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.

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!!!

Low on heart

Low on heart...

Someone told me a couple of days back, that I was the kind of person who fell headlong into the "moment" - I did what I had to do within the situation I was in, carried forth and all that jazz, and usually did it well... and she was right, of course. I realized how right she was (is) so very acutely just now, when I leafed through face-book and saw Goa-pics one of my "boys" had posted... and I'm nowhere on the scene...

Penguin, Diamond Choker Baccha (who's soon leaving Bombay...!), Vivian, SnowWhite's Stepmother (who's smiling even!), Guppie, Helen of Troy, and some random chick... in front of the cake shop at Potpourri at Bandra... and I so miss my life.



Happy Birthday, TalkingClosets - you're now officially 3 years old... but Bombay sadly is so fcukin' far away that it breaks my heart.... :(

Here comes... the SATC Movie

*drumrolls* Here comes... the SATC Movie

So I was all set to write a post on a somewhat 'serious' topic here, and then I discovered.....

...the all-new Sex and the City MOVIE trailer... yeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaa! :)





And that's when you think about the great stuff they ended with:

Carrie: Later that day, I got to thinking about relationships... there are those that open you up to something new and exotic... those that are old and familiar... those that bring up lots of questions... those that bring you somewhere unexpected... those that bring you far from where you started... but the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself... and if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous!



O, and I just realized, they show Mr. Big's name on Carrie's phone in the last scene there: John!

Desi Dinner Time

Desi Dinner Time!

So I'm going to pop the corn quotient to 100% and say a silly like like: you can take CT out of Bombay, but you can't take Bombay out of CT! Sitting here in the middle of the sleepy Midwest, Closetalk calls on the all-powerful Youtube.com to take him to the bright gay disco lights of Bollywood to spy on the two brand new releases all of his facebook pals have been chattering about, and he is not disappointed. Nopes. Astounded, maybe, by how wonderfully gay friendly Bollywood heroes have turned out to be, but never disappointed. :)

It seems such a long time ago that Vivian and I were squealing our appreciation of yummy King Khan in his dapper Don look, but nothing could really have prepared me for the sight of SRK's 8-pack abs in his latest release Om Shanti Om. woof! No, no, I mean, nothing at all. There I sat in one of the computer labs on campus, innocently in front of youtube, and when SRK starts throwing his shirt away, gets his brand-new pecs and abs wet in true Mandakini style, you really can't blame CT for getting a woody. Suddenly, all those Irish boys can go hang - give me desi beef any day, baby! :)



And if you think that's yummy, go check out the actual video - Dard-e-Disco - on down here. The drool is inevitable. Quite a different type of drool, though drool nonetheless, for that hot new fireball called Ranbir Kapoor, in his debut Sawariya. O, ok , fine, his heroine is kinda pretty too, but when that hot studmuffin is in the frame, you don't really have eyes for anyone else. Imagine my glee (girlish giggles and all) when I discovered what I think to be the most delicious, gay-est pic of him ever on the net.



Mmmm... just what they needed on that ole Moulin Rouge: sexy Ranbir smouldering the stage in his sailor outfit. yummy! Simply love his dance number in the movie with his o-so false shy act with the looooong towel/sheet/dunno-what-it-is, but despite the thing's ambiguity, you have to love the part where the hottie falls onto the floor and single, slender, o-so-well-waxed leg peeks out. O shucks, now I'm in the mood for some tandoori chicken here...

Wanna Nach All Night...

Wanna Nach All Night...

I guess it's partly the Diwali fever, but here I am in the ole Midwest, and I've been missing amchi Mumbai. I had a formal dinner the other night with the Dean of Graduate Students, and there was the usual introductory round and I do my "I'm the international student from Bombay..." routine, but then he interrupts to ask, "Bombay? Don't you mean Mumbai?" And I'm like: "Nopes. It's Bombay to Bombayites, Mumbai to the rest."

*sigh*



So this weekend, there's a little Diwali something at my li'l Midwestern university, and I'm dragging Irish Coffee over with me. Thought I'd show him some of the desi moves. He's already heard some of the Hindi stuff on my computer and makes a face whenever I play Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, and so now I thought I'd torture him with the sight of some ABCDs and College Curry Bois dance to Where's The Party Tonight. :) (actually, he may like the dance performance more than the music.)

