, anyhow, on day 3 (I think), we head to the Met and after a glorious three hours of exploration, I realize that we're separated. I don't have an international phone card on me, so I can't call him. Whoops. So I call Irish Coffee, instruct him to call up the brother and inform him where I'm waiting for him - and I settle down. As simple as that. He eventually does find me, many more hours pass, we carry on our New York tour, and suddenly at around 10.30 pm, on the walk from the subway station back to our hotel, something unfathomable seizes me, so that I turn back towards him and say, "You have known, for quite some time now, that your younger brother is gay, have you not?"

Bro (without skipping a beat): "Yep."

CT: "O... good."

CT (after walking in silence for 30 seconds, and then spills out in the rush to catch a hurrying train): "Cool, cuzIreallywantedtotellyou,becauseI'mactuallyprettymuchouttoallmyfriends,andIthoughtitdoesnt'treallymakesensetonotbeouttoyou,butthenyouknowhwatyourmumanddadarelike,soIkeptquiet,butthensinceit'syou,Ithoughtyou'veprobablyknown forquitesometime,andthere'sreallynoreasontokeepquietaboutit,sothereyouare."

Bro (smiling in the dark): "Ok."

CT: "O, and my friend who called you at the museum today, he's my boyfriend."

Bro: "Ok."

Ummm... ok, then. I must say, I was a bit pertubed about the lack of questions or queries or whatever from him, but I did call up Irish Coffee excitedly from the hotel and broke the news of my coming-out (officially). Was a bit puzzled about the lack of reaction from brother dah-ling, but since he went to bed early that night, there was no room for me to pursue my queries. As it turned out, however, I had little room to worry. The next day, over coffee at Starbucks, he grins at me, and remarks, "So... how come I'm not being introduced to Irish Coffee? Isn't this supposed to be Meet The Family?"

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Well, at least I didn't get the coffee-confession thing totally wrong...!

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Monday, June 02, 2008
Sex in Another City
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Alright, so it wasn't exactly New York, New York, but it was the SATC movie nevertheless, right here in my Midwest town. (At least there's the pic of the NYC bus stop poster I clicked in the big city, so that's a littel something...!) Had an early shower, dragged Irish Coffee, and there the two of us were at the Director's Hall section of the theater. Was a tad disappointed to notice the poor turn-out in the hall (six fags and twelve-or-so-gals), but I can't say I hadn't expected that really, where I am. And besides, once the absolutely kooky-crazy-sexy brand new theme song by Fergie started, I frankly couldn't care less - I wanted MORE!!!



Too bad, the official video of the new theme song isn't out yet, but let me list out Top 10 Takeaways from the movie... and I'll try to not disclose any spoilers for anyone who hasn't seen the movie yet:
  1. LOOOVE Carrie's Vivienne Westwood wedding dress - it is to DIE for!
  2. Would have loved to see a bit more (if you get my drift) of Smith Jared.
  3. Steve's fabulous ass is still in fagulous shape - but again, a la Smith, some more exposure would have been much appreciated.
  4. Carrie's corsage dress is simply stunning!
  5. Mr. Big aka John James Preston is looking a bit... ummm.... tubby. But is still the Mr. Big! The one we love to hate!
  6. Monogamy doesn't suit Samantha. *sigh* And no, this doesn't mean I'm making a statement about myself here, even though I have said on previous occasions that she's my favorite lady (but of course!).
  7. I'm glad they showed as little of Harry's naked body as they did.
  8. Sam's sexy next-door-neighbor in LA is to DIE for - comes only marginally behind the Vivienne Westwood dress in terms of dying criteria. And yes, it's a full frontal frame.
  9. Charlotte is adorably prudish. About everything. Thank gawd they kept her the same. :)
  10. Carrie actually looks fabulous as a brunette.
So... what happens in the end? As can be expected, it's a happy ending for all the gals. (But did you really expect anything else?) And in case you still haven't seen the official trailer on your TV network (wherever you are), enjoy...

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Sunday, June 01, 2008
Still Star-truck by the City...
So I'm back home in the Midwest, and (surprise, surprise!) I still have a NYC hangover. Apart from the long-awaited coming-out story, these last few days have been so amazing in so many ways. Walked out of the 42d street subway the other day, and found a great street fair in progress on Lexington Avenue, amazing street food, posters and artwork, and some fabulous scarfs and stoles. Picked up some swishy pashminas for mum and myself, and a I *heart* NY for dad, gulped a corn dog in true NYC style, and paddled over to Rockefeller Center. St. Patrick's Cathedral was amazing, and even though it felt so cheesy to snap pictures while some people were praying in the aisles, it didn't bother me too much. *grin* My feet tingled for ages, much after we got back to the hotel, because of our walks all across the city. Mmmmm...

And that's where the drink with the hunky Italian made up for sore feet. Yummy man, fabulous conversation, a dry martini and a happening bar. Now, that's NYC for you.

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My trip ended with some other great vignettes: walking down Wall Street and contemplating the oncoming (?) US recession in front of the the NYSE; gazing up at Trinity Church reverentially; munching on some amazing lasagna and tiramisu at an authentic mom-and-pop Italian joint in Midtown; cursing the UN building authorities for taking down the world flags at night when we got there; walking through the lobby of Radio City Music Hall; eating chocolate softee ice cream cones at the Rockefeller Center; sorting through Prada and DKNY and pressing my nose against the Tiffany's glass window on 5th Avenue; reading the inscriptions on the WTC memorial wall and looking at the busy cranes working on the forthcoming (new and improved) WTC 2.0; hogging on some fantabulous Vietnamese fare at Chinatown (the one in Manhattan, not the others); sipping coffee in a funky Soho cafe; exploring Broadway and checking out the latest releases (again); wondering when I get to ride in the back of that marvelously white stretch limo snaking its way through Manhattan...

But it's good to be back here, with my baby. :) I missed yakking nineteen to the dozen with my Irish Coffee, missed snuggling with him on the sofa while watching moronic stuff on the telly; missed our long evening walks with the dog, and I'm certainly looking forward to cozying up in bed tonight! :) All those Jamaicans and Italians have got me horned up for the Irish tonight! *blush*

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