Beautiful Stranger

There's a boy in Bombay i flirt with. Online. On Facebook. He's a... ummm... 'friend', you see.

He's a cute boy. Very sweet and smart. Almost shy. Except when he tells me he's come out of the shower. Naked. And that he's got a very sizable... ummmm.... 'tool'.

We talk about random things.

His mixed heritage. (Yes, he's an CBCD - Canadian Born Confused Desi.) The extra pounds I put on in Amreeka. My fabulously svelte new figure. (Thanks to yogurt, instead of ice cream.) Sex. Love. And rock 'n' roll. (Fine, not rock 'n' roll that much.) He bemoans the fact that he's single in the big, bad city I love to distraction. And it brings back memories of how I used to gripe and groan about much the same thing when I lived there. (But, no, let's not go down that road again now.) I tell him (in quite a long-winded, flirty way) that I find him terribly handsome. Tall, dark and handsome, to be precise. He moans that the men in Bombay seem to prefer gora Punjabi braawny hunks, with buns of steel and brains of rust. I tell myself (and him, albeit in that long-winded, flirty way) that if we were in the same city, I'd probably jump him.

That's when he reminds me: Don't you have a boyfriend?

Ummm... yes. That's why flirting with a handsome (tall, dark, etc.) stranger/'friend' is so much fun.

Some Big Words About... *gulp* Race

So I've been following the news coverage on the recent racially motivated attacks on Indian students in Oz-land, and been suitably astounded by the whole situation. Irish Coffee remembers Australia as the ultimate chill place, full of beer and shags on pick-up trucks, but does acknowledge that race might well be an issue for the peeps down under. And that set me thinking, with due apologies to President Obama and his wonderul speech on the subject, what about race here in the US? More specifically, what's it like being an Indian grad student in the American Midwest.



And to make it even more specific to this blog: what's it like being a gay Indian grad student in the American Midwest?

The truth is: I've never had to face a racist slur (much less an attack!) here - and neither have any of the other Indians I know. Now, admittedly, I'm a really bad NRI-type, in that I don't attend bhajan-sessions organized by the Indian Student Organization when navratri rolls along every year, neither do I actively seek out the Durga puja community around here, I don't hug every single South Asian I meet on campus (even though most of them make goo-goo eyes at you when they see you're brown as well, and then look quizzically at you after you don't reciprocate!), and I don't attend any of the ISO meetings (formal or informal) either. Let's face it: Indians (not just Bengalis) are an intrinsically clannish species, especially when we're abroad. There's nothing really wrong in that - in fact, it's quite natural to want to ally yourself with like-minded people... but when that clannish-ness is on the basis on etnnicity or skin color or regional roots, can that be construed as racist?... and does that give the impression to the larger community (be it White, Black or Hispanic) that hell, these people don't want to mix with us, so we may as well treat them as Other and weird...?

The answer to both questions are decidedly problematic, and need constant negotiations and recognition. The answer is not to adopt an uncritically-in-love-with-White-people approach and abandon one's roots - and yes, I deny having done so! - and is most likely to be found in embracing Tolerance and Openness and Diversity. Big words, I know, if not in a dictionary sense then at least in real-world terms.



When I first came to my little Midwestern university town, despite my carping and bitching about it's decidedly non-big-city status, I was pleasantly surprised (and a little impressed!) with all the polite nods and smiles I got from random strangers, while walking downtown. Perhaps it speaks to my own unresolved issues (reverse racism?) that I wasn't creeped out if a random White/Black/Hispanic guy on the street smiled at me, but it's another story if a fellow South Asian did.

Being gay added yet another weird component to the whole mix. There's a strange feeling for some of us gay Indians, when we worry about how the whole queer thing will be received by other South Asians - given the lack of familiarity about the concept back home. There's an assumption - usually premature - that Americans understand what being gay/ lesbian/ bisexual means much better than South Asians do. Almost two years hence, however, my world-view has matured somewhat. I've come to realize that not every American is clear - or comfortable - about being queer, and not every South Asian is as clue-less - or as bigoted - about it, as I might have imagined. During the past two years, as I have slowly but surely come out of the closet to the people around me - both Americans and Indians/ South Asians - I've had to negotiate and re-negotiate all the different facets of who I am - male, gay, Indian, Bengali, NRI, grad student - continuously, both consciously and unconsciously, for myself as much as for those around me and those I have come out to. To use an awful pun, it's clearly not been a quick 'race' to the finish, more like a slow, important process, with often unclear dividends at every turn.

When I think of the racial attacks on Indians in Melbourne or Sydney or anywhere else, the first question that usually pops up is why. Obviously, that's not an easy or small question, by any standards, but it does deserve some conjecture on everyone's part. Are we considered soft targets, as so many in the media seem to suggest? Are we the new representatives of a resurgent Third World, and thus the whipping boys of recalcitrant White bullies? How many of us were queer, and how many of us were straight, in these attacks and did the perceptions of being queer play a role at all? Or is it primally because we are not White?

Bottom-line: none of these are good enough reasons.

Leather Lions

So this past weekend, I was in the Windy City of Chicago, attending a hoity-toity academic conference. But during the preceding week, while I was chatting with the gay denizens of crazy-wild-Chi-town, the most common question I encountered, when I told them the dates of my visit, was: "O, you're coming for IML?"