And that's another thing. I am soooo completely behind what's current in the Bollywood scene right now that I still listen to Where's The Party Tonight! Just now, I was so overwrought with nostalgia of the great parties at Guppie's house, and Vivian and SnowWhite's Stepmum dancing to Beedi, that I started listening to the Omkara album on my ipod while studying in the library. While walking to campus this morning, I was playing my five-month old Bollywood collection and snapping my fingers. I miss letting go on the dance floor when they play those fabulous jhatka tunes. I miss seeing the Bombay gay boys do their horrible rendition of the bhangra, and my joining in with my own topsyturvy version.

And the other night, when I found myself alone at the gay bar, I missed o-so much my GB parties and my gang of silly, fabulous queens. :) I missed all the lousy drinks, and bitching about the lousy music, and doing the borderline porno moves with SS, and squealing about the horned-up Punjabis on the dance floor. I missed having friends to dance with. I really want to dance. Just step out there on the dance floor and go wild like I used to in Bombay. With someone (friend or trick) who dances back with me. And while Irish Coffee is so terribly sweet to offer to go to gay bars and clubs with me, he just hates dancing and I know that. It seems somehow terrible to admit that I haven't slipped on those dancing shoes of mine in almost three months!



Ok, so this is the part where I realize that I've been moaning and groaning this whole post. Is life really that bad? Ummm... no. That's just the drama queen in me griping. Halloween was fun, for instance. And even though I was just one cowboy among the 200 others in this Midwestern town, I'm happy that Irish Coffee whispered in my ear that I was the cutest among them all! :)

Things are actually going quite nicely on this end. We still haven't had the "chat" and someone told me the other day that I was a whore to still have random hook-ups now and then if I was seeing someone, regardless of the "chat" having happened or not, but in all truthfullness, the randomness and the frequency of the hook-ups has descreased. Hell, it is true: graduate students don't have time for much else but work! :) And, more than anything, it's fun to talk about Irish boys and college boys and all the other different kind of boys that I bump into here.

That, and Bombay. *happy sigh*

D-I-S-C-O-C-T

D-I-S-C-O-C-T

You won't ever see me in an Afro, or wearing shiny pants (ok, well you might see me in thos e sometime), or doing coke on the dance floor (though prior posts have found me snorting in the bedroom), but don't let this mistle you - I am a Disco Queen.

So last weekend saw me at Irish Coffee's place, and after the episodes of Sex and the City, I force him to sit by me and watch Studio 54. Ryan Phillipe. Yummy. OK, so he's awfully skinny in the movie, but I completely loved the idea of disco-dancing in a great big amphitheater, under a giant shining ball or two. May not be any sort of Ghetto Superstar, but hey, I can do a meeeeaaaan disco! :)

And what bugs me is the complete lack of disco in the gay bars these days. I can't even call it a Midwest thing, because Bombay was the same. Well at least Bombay used to play the odd Shakira and Justin Timberlake which might not be exactly disco, but are gay as gay can be. You can do the sexy shake here and there, raise your arms and scream, get down and dirty with your partner and do everything else that makes a gay man live on the dance floor. And hell, at least they used to play the odd Madonna and ABBA and Cher... sigh. Not so here in the Midwest, though. The staple here is trance. Dance music, they call it. Which means a lot of DJ intervention. Which means that I can't do all my bumps and grinds and tricks with the umbrella that I did back in Bombay.

Throw the DJ out!



(Well, maybe not, if he's that cute!)

Strange to think I'm a puritan like that. I like listening to Donna Summers and all the rest. I like to wear something slinky and sexy and boogey on the dance floor. And I think D-I-S-C-O is the only way to go. Disco complements gay men like no other brand of music can. And it's no just about the tune or the tone, but soooo much more about the attitude! An attitude that you can't find anywhere else. *sigh* Gosh - listen to me: 26 and I sound like a 70s hippie. *grin*

So Irish Coffee watched me dance to the closing credits of Studio 54 with a very bemused expression - I can only imagine SnowWhite's Stepmother's look of chagrin if he had been in the room - but I didn't really pay any attention. There I was, in my cowboy hat, jeans and nothing else, and wishing I could head out to a gay bar right then and there.

Halloween is coming up: I was all set to go as Zorro, but I have a good mind to do a skanky disco queen instead. :)




If I could read your mind, Love,
What a tale your thoughts could tell.
Just like a paperback novel,
The kind the drugstores sell.

Collars and Cuffs

Collars and Cuffs

The other night, I'm over at the Lesbian Cowboy's place before heading out to a party together, and we're discussing Employment Opportunities at the li'l ole midwest town I'm at.

CT: "I mean, I would love to meet someone who's not in either the retail business or the food business. I mean, where the eff have all the cute white collar boys gone?"

LC, a bit flummoxed: "Huh, say that again?"

CT, trying to organize thoughts: "Well, in Bombay I used to date all sorts of people with fun careers. There were journalists with big newspapers and television channels, there were rich stockbrokers and investment bankers, some great designers, interiors and fashion, some smart guys working with NGOs even, and you know... basically, cute, sexy and qualified!"

LC bursts into laughter: "O you poor thing!"

CT: "Well, here all I get are college boys or Subway boys or Wal-Mart boys or boys waiting at bars! I mean, fine, if I get a truck-driver for the first time, I can tell myself it's a gay porno fantasy so just shut up and have sex and enjoy it... but here I've been meeting 5 truck drivers online in the past few days!"

LC falls off her chair.

This is actually a topic I've chatted on with Irish Coffee as well. He's one of the few gay men here I've met, who have what can be considered a proper Bombay-ishtyle white collar job. And he's got a sad story to tell. He says, the city I'm in is dying away and every smart gay man over the age of 30 moves from here - so, it's not really a surprise to him that I'm meeting truck drivers and Subway boys. O, and nursing attendants. A lot of 37-year old nursing attendants here.

While this story didn't really trouble me too much at the time - I mean, every city rises and falls, right? - I got into a conversation some time later with this really smart and sexy artist here. Artist, yes, but he gets his money from his night-job, that's playing bouncer at a bar. Ummmmm.....! And when he heard me moan about how I wanted white collar hunks, he got a bit perturbed and said that I was being snobbish. I shouldn't be bothered about what my guy did for a living, he said, I should simply let go and be attracted/ fall in love. It didn't matter that I was white collar; I should just go ahead and do blue collar/ hippie.



Well, sure, I can do a blue collar, but I doubt I would be happy enough to settle down with one. I know I've blogged about professions and which ones are 'sexy', and while I never really thought about that in so much detail, I know I probably won't be happy 'living' with a guy who drives trucks, or even one who's going back to college at age 38. True, there's the cultural thing: guys here go back to college even at age 40 sometimes, but there's also my culture - and I don't set up house with pizza boys. Sadly enough, that does make me a snob in America.

In Need of a Refresher Course

In Need of a Refresher Course

I realized keenly how much I miss Bombay and 'the family' last night. Decided to hit the gay bar in town with the Sweet Older Guy who'd been showing me around and helping me get acquainted with the place, and so I got all dressed up - sexy Benetton tee, skinny jeans and a great cologne. I was ready to rock and roll. So we drove down there all the way, and I showed my passport to the bouncer (o yikes, yes, my passport!) and we were admitted. I think I expected it to be something like the Bombay bars, or at least a bit more chic, but what I got was this long saloon-like room, with a stage in the middle which had a drag show in progress over there. Yep, my first drag show. And I'm proud I didn't wince.

Actually, now that I remember, my first drag show was at a GB party - divas dancing at Velocity, and SnowWhite's Stepmother and I doing our little tango at the back, quite mollified that there were a sizeable number of people watching us boogey too! :) Last night, however, I didn't dance. I downed three beers, enough to get me sodden drunk, as my drinking buddies will tell you, but there I was - immobile and zenlike at one end of the saloon, cradling my BudLite.

What struck me the most was how casually most of the guys were dressed - so many of them were in three-quarters/ cargoes, and so many of them were (blech) fat. And by fat, I mean American overweight, not good ole Indian 'fat'. Possibly, I felt all standoffish in my sexy svelte outfit, but then I also started to feel a bit out-of-place. And then there were the women - loads of them. You don't get to see so many lesbians at an Indian gay party, so I suppose I was a bit taken aback by the presence of all the lesbians. And my own puzzlement regarding lesbians notwithstanding, I did find the large presence quite encouraging - cute, even. Finally, some good-looking guys did stream in, all well-turned out, buffed and great dancers. And yet, there I stood, all wallflower (Benetton wallflower, nonethless) with my bottles of BudLite.

*yech*

I'm not really sure what happened to me last night. CT came a-cropper. Here I was, all gung-ho about the outing, but there I stood all morose and silent in a corner. My friend found somebody closer to his own age to chat with, and I felt even more neglected and sullen. Drama Queen elements began to rule, and I was all 'out of it'. A cute guy, all tall and blond curls and a great dancing body (I know, cuz I'd spied him dancing by himself on the other side of the room), came and stood next to me for ages, before he got bored at my silence and walked away. Hell, even my older friend tried to hit on him and I didn't. Somehow, I was in this weird "I don't want to hit on people, let them hit on me" mode, and though it felt terribly constricting I couldn't snap myself out of it. I thought I'd feel better if I just got on the dance floor, but my older friend doesn't dance, and I didn't want to approach a stranger. (I'm strange that way.) Bumped into Goatee Guy from online, though, and the ten minutes we spent chatting was fun, but then he had to leave. Finally, I decided I would, too. So, I asked my older friend to let me take my jacket from his car and I'd walk home. He agreed, and I think that hit my ego again.

When his friend opened his car for me, so that I could retreive my jacket, she asked me why I wasn't going home with him. "He's a great guy!" she crooned, a bit drunk. I didn't know what to say. That he hadn't asked me? That I didn't want to? I knew that, at least, was a lie. I'd planned on spending the night with him, while heading out earlier that evening. The thing was... somehow, things just hadn't materialized between us. He'd been so helpful showing me around town and helping me get settled in, that I wasn't sure there was much else to talk about between us. We'd had a hurried sexual encounter at his place last week, but hadn't managed to get together privately again - he never asked, and I was too shy to. Last night, before heading to the gay bar, we watched two episodes of Will & Grace at his home in silence. I'm not sure whether we have enough to talk about, though I know he's been very sweet and everything, and I'm a bit attracted to him. Somehow, the attraction element has... faded.

I'm not exactly sure what this post is about. On my late night walk back home, I told myself I'm not going back to the bar unless I find a date/ friend who dances. I miss my dancing friends, I miss my group. I miss Penguin, who slides down onto his knees to do a weirdly funny dirty dance with me; I miss Diamond Choker Baccha, who goes all diva-like with his cigarette; I miss Guppie who's as mad and frentic a dancer as I am; I miss Vivian, who pretends to be all uppity but then gets down to do the steps for the most crass Hindi songs; I miss Flyboy who gets the attention from all the gay men in a ten-mile radius; and most of all, I miss my soulmate, SnowWhite's Stepmother and his jerky dance movements and his attempts (and failures) to not get drunk, and our very own brand of 'dirty dancing'. *sigh*

I need to dance at this place. And I can't dance alone.

So Long, Farewell

So Long, Farewell

There's a sad sort of clanging
From the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple, too
And up in the nursery
An absurd little bird
Is popping out to say coo-coo
(Coo-coo, coo-coo)

Regretfully they tell us,
But firmly they compel us,
to say goodnight...
To you

So long, farewell,
Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight



Hmmmm... I do seem to have a Sound of Music hangover...

Raindrops, Rose and Bombay Dreams

Raindrops, Rose and Bombay Dreams

This post was supposed to be written last night, but by the time I returned home from my white wine-and-telly farewell date with Guppie, I was a bit tired and decided to hit the sack since I had an early morning flight to catch (well, 10 am is early morning, isn't it?!). And here I am, back home in Calcutta, feeling a bit misty-eyed at my departure from Bombay - in case you missed the point, someone called this a 'ditsy bottom' blog many months ago.

In keeping the misty-ditsy mood, therefore, I thought I'd list some of the glorious events/ moments/ things I'm going to miss about Bombay... three years went by so terribly fast, it seems now, and here I am, aching to head back as soon as I can...! In no particular order then, either chronologically or emotionally, these are a few of my favourite things...

1. Chimneypot and I would sit at the Phoenix Mills Barista and talk for ages... she's bring her blind dates there, and I'd bring mine - and sometimes, we'd dump them and meet each other. :) The coffee-guy was very bewildered...!
   
   
2. Gateway of India - anytime, with anyone. It's simply gorgeous. Ditto for the Taj Hotel - of course, I've only been in that second one for conferences and hotel room sex. (The hotel room sex was better, by far!) :)
   
   
3. Driving down Marine Drive at topnotch speed, after watching a late-night movie show at the INOX theatre at Nariman Point - it was amazing when it started raining sheets this one time, I mean I know it wasn't the smartest thing in the world then to keep on speeding but it was so much funnnnnnnnn!
   
   
4. Carter Road, Bandra - another Monsoon memory - I called up SnowWhite's Stepmother, and we went to catch the rains and the wet boys at the Cafe Coffee Day. It stopped raining as soon as we got there, but the weather (and the boys) was quite unbelievable. :)
   
   
5. My first GB party - eventful only because it was my first party in Bombay, and marked the one and only time I picked up/ got picked up by a post-party stranger in the city. I don't remember his name now, but I do recall that he lived in Malad (I got dropped home, no worries!) and that I serviced him thrice (one that night, twice in the morning), and that I never saw him again. (grin)
   
   
6. The first time I met Vivian - the Barista at Worli Seaface (O, it's shut down now), we sparred verbally, then made plans to have a sex-filled weekend at Lonavla, and then canceled the plans - instead, we became amazingly good friends. :) I remember I walked him to his clothes-iron-wallah, after the date. :)
   
   
7. Another Monsoon vignette - driving past Worli Seaface and the waves crashed right onto the road - a gorgeous sight in beautiful Bombay.
   
   
8. Buying the brass nameplate for my second home - I remember what a thrill it was, getting my name engraved up there.
   
   
9. Setting up home has always been thrilling for me. So I remember buying those cane lamps and stools at Bandra, the cushion cover fabrics from Fabindia...
   
   
10. Coming out to my first Bombay flatmate, the Punjabi one I used to have a crush on. I told him, while we having a drink at Toto's, and he responded with such a natural "And so?" that made me want to hug him then and there. :) He's no longer in the city now, but I wish him all the very best.
    
    
    
    
11. Mmm.... o, of course, my coming out to Chimneypot. Again, at the Phoenix Mills' Barista, over coffee and cigarettes.
    
    
12. Chimneypot, me and another friend I will call the Mad Journo taking long and frequent afternoon breaks cuz we were all so fed up with the job - the three of us sitting side by side on the bench in the middle of the green space, and I was inevitably in the middle, not smoking, while the two of them puffed away to glory. We discussed our quarter-life crises then - or so we thought that was it then. :)
    
    
13. My first meeting with SS, of which I have already posted.
    
    
14. Riding pillion on the bike with Diamond Choker Baccha in Goa, singing "I believe in miracles" so loudly, while racing Guppie and SS who were on the other bike.
    
    
15. Singing karaoke with SS at Goa - complete with head shaking and dramatic hand movements, we did Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive so magnificently that the whole room full of drunken beach bums started applauding! :) O, and our only other karaoke session before that - at Jazz By the Bay, the two of us sang Pretty Woman quite horrendously, but Guppie and the Penguin still clapped for us, bless them! SS says, our real song is Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, and I agree. :)
    
    
16. A candle-lit dinner with First Bombay Ex. He came over, lit some candles, and we sat on the window-ledge, eating cake and necking. Some of the next door neighbours were peeking out and wondering why we were sitting out there with all the candles, so I started singing Happy Birthday To Me very loudly. (grin)
    
    
17. New Year's Eve with the ex, Boy - I was waiting outside for Chimneypot to join us, when I got an sms from him inside, saying "I'm falling in love", so I went in and we locked lips for quite a long time. :) O, and there was this time, just before he was supposed to leave Bombay when I sms-ed him that I was missing him - and he showed up at my doorstep just twenty minutes later. Mmmm... and no, just because I'm counting these as my good Bombay memories, doesn't mean I don't think he's a losah. :)
    
    
18. Dirty dancin' with SS. We do this every GB party - and we're just amazing at it. And yes, some people do think we're a couple because of that, but what-the-hell, it's too frikkin' great for us to care! hehehe
    
    
19. Goa with the Straight Guy - it was fun, in a way quite different than with the gay boys. :) We took the bike across several beaches, and even down to Panjim and Old Goa, and the old church was breathtaking! Beef Chilli fry and Bibinca at Soussa Lobo's was awesome!
    
    
20. Guppie's house parties - they're the best! And Guppie is Mr. Fixit - he's the one who dispenses all the important practical advice, Mr. Dependable. And yes, I love his new 42" TV.
    
    
21. Parsi food at Fort. I'm quite an expert on all the Parsi and Irani restaurants in the area, and I'm an avowed afficiando of the mutton cutlets, the berry pulao, the chicken salli, the caramel custard and the lagan nu custard. And, my lunches with SS at Brittania at Ballard Estate - two gay boys admiring the old-world charm and hogging on the berry pulao. :)
    
    
22. Chocolate tarts at Piccolo, also at Fort - Natureboy and I have bonded in a whole new way following our mutual discovery of the place.
    
    
    
    
23. This freaky movie called Madagascar which I saw with the Penguin - and the band of wily animated penguins there made us both split with laughter, so that's where the Penguin got his blog alias from.
    
    
24. O, and I hafta say here: I L-O-V-E the salad spreads at Just Around The Corner - of course, as SS and Vivian will tell you, my 'salads' are anything but healthy here, heaped as they are with eggs, bacon, beef, mayo, potato, pineapple, corn, and everything else least connect with the concept of Fat Free Food.
    
25. My Going Away Party - thanks, all you guys. :) Though, a hot Andheri hunk popping out of a wet cake would not have been unappreciated....! :)

Testing Times

Testing Times

Some weeks ago, at a party at Guppie's place, I asked Famous Activist Guy (FAG) about places I could get an HIV test done. I'd been thinking about going in for one for ages, especially given my rampant sex life, and so here I was - thinking that with all the leaving etc, this was as good a time as any. Of course, I was quite the silly ninny, so I informed all my closest friends and begged them to accompany me. And then I asked FAG, "Don't really mean to make this sound like a Kitty Party thing, but the boys and I are interested in getting ourselves tested. Where do you suggest?"

God bless him, FAG immediately came up with a list of names, but his favourite was the PSI Centre at Cotton Green. Of course, SnowWhite's Stepmother heard the words "Cotton Green" and promptly declared that he was going nowhere near that (admittedly boondocks) part of town, and would only accompany me if we went to the posh Lilavati Hospital in Bandra.



And while I was weighing the cons of paying through my nose for a HIV test at the Lilavati (it's more of a boutique hotel than a hospital, really), FAG confounded me further by saying that the PSI conducted 'rapid tests', which yielded the results the very same day - while the Lilavati didn't, and apparently, the wait for the results the next day can be quite a scary situation.

So, here I was, thoroughly confused and confounded, when Natureboy came to the rescue. And yesterday, the two of us went to this private clinic at Nariman Point (not too far from where I work) after lunch and bared our arms for the lady and her syringes. Natureboy squealed his outrage ("She doesn't need two bottles of my blood! A drop will do, the vampire!") and I was surprisingly stoic. By six thirty that evening, we had our reports in hand and went to catch the train back home.

OK, so it wasn't as easy as that.

Natureboy and I pondered, on our way to the clinic, how we would deal with the outcome of the test. We promised each other that we'd be there for each other even if one of us were 'positive'. Then he looked at me, and said, "We are going to tell each other our results, right?" I couldn't help laughing at that one.

But it's true, that for a lot of people, getting an HIV test done is one of supreme privacy. Some of my closest friends have had themselves tested without informing anyone else, and the rest of us only got to know of it much later. FAG was actually quite surprised that I was asking around for a companion as publicly as I was. And though I told everyone (and myself) that I was doing this just for the heck of it, to be politically correct or something, I must confess that I didn't quite regard it as a picnic either. I wanted a friend with me, possibly because I was *gasp* shy, possibly because I was *gasp* nervous, and possibly because I didn't want to think of how it would be if I did receive a 'positive'. Heaven knows, I haven't exactly been Bombay's safest gay man, and even though I value the use of a condom, one tends to get a little... carried away in the course of pleasure. The balance between sexual pleasure and sexual safety is never an easy one, and like most gay men, I had given in and indulged in what some may call risky/risque activities, telling myself, "O well, if you want to be 100% safe, you might as well just sit at home, watch porn on the computer and jack off!" - which is true, by the way. A lot of gay men do that, get stupid like me, and say that whatever they're doing is a justifiable gamble with minuscule odds of contracting anything, so... bombs away!



So yes, I was a bit nervous about the test. Not knees-knocking-knuckles-clenching nervous, no, but a bit too breezy perhaps. I had silly thoughts springing in my head on our way back in the evening to collect the report: stuff like, "O, if I'm 'positive' here, I shall have to call up that guy I've scheduled for kinky sex tonight, and tell him I can't be quite as naughty as I'd like to be, because I have HIV...!" Of course, I never told Natureboy any of this during the cab-ride. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut - perhaps, like I ought to have done, during some tightrope-walking activities I'd indulged in earlier, but we shall not go down that road now...

I survived the test, though. Both Natureboy and I got our 'negative's and we were happy. Grinning from ear to ear. We made fun of the clinic and cursed the blood-collecting doctor some more, and got on to our separate suburban trains for home. Before leaving the clinic, however, I'd gone in to take a leak, and in my usual ditsy behavior, stood at the urinal, looked up at the bright tubelight overhead and said aloud, "Thanks, God!"



And yes, to celebrate, I kept my kinky date that night. :)

Occupational Hazard

Occupational Hazard

The other day, on my way to work, I sent an sms to SnowWhite's Stepmother (SS) and Vivian: Whiny msg from first class local - y cant the hot investment banker in the divine shirt and great fitted trousers fall madly in lust with me and spirit me away to his private office for a day-long appointment?

Well, of course, the responses I got from both of them were not very encouraging - more of the been there, heard you whine that before variety - but then, I thought about doing a post about the men we fantasize about and the professions we seem to favour. Sort of... occupational hazards, really.



OK, so yea, everyone wants to be pulled up for speeding and given a (ahem ahem) *ticket*, but that doesn't really happen in amchi Maharashtra here, with its potbellied cops and their greasy palms. And besides, those things are so often than not the product of a diet of porno flicks, rather than a real occupation one is likely to come into contact with during the course of a regular dating life - all the policemen, firemen, soldiers, trucker-types and pizza delivery guys. Sure, on now and then, you may come across a guy who's made himself a reputation for shagging autorickshaw guys, but those are really far and in between. As SS would argue exasperatedly, "... but Decent Boys don't do that sort of thing!"

So who do Decent Boys do? Speaking for myself, and I wouldn't call myself terribly decent, I have a penchant for investment bankers. My career proximity to the financial world of Bombay has ensured that I get weak knees whenever I see a cute i-banker/ stockbroker/ mutual fund manager/ banker type in great-fitting formals. Who would I not do, in any circumstance? Definitely, the trucker/ autorickshaw driver/ cabbie/ menial worker types. I may be into rough men, but not penury.

I asked around a couple of friends to see where their occupational tastes lie, and as expected, the white collar job format fits in very well with most of them. The Penguin is partial to the financial sector like me, thinks people from the media and ad world can be quite cute, and is quite OK with the Old Career Brigade aka Doctors/ Engineers/ Lawyers. For his part, SS would appreciate his man more if he had some sort of artistic career, like that of a designer/ architect/ theatre personality, but is also fine with both the financial services and the OCB, and of course both the boys share my revulsion of the menial types.

As for the 'No Entry' candidates;

1. Both SS and the Penguin expressed a mild distaste about dating an aspiring actor/ model, and we all know how many of this kind there are in Bombay. The thought of sharing bed-space with an Ekta Kapoor-aspirant however was not too awful - so, while we don't mind sleeping with them, showing them off as Possible Love Interests is a bit dicey.
   
   
2. Despite Bombay's status as one of Call Centre India's bastions, the doyen of gay call centre employees finds little from either SS or the Penguin. However, while the Penguin admitted, he wouldn't debar someone from middle-to-upper management, SS remained steadfast to his "No Call Centre PLEASE!" rule.
   
   
3. OK, so this one was a mild surprise. SS also rules out journalists and media people. I'm not exactly sure why, but the relatively low pay packets and the comparatively high ego sizes could be some of the factors... The Penguin had no such bias however.

While it may seem we're being excessively harsh, we're still hoping there are quite a fair number of people we haven't ruled out summarily. And while I thought I'd point out that I seem to have the least hang-ups among the three of us, I refrained from doing so, because I realized that they'd point out I was also the sluttiest among the three of us.



That's the occupational hazard of being CT...

Bombay, Adieu :)

Bombay, Adieu :)

It's strange that I've never really thought of this as a 'city' blog, but it kinda is. I mean, the tag 'bombay boy' is just one of 11 other tags I employ to classify the posts here, and even though I do mention in the header of the blog , "This is me, Closetalk, your guide to the small, small, small world of gay Bombay", I never really took that very literally. Mentions of Bombay Life happened so naturally that I rarely gave them a second thought. So, when it's time to leave Bombay - at least, for the time being - after almost three years, I'm wondering whether that will involve TalkingClosets losing some of its sheen as well.

I do hope not.

Yep, things have actually turned out the way they were supposed to. Behind the scenes, while I never really blogged about them, I kept on with the study plans, then the applications, then the mailing part, then the waiting, the visa applications, and finally last week, I got my visa to the US approved. This morning, I got my flight tickets tentatively booked. And it all seems somehow terribly near. I will be leaving Bombay the end of this month.



For at least a year, I will don the part of terribly quintessential NRI on US shores. What a completely absurd thought. My brother has already started pulling my leg, saying that when I come back after a year or so, I shall be putting on all sorts of airs and hating the pollution and the muddy Monsoon roads and only wanting bottles of Evian and doing all my shopping at the Cottage Centre in Colaba. Urks. I threatened to hit him with my umbrella in retaliation, but that didn't really stop his jibes. :) A part of me has been looking forward to this trip for a long time - I think it's going to provide me with an excellent opportunity to study, and open up some really great windows for my career as well. The other day, I got a sort-of offer at one of the country's largest ad firms, and I had to turn it down because of my US plans - but then, my contact there smiled at me, and said I had a ready job with her when I came back from my year-long sojourn, so that sort of reaction does reassure me.

O, but I have to admit, I hate the idea of leaving Bombay. I never felt this way while leaving the other cities I lived in. Maybe it's because I never forged the kind of strong relationships there that I did here. I suppose one says that about every place when they leave and they hate leaving, but I'm glad I was here, and I'm glad that I met the amazing people that I did. And I daresay this sounds like some sort of silly sentimental leave-taking speech, but it's really not meant to be. Or maybe it is.

When I announced my leaving plans to Mizfit last week during my Delhi trip, she sent me a rather sweet sms saying she just wasn't getting used to the idea of me moving out of the country, and she hoped that it didn't mean I'd stop writing the blog. At the time, I was toying with the idea of doing a sort of Goodbye Bombay, So Long TalkingClosets kind of swan song and perhaps start a new anonymous blog from scratch, with invites sent out to a select few who knew about me and with whom I was comfortable knowing about me, to sort-of reclaim the anonymity I've clearly lost a bit here. But I changed my mind in the end, because being the egoistic prick that I am, I'm kinda proud of this silly blog here, and I don't want to end its innings prematurely. I'm already looking at a Prodigal Son Returns post, once my course is done.

So don't write me off yet, dahlings: we'll just treat this as an extended Closetalk Does the Cowboy post!



YEEE-HAAAAA!

Time to get a New Umbrella

Time to get a New Umbrella

Every year, come June, Bombay collectively waits with bated breath for its monsoon - and takes a fierce protective pride at it. So when the monsoon came a tad late this year, owing to some gusty weather over Oman, the Bombay brigade hurled quite a few grumbles at the desert country, for delaying 'our' monsoon. No matter that we all knew, when it finally did come, later rather than never, we would find ourselves clutching hard onto our umbrellas, praying that our lanes and houses would not flood, and cursing the Municipal Corporation. In Bombay, Monsoon Mayhem is quite the annual thing, something like your Winter Antique Car Rally or Autumnal Diwali. :)

So while I got quite a few barbs from my Dilli dosts upon returning to Bombay, about how great it was to enjoy the rains without drowning in them, I sms-ed back, Rains in Delhi? Where? You mean the dewdrops you guys get there?



Bombay's rains don't do much to dampen the sexual fervor of its gay residents, however. Natureboy told me over coffee the other day that he actually feels even more ardent than ever - in addition to the usual "I don't want to wake up in the morning"feeling. And as for me, well, sometime back, I braved the rains to go over to Andheri East for some weekend nookie - and anyone who's lived in Bombay will know that crossing from the West to the East is like Asia to the States. Long distance fcuk.

The rains also give you some insight into the style of a prospective date. Let's lay down the Umbrella Rules here:

1. 'Folded