Umm,... IML?

IML, as it turned out, was the mecca of all things queer and leather: the International Mr. Leather contest/ conference/ festival. The reason for using those three words and all that "/" is mainly that I'm not sure (yet!) exactly what it is/was. Not quite a festival like the Gay Pride marches, not exactly a conference where fancy-shmancy papers get presented (and ignored thereafter), and no, not merely a contest either.

For five whole days, leather afficiandoes (and yes, they were men, no women at all that I could see!) descend from all over the world to Chicago, in all their bovine (o, I'm sure most were faux leather!) adornments and glittery chrome attachments, to strut down Michigan Avenue. An entire five-star hotel is booked by the IML organizers, rooms are offered to attendees at special rates, conference and banquet rooms are booked for special 'sessions' (to put it most delicately) and a Leather-Mart that houses the most out-of-the-world apparatus, and a long-drawn-out pageant to crown International Mr. Leather is held.



My first reaction, when I heard the whole deal: O.M.G.... how frikkin' fantabulous! :)

Yes, so you always knew I'm a bit of a skank, didn't you? *grin*

Unfortunately, I had to balance IML and my hoity-toity conference together, so no, I wasn't exactly hanging for my life onto the slings suspended in the ballrooms, or screaming hoarsely in a sweaty hotel-room (well, not the IML hotel-room, at any rate! *giggle*)... I was trying to be a good nerdy academic at the conference, imbibe the High Arts of fabulous Chicago, and engage in some tiltillating voyeurism at IML - all at the same time. So, I visited the world-famous Leather-Mart with a hunky 'daddy', was suitably awestruck at the scope of the human imagination that could come up with all the wondrous inventions therein, and ogled at the furry/ smooth/ gleaming buttocks in full display at the hotel.

But my favorite intermingling of the three? Most definitely, when I hit the Art Institute of Chicago to check out its new Modern wing with a conference-colleague, and spied the many gorgeous leather-men in their boots and chaps milling around...

You've head of the famous lions at the Art Institute, right?...



Now imagine my roars of approval! :)

Tricks of the Tease

So I wasn't going to blog this week (you won't believe my jam-packed sked!) but then I sauntered over to Orange's blog, and saw the whole mess with the ex, and since I'm practically a Dowager Empress at the tender age of (ouch!) 27, it's pretty much expected I dole out expert advice on how to handle men. Bombay Style. :)



Expert advice on the 'ex', to be more precise.

At last count, it was 6, if I'm not mistaken. There's a way to handle such situations. It's a cool, calm, adult, easy, never-fails way. Read my lips. A-V-O-I-D.

That is, until you're looking drop-dead gorgeous, smoldering sexy siren, with a killer attitude to boot, and he's going to wish he was down on his knees in front of you, doing whatever it is that gets you off - the kinkier the better! :)

I jest, you think? Pah - amateurs!

Like I said before, there's a science to it. Essential items, of course, are fabulous friends who can tide you over while you lick those wounds, heal your pride, and are ready to claim your spot on the meat market again. Let's see, first there was the Call Center Boi in Delhi - broke up, moved away to Bombay, felt fag-ulous again, went back to Delhi for trips and had him splayed out on his apartment stairs... thrice! Salsa Guy? Same formula, works like a charm. Peacock Boi? Yuck. Too icky too even bother with, so I satisfy myself with bitchy smirks when I see him on-and-off in saddi dilli. Banker Boi - danced dirty all night long (lots of times!) at the bars with him, and left him high and dry every time. Nature Boy was different - he's my one best friend from all the dumb exes, but yes, the same formula applied. Avoid for some time, get back into 'fabulous' mode, hang around again, and have a steamy farewell fcuk (or two) in the shower. And as for the Gujju, I'm still playing him now and then - he's dying to get in my pants and I love turning him on, and it's extra-fun because he doesn't know that I'm with Irish Coffee, and he's never really going to get within ten yards of me. *grin*



I feel deliciously evil now. In a good way, if you know what I mean.

But fun and jokes aside - it's a cardinal rule. You bump into an ex when you're not ready - you RUN. There's a humanitarian twist in there, really. Why give him the satisfaction of knowing you're still broken up in there? Tantrums and scenes never really work, so you might as well forget all about them. Keep yourself intact, and put yourself back into your work and the next hunk who comes walking your way, and the rest, as they say, is easy as A-B-C. That's called the Tricks of the Tease.

Dear Diary

Coffee mug in hand, here I go...

• Christmas was beautiful. I fought tooth and nail with Irish Coffee and managed to keep the tree up for the better part of January, so his was the only house on the block which twinkled with fairy lights on India's Republic Day. :) We exchanged gifts on New Year's Eve and spent New Year's Day evening at the zoo, which was all lit up and looking spectacular. Yes, yes, very romantic and all that. (Though I'm not too sure if we held hands and did all that mushy stuff!) :)
  
  
• Work has been hectic. Preparing and mailing PhD applications has been taxing, both mentally and physically. The good news is, I've been accepted into all the great schools I applied. The bad news, bureaucracy is being a bitch and it's the same old Indian 3-year university system versus the US 4-year one that is making me want to pull my hair out (...which is, a big deal, really, since you probably know my haircut is buzzed). So, yes, I'm waiting and watching and hoping things get resolved soon.
  
  
• Talking about hairy issues, I almost stumbled in disbelief the other day upon spying not one but two (!) white hairs on my chest. Good God. So now it's official. I'm old. Not even 30 yet, and I've already been put out to pasture. Irish Coffee (smug bastard!) is thrilled. I, understandbly, am less so.
  
  
  
  
• I might be headed to NYC again for a quick trip - as part of the recruitment weekend for one of the graduate schools who've accepted me. Haven't worked out all the details yet, but I am hoping things will fall into place :) (Not too sure I'm going to accept their final offer though, but that's another matter...!)
  
  
• So I found out I have a lousy credit score. More accurately, I have a non-existent credit score.Which makes my obtaining a credit card terribly unlikely. Which makes my credit score remain perpetually low. Am I the only one who thinks the American credit score system is inherently flawed? Yes, Barrack, you do need change! :)
  
  
  
  
• I have re-discovered Dr. Pepper after a hiatus of several months. Not quite Cherry Coke, not quite Pepsi, not quite anything really - least of all, pepper-y! Now that I've re-discovered it, it's time for me to shun it once more, of course. So there.
  
  
  
  
• May is looking good for Chicago. I do love that city. I love the feel, the ambiance, the sky-scrapers, the Mag Mile, and Boystown. I'd love to live in Chicago some day. O, wait. Didn't I say that about Manhattan earlier? (And Pittsburgh? And Cleveland? And San Diego?)
  
  
• So I defended my thesis proposal successfully. That makes me (officially) a Masters Candidate, ripe for the PhD pickings. I've given myself about three months or so to complete the thesis (even though the official deadline is early June - o, wait, that does work out to three months, doesn't it? Whoops.). So, no more doodling on separate projects and papers that have nothing to do with getting that darned thesis complete and graduating.
  
  
• Is it strange that I find this random pic sexy - even though I can't see his face? Are tattoos and a hairy chest all I need to get intrigued? (Perhaps it's the shades?)
  
  

Season's Greetings... and All That Jazz

So this is likely to be the last post of the year, if my lethargy is any clue to go by. To anybody who regularly comes here, and to anyone who may have happened to stumble over... a Merry Christmas to you.



I've always been a sucker for Christmas, ever since I was a wee li'l gay boy. I guess I got the right idea since way back then: men look fabulous in wings, angels be damned! :)



Despite my belligerence about sitting at home twiddling my thumbs last weekend, my Christmas did go nicely. (Well of course you knew it would - I'm just a little shriek-y at times, but I usually have happy endings!) Irish Coffee managed to pick me up, and I've been here at his place since last week - and will be for another 2 weeks or so. The Christmas tree came down, we played carols and decked up the fairy lights (is there any other kind? *giggle*), and hogged like pigs on some grrrrrr-eat food over at the family's. So this was my second year as the gay umm-something-like-a-sonny-in-law, and it went pretty, well, OK. Even though Irish Coffee feels everyone's always been very comfy with me, I detected a warmer tone, a greater degree of comfort, with me second time around, and that was good. It made me feel good. :) Suddenly, I'm OK with him not being the black sheep in the family! The best part, of course, was getting Presents. Frankly, I was surprised they even got me any - but they did: three boxes of chocolates, a game, and a card. What can I say? (They wanna fatten me up, Evil American Family!) So, now, I'm all choked up! *grin*

Anyhow, there's just about a couple of days till it's buh-bye to 2008, and hullo 2009. Irish Coffee and I are planning to head down to the fancy Christmas lights over at the zoo tomorrow, and even though it's bound to be chilly, I'm looking forward to it. The two of us are exchanging gifts on New Year's Eve, since we don't really do much of a partying binge in this Midwestern town-let (new word, something like pig-let, and yes, you heard it in the Closet first!) - man, I wanna head back to NYC or Chicago! - so that should be a nice, romantic evening for the two of us. Some great wine, good food, gifts, and a couple of mind-bowing orgasms... each! *winks*

So, yes, in the event that I don't get to blog again till after 2009 gets here... a Happy New Year to everyone!



And, in place of my usual Sexy Santa spread, since I'm a bit fed up of red suits and hats and have taken a new 'shine' to fluttery feathers, here's a Fantabulous Fairy line-up... :)

Crazy-ass FUNNEE :)

OK, so I presume everyone here has seen the 12 gays of Christmas (if you haven't, GO SEE IT NOW!!!), but this one is another crazy-ass-hilarious must-watch clip !



OK, so that's what I want for Christmas now. Right under the tree in a bright red box with a pink bow. :)

Whatever happened to being the *black* sheep?!

It's a blight most people probably wouldn't call a blight. The out gay man's family. You'd think that'd be so cool, wouldn't it? To have a family who's totally cool about you being gay and include you in every family occasion, birthdays, thanksgivings, christmases, whatchamacallits...! And if you're seeing such a gay man who's got such a happy-happy family, you'd think that'd be perfect, too.

So what do you do, when your boyfriend is this total family-nut and you're not?



Warning: this is a post where I play the Evil Scrooge Incarnate. Worse yet, I'm going to argue that I have a right to feel the way I do and ESI is actually much maligned. I'm not one to spit "Bah, humbug!" at Christmas - it's just this whole "we love our gay family-member" crap which gets to me. Why, do you ask? Well, frankly, because I'm not used to it.

I suppose I never thought of it from this angle before: the thing about being gay and fabulous in Bombay (or anywhere else in India really) is that you rarely come into contact with the family - the real blood-ties family, I mean, not the gaggle of gay gals your guy (and you have your own, of course!) hangs around with. Family outings then meant you getting your 4 gay friends and him getting his 5, and then all of you hitting the club Saturday night, moving onto someone's house at 3 a.m. for the after-party, some giddy fondling on the couch, followed by some mindblowing sex back at either his or your place. Brunch next morning is optional, but speaks volumes to the dgree of intimacy between your families. That I could handle, that I'm used to, that I like.



But what do you do when you're hoping to go away to your boyfriend's house for Winter Break, and your boyfriend can't do that because he's in another frikkin' city doing odd jobs for some much-loved family member? There's a part of me which cautions me against feeling all-too angry or indignant because blood is thicker than water (or so they say), and there's another part of me which feels... lonely. And honestly speaking, that second part is winning out right now.

Sure, I know the script. There's supposed to be laughter and moldy family-jokes around the dinner table, great food and nice people - and yes, Irish Coffee's family has been pretty nice to me, really. I know they're nice people who might be a little flummoxed at the new gay son-in-law (well, not really that new anymore!) but they're doing their best...! But what happens when the new gay son-in-law (yours truly) is not really used to this whole thing? My idea of a great Christmas season with my boyfriend is the two of us cozying on the couch, watching a great movie, sipping wine, eating some fabulous dessert, watching the snow flakes outside, and some log-burning sex. It's not my present situation: me growsing and grumbling at home, making coffee for one, doing my laundry, brushing out my tiny christmas tree from the hall closet, and expecting to be alone for the coming weekend... while he's doing house-projects in Timbuktoo. No, I'll still be spending Christmas Day with him, but that's not the point. Christmas is not just a day, it's a frikkin' season, a whole week (or more), and I'm stuck doing thesis work at home and grumbling to myself. (And no, just because I have plenty of thesis work to do doesn't particularly mollify me, either!)

No, the point, quite simply, is this: why did families have to get all "we accept you, come join the mundane-activities fold again, dear gay son" and why couldn't they just step away into the shadows surfacing for the odd lunch or two?

Yes, I'm needy. Bugger off!

Just another angsty post!

Sometime back, I had a theory that I was (despite my sparkling wit and brilliance) after all just another white mouse running on an ever-whirling wheel. Nothing really has changed so far in my life to dispute that theory. I've lived through writing the proposal of my thesis, the horrendous terrorist attacks in Bombay (thankfully, everyone I know is safe!), the gorgeous weather in San Diego, the hideous weather in my Midwestern hamlet, and a crazed mailing of PhD applications.



*squeak*

The 'busy' motive doesn't completely cut it, of course. Somewhere along the way, the Closet lost its penchant for honesty: honest fear, honest excitement, honest trepidation, honest lust. Instead, I fell into the trap so many bloggers who get too conscious of their readership do, and tried to project the 'happy' face: devoid of fear, trepidation, excessive excitement, and (it must be said) lust. In an online conversation, Satori sighed and said, "No offense, but it's usually you under-30 somethings who go around starry-eyed with simplistic views of love and sex and matrimony." That's not to say that he's not a believer in all of the above himself - but perhaps he would define a more nuanced role for himself. And I've been doing the same for myself, I suppose. In the shadows. Away from the Closet, because somehow even that isn't very closed these days - and of course, that's all my doing, so no, I'm not really complaining or anything. I suppose I've been trying to deal with the fact that I'm all happy and domesticated, but still check-mark all of the above: fear, trepidation, excessive excitement and (again, it must be said) lust.

I'm a sucker for that Lust. *grin*

Lust for that cute gay academic with who I went dancing in San Diego one night after the conference, yakked 19 to the dozen about Obama, gay politics, doctoral programs and other scandalous tidbits that would make any self-respecting gay boy blush - and you could tell by the progressive ying around the two of us as the night went on and the conversation grew more... intense. A couple of drinks, some pretty sexy dancing, and a lovely lingering kiss before I said goodnight and disappeared a la Cinderella - only much later than midnight! *sigh*



Lust for that other cute young man I flirt with online, a senior at the university who grins o-so coquetishly at the camera with his shirt rolled up to his armpits to show off his fabulous abs! Surprise, surprise, he's actually intelligent, well-read, funny, and gets my craziness.

OK, and yes, I'll admit it: lust for that huge hunk of a Latino who doesn't get any jokes what-so-ever, probably doesn't even care (but then he doesn't have to, with a sculpted body like his!), and is simply in the mood for a fcuk. I'm not sure how long I can keep stringing him along with sleazy online sex-chats, instead of actually delivering the goods... but, I figure, as long as I can, that's good enough for me! *grin*

It feels terribly invigorating to admit to my lust here. I don't do guilt very well, I'm afraid. To tell the truth, I don't do guilt very often, either. :) But when I do, it's usually those quiet-and-alone moments lying in bed, followed by anxious soul-searching that lasts for a few minutes till a friend pours a bucket of cold reason on me. I'm not perfect. And I'm not asexual. (SO not asexual!) And just because I'm not a singleton anymore doesn't mean that I should stop feeling whatever I feel - fear, trepidation, lust, and all of the rest. I used to think that "growing up" meant you stop being naughty and become boring. I tried that for awhile. It made me cringe at the thought of coming here and admitting who/what I was and did. Instead, I realized that growing up means to reconcile both your stable relationship status and your naughty streak. There's a reason my guy is with me - he admits he loves me being crazy. And not being honest means stifling the craziness.

So where does that leave me, and the Closet? To put it fancily: in an enlightened state of being. *grin* I"m going to try to "grow up" from an under-30 something dimbulb to an under-30 something adult. Did I like my kiss in San Diego? Loved it. Do I enjoy flirting with the cute frat boy? Most definitely. Will I fantasize about hunky Latino Lover in bed? Umm...! Am I still in love with Irish Coffee? More than ever. :)

Does that make everything very complicated? As the song goes, I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose-garden! :)

Maa da laadla bigad gaya (Mom, your son's become... spoilt?!) :)

So, I'm supposed to see K.Jo's new movie Dostana with Stephen when he hits New York City later this year. While the movie's been much-hyped about being the first gay Indian movie yadayadayada, to tell you the truth, I've kind-of thought the promos looked a bit... well,... homophobic. The usual stuff about "haha, laugh at the pansy gay guy!" crap. And that's felt weird, what with me being a long-time fan of K.Jo, even before his Koffee With Karan days - which was a fag-ulous show, by the way!

But then, I get an email this morning from SnowWhite's Stepmom with the lyrics of Dostana's newly released song. And no, even though my knowledge of Punjabi is terribly rusty as best (and non-existant at worst), I didn't need to really know the language very well to understand that this is K.Jo at his tongue-and-cheek best! :)

So, yes, I really, AM looking forward to NYC movie-time with Stephen in December now!

And, in more serious news, this was MSNBC anchor Keith Albermann's emotional reaction to Proposition 8 last week...



Nice, Keith... but perhaps a bit too late?

Next Up: Closetalk's shenanigans on Halloween '08!!!

KA-BOOM

So it's like that Huntington guy said, the Clash of Civilizations... I'm far away from home, and Proposition 8 is a far cry away from Section 377, but am I really surprised that Californians, Arizonians and Floridians all voted overwhelmingly to ban gay marriage, and Arkansas won't let gay couples adopt children? Not really - well, maybe a bit on California, but only cuz I let myself do the wishful thinking bit. I know I've blogged about this before, but I'll reiterate again that America seems much more tolerant and open-minded from outside than from inside.



But then, perhaps the question is not one of tolerance - given that America now has its first African-American President - but, rather that basic brick wall that one comes across now and then (but which we academics paradoxically see as co-constructed and eternally shifting!): culture. That's the same excuse proponents of Section 377 back in India use: that homosexuality is simply not in our 'culture', society is not ready for it, and the majority should not be force-fed something by a minority group.

And that's the argument here in the United States by many as well: it's not 'our culture'. By 'culture', I mean that Barbie-Ken perfect marriage in the perfect suburban home with white picket fences, and large boisterous families replete with bratty kids. For so many Americans, the word 'marriage' has a special sanctity that they are loath to see embraced by non-traditional folks. And if that cultural block is the real deal here, then is it really fair to spew about minorities like the African-Americans and Hispanics who, because of their traditional stress on family values, have apparently been blamed by No on 8 activists for voting for proposition?... So there we are back again: the age-old tussle between traditional and not-so-traditional, culture the brick wall versus culture the shape-shifter that we academics (and it seems, not many others) believe in.



To be sure, there are brick walls on either side. There are many determined gay rights activists here who will settle for nothing short of Gay Marriage in capital letters. It has been suggested that activists should compromise for civil unions with similar legal benefits, rather than insist on the Big M - as was the case in Florida, for instance. There have been suggestions that perhaps with his new-found majority in the US Congress and Senate, Obama might be able to bring in a federal mandate on civil unions - something like they have in Britain. But, again, I'm not holding my breath for that. Not least because I'm sure there will be several gay activists who will oppose that too...

And I'm not sure I can blame them.

Isn't it just another case of (excuse my use of academese) Othering? Isn't it a case of "No, you're fags, and we don't care if you want to call your union a 'marriage', even though we all grew up in the same cultural space, believing that marriage was the be-all and end-all of life, but you still can't have it, cuz it's ours, so you have to be satisfied with a civil union"? The irony of the whole culture-thing of course is in that fictional retort of mine: it doesn't matter that marriage has been so completely sanctified (by religion, state policies, whatever!) for ALL Americans, gay and straight, but marriage with a capital M cannot be granted to anyone not... traditional.



Where am I going with this, and why do I care? To tell the truth, I haven't really ever looked forward to getting married - well, at least, not since I was 14 in Calcutta and dreamed of that fabulous garden wedding and me in a yummy sherwani (yep, the dominant theme of my dream wedding was my wardrobe!). The most I've hoped for in my adult life has been... to find someone to fall in love with, who loves me back, so that we can be happy for a long, long time. It's been the romance angle with me, not too much the legality - perhaps, quite simply, because I never saw any scope of that legal framework back in India. It's been some 1-year-three-months for me here in the US, and to be honest, I don't see a legal framework happening here either. Even though I would love to live in New York City, I don't see myself moving there just cuz I can get my Connecticut-sanctioned marriage approved there. But I don't count, since I'm an alien (legally speaking!) in the country.

The people who do count are those like Irish Coffee, who's infuriated that if he were to marry, he would not enjoy any legal benefits or rights. He rants about moving to Canada pretty much in the same vein as a bunch of people were, when asked about a seemingly-stupid scenario now, if Obama were not elected. People like Stephen, who emailed his friends' parents, trying to get them to vote no on proposition 8. And so many others like them.

To all of them, I say (cornily enough): lick your wounds, and come back to the ring boys; it's going to be a long haul. I'm Indian, I know all about waiting it out.

Truffle/Trifle

One thing common to love and stress is chocolates. When it's love, you're left panting for that next delicious mouthful of caramel from your main squeeze, and when it's stress, the squeeze-ball doesn't help much and it's all you can do to not pop the entire box of caramel down your gullet and directly to your waistline. *sigh*



Due to a host of circumstances involving both, I've been inundated by chocolates.

The love factor hasn't come exclusively from the boyfriend either. Several of my best friends back home are currently seeing people they believe (fingers crossed) to be the loves of their lives. They're doing the whole razzmatazz, so to speak: the bubbling champagne late-nights, the jet-setting holidays, the dancing-till-dawn and happy, happy, happy grins, and the jaw-dropping sex. Not too sure about the jaw-dropping sex, though, since my friends are by no means the kind of slut I was in my singleton days and even if they were, they know that if they tell me it's liable to end up here.

As for me, I've been indulging in the more homely kind of love-shove. As I told Vivian the other night, it's almost a shock to realize how domesticated my love life has become. I sit at the desk and write my academic papers while Irish Coffee potters around the fish tank and the television and his computer; we go for long walks together with the dog; we concoct fabulous (and not so fabulous) meals for dinner; I wake up in the morning and make a large pot of coffee for the both of us (OK, so he does coffee most of the time, I lied!); he slides a chocolate bar to me sometimes, a bottle of Diet Coke at others, when I'm busy working on my papers; we quietly watch his fish in the fish-tank swim in circles or ellipses or what-have-you; we go shopping for foodstuff, groceries and clothes (he hates the clothes-shopping part; I of course love it); dinner-time is followed by some snuggling on the couch and some late-night TV with the occasional white wine.

And no, I don't seem to part-ay any more.

My room-mate and his friends head out practically every Thursday and Friday, and I turn them down every week because I have tonnes of work to complete, books to read, papers to write, tests to grade, and basically be a melancholic old curmudgeon. My boyfriend tells me, I have much too much on my plate to be a frat-boy party animal like them, so it's OK to concentrate on my books and my studies. And while I do think he's right, and I DO try concentrate as much as I can on one other element besides the workload and the stress - that's my love - I can't help wondering sometimes: where did the party slut in Closetalk disappear to?



Where's that fagulous creature who loved to dance all night long, down his vodkas and shag a new guy practically every night? Why on earth did I have to turn *gasp* 27 - why can't I remain forever a "dancing queen, only seventeen"?! And, yes, how warped must I be to grumble at my comfortable life and yearn for that extra zing? Is this how married people get: all happy and complacent and whiney at the same time? But then, from my experience, that's also how single people usually are: happy and complacent and whiney about never meeting Mr. Right ! Trust me, not only have I been there/done that, I've seen firsthand so many accounts of that same avatar that it's quite... numbing.

You know what helps get rid of the numbing? Chocolate.

O, and porn comes a close second.

My Bel Ami Life

So Georgia's not the only flashpoint in East European affairs, you know. Here's a strange situation. Closetalk recently moved into a brand new apartment with a brand new room-mate. The room-mate is an East European hunk, in his early thirties, married but his wife lives some six hours away so he visits her on weekends. Bit of a chatterbox, but then, in a fun way, and the two of us yak well into the wee hours of the morning, about university gossip and nerdy research stuff. Welcome to boring Gradstudentville. But then what happens when Pavel (that's my nickname for him, after the o-so gorgeous East European hunk I've lusted after since I was 18) starts talking about ummm... the dearth of romance in his marriage?



Here's a sample:

Pavel: After having having our second child, the li'l woman says she just stopped feeling romantic. And she's not in the least apologetic about it. Says that's just the way she feels. But then... my feelings for romance haven't changed, and I'm not sure she gets that!

CT: Aha. OK.

Then, again;

Pavel: O, she's really great with the guilt trip. She tells me before I head over for college: I'm a good wife, so don't cheat on me. But then, I'm thinking: why did you have to tell me that?! I mean, I wasn't even thinking of cheating but then by saying something like that, it just makes it seem all the more forced, you know what I mean...? You're supposed to be with someone because you really want to... not out of guilt. Now, if she really wanted to be that 'good' a wife, she should have said: you can go ahead, honey! *guffaws*

CT: Ummmm.....!

Scene Three -

Pavel: Do you think it's wrong of me to totally find my sister-in-law smokin' hot?! I mean, she's totally awesome, and it's all I can do to help myself! *guffaws even louder*

CT: *blank*

And then, of course, there was the 'confession'...

Pavel: So, yea, I wanted to screw my bitch girlfiend in college, so then I went and slept with all of her room-mates... in fact, my roomie in the fraternity and I did her best friend together! And she called back saying we took advantage of her friend, but yea, we knew she wanted some of that stuff too: she asked, can I come over to study? And is your roomie at home too? *cackle* O yea, I was quite good at sleeping around during my undergrad years!

CT, talking to himself mostly: So, shall I study Discourse Analysis tonight or Humanistic Audience Research, do you think?

So now... I'm left wondering lots of things, really. Number one on the list: am I turning out to be, of all things ghastly and horrific, a prude *shudders*?! Number two: is Pavel looking to cheat on his wife? And far more interestingly, Number Three: what with all the talk about how he believes sexuality to be fluid and not straight versus gay, and his insistence on spotting me on the weights at the university gym, is he perchance looking to me to provide him with some... aah... relief till he gets to meet his wifey next? I mean, not to sound like a mutton-headed egoist who thinks everyone wants to get in his pants, but the fluid sexuality speech is pretty much used by most guys who wanna play gay now and then, and the whole gym-thing is so out of good ole 80's gay porn... so it does give me pause to think... What the fcuk am I getting myself into?



And you'd think, this would be something I'd keep to myself and not blab to the boyfriend, right? Wrong. I go and tell Irish Coffee everything about the Pavel-thing, and of course his reaction is to guffaw even louder than Pavel, and growl that he'll tell him to "keep his filthy mitts outta my boyfriend's knickers!" the next time he meets him. (Yes, Irish Coffee can be quite the archaic speaker at times.) While I'm quite positive that that speech isn't going to happen anytime soon, I am looking forward to my newfound gym-routine and chat sessions with Pavel, if for nothing else than to explore where this goes ahead - purely research interests, of course *harrrumph*. As I recall, married men are usually lots of fun to play with - especially insistent and fired up! Aa, but then if I were a prude, I wouldn't be having these thoughts now, would I?

Hallellujah and praise the 'lawd' for something! :)

Society Lads

I've wondered aloud earlier about the politics involved between tops, bottoms, and those in between, even when I hadn't morphed into this strange social sciences nerdy academic I am now. Wondered about the power strategies used by both tops and bottoms to get what they want, and the accompanying typecasting that even the most adroit of them cannot help but get mired into. The other day, however, I revisited that contentious lane, while chatting with SnowWhite's Stepmum who'd phoned in to wish me well on inching that one-step closer to the grisly morass of the big 3-0... namely, turning 27.



*CT shudders, as he hears the Ghosts of Gay Death creep up behind him*

Getting back on track, SS and I were talking about his new crush and my boyfriend (should I be all politically correct, fag-itistically speaking, and call him my partner? *giggle*), and his old crush and my old fcuks, and that's when the strange phenomenon of being a social top versus a sexual top cropped up.

You know what I mean: the social top is the swaggering guy who brags to all and sundry about how he had last night's trick squealing giddily with his legs apart, who spits regularly in good ole rustic Punjabi fashion, and who has zero imagination on the dance-floor...



... While the sexual top is the one who actually does the whole making-squealing bit (and not very gently at that, either), who doesn't brag about his exploits too loudly, who spits into bodily orifices rather than on pavements, and who can actually do a trick or two on the dance-floor not related to pelvic gropes... And there are many a times when the two are actually not the same person: the sexual top isn't really very top-ish when you first meet him, and the social top often turns out to spread his legs wide when he finally gets to the sheets.

And of course, that opens a whole-frikkin' can of beans: if there's a social versus sexual top, there's bound to be a social versus sexual bottom - I'm not sure versatiles qualify for this categorization, though. Unless... you consider power bottoms as both social bottoms and sexual bottoms - and the sheer intricacy of all those permutations and combinations simply leave one gasping for breath... not in a good way, if you follow my drift! *wink*

CT: "Would you believe me if I said I'm a sexual top, though not a very convincing social one?"

SS, squealing: "Never!"

CT, sulkily: "Well, don't give yourself too much credit either, dearie. You can be quite the hoity-toity drama queen, shooting looks and glares that can freeze the balls of the most horny stallion out there. You're quite the social bottom yourself!"

SS, falling off his chair while giggling: "O, you know I can! But then I'm quite the sexual top too! If one of those idiots try manhandling me in bed, they'll soon be missing their balls!"

CT: "That's true; you're also quite the aloof social top at times, as well, you know... I wonder if that makes you a social versatile...?"

SS: "You are so not writing about this on your blog...!"

Right. As if that ever had a chance of happening. *grin* I mean, come on: a boy on his 30's deathbed has to have some joy in life, right? I resolve hereafter to stop having birthdays once I reach the Big 3-0 mark. I'm going to be the one with the older boyfriend (or partner, however you like it), always in his 20s. *sigh* Social wishful-thinker, that's me.

Bollywood masala and Irish tom-foolery

A week or so ago, there was this end-of-term party at a professor's place, and I asked Irish Coffee to come along. This was going to be the big one, I decided: let's be clear and honest about who I am - a brilliant young gay scholar-in-the-making, and there's no denying it. According to my long-suffering boyfriend, of course, there was no need for any such grand gesture - as far as he was concerned, my "gayness can be seen from space", and everyone I come into contact with knows it. :) After all, my close friends and the profs I most interact with know I'm a flaming fag and all that jazz, but somehow, I guess I wanted to make it... official in some way.



Blame it on Pride Month!

So there we were, on a brilliant summer evening, over wine and amazing Indian food (yep, the prof is your quintessential NRI), me and the boyfriend talking with the prof and his wife, a bunch of other faculty members and grad students and their spouses, about all sorts of things under the sun. As is usually the case in such shindigs, after the booze and the great food, the host takes us down to his entertainment center, and shows off his collection of Hindi movies and Bollywood songs for his overwhelmingly White guests. So we all sit down, watch Ash dance around her hubby and dad-in-law to kajra re, Preity shake her booty asking where the party is, and Rani doing her balle-balles on a Sunday.



When the host announced that several Bollywood movies frequently depicted not just two women dancing steamily with each other, but also two men, Irish Coffee who was sitting in the front row let out a very audible Yay!

Of course, the room erupted into laughter. I guess I got my little "official announcement" after all. :)

Just some belated Pride on I-Day... :)

So last Friday, on the 4th of July, Irish Coffee and I headed down to the waterfront in his city, to join in the celebrations of America's Independence Day.



Back home in Calcutta, the Indian I-day wasn't really a cause for fireworks, as it is here, but we'd still get into the patriotic mood, dig out the national flag and fly it from our terrace, catch bits and pieces of the parade (did they have a parade for I-day, or am I confusing it with Republic Day?), and maybe head out for a special dinner later at night... A nice, relaxed day when the whole family would be at home, we'd just chill, take it easy, and feel... content, I guess. Isn't that the meaning of independence? - feeling free enough to be content? Anyhow, fireworks were reserved for Diwali - not for I-day.

Not so here in the US of A, evidently. Here, they're crazy for their fireworks to loudly (and dazzlingly, I might add) proclaim their independence? So, come July 4, Irish Coffee, his sister and I headed down to the riverfront, to stroll through the celebrations, listen to the bands, eat some of the fabulous food, and yes, watch the fireworks. Not too bad a display, given that this isn't a very large city here, not like SF or NYC - hell, they don't even organize a Pride here! (damn)

Anyhow, the fireworks were fun - lasted for a good 30 minutes, loads of oohs and aahs, honks from all the people in the cars parked around, kids clapping, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I felt like a kid myself! :) Brilliant to see the sky all decked up like that, so yes, Happy Independence Day, America. Now go and elect a President next year who'll legalize gay marriage (or at least, won't change the constitution to ban it altogether!), or is that too much to ask?!



*grin*

The next day, after his sister went back home, Irish Coffee and I headed back to the waterfront festival with the dog. It felt fabulous to walk through the grass, watch the water lap next to us, drink sparkling wine (yes, I mixed!), listen to music, smell (and eat) the amazing food, and swap sweet nothings. Walked under the bridges, made out a bit, laughed and ran around with the dog, and god, I felt like a silly gay boy from a silly gay novel! *grin*

The best part? Between the smoked ribs and the choco-caramel ice cream, when a boatload of Evangelicals unloaded from across the river, Irish Coffee and I showed them the finger and kissed. Cue to swoon. :)



Just a li'l Pride in the Midwest, y'all!

"Divine Decadence..."

So I rented possibly the camp-est and most fabulous movie in ages (forgive me, Carrie Bradshaw), popped open two bottles of sauvignon blanc, and settled in to watch Liza Minelli in Cabaret (1972)...



What good is sitting alone in your room?
Come hear the music play.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Come to the Cabaret.



For the unlucky few who haven't seen it, I'd advise you to rush out and rent! Welcome to 1931 Berlin, when a beautiful world of glitter and glamor is about to erupt into Nazi ugliness. But till that time, there's the ever-eccentric cabaret diva Sally Bowles at the Kit Kat Club, her British bisexual lover Brian, playboy Baron Max, and star-crossed lovers Fritz and Natalia...

I started out thinking how fabulously similar to Holly Golightly Sally Bowle's character was, albeit smuttier, given that Holly played the Manhattan society girl and Sally the Berlin bar dancer... But there's a special flavour to Sally's risque "divine decadence...!", her penchant for fur and money, and her irrepressible ways with men, that Breakfast at Tiffany's simply did not have. Seriously... this gives Gloria Gaynor a run for her money - the song every gay man needs to listen to after a break-up, mein herr! :)



O, and as expected, my ever-so-straight boyfriend Irish Coffee detested the movie. :) (Though he did appreciate my "divine decadence" in the sheets after the movie was done, owing to both Liza's fag-ulousness and copious amounts of sauvignon blanc. *grin*)

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...!





'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! :)

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.



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?!



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...



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...



... 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. :)



... 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*



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.



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.



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...



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!



... 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!)...



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! :)



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.



Jai Hind! :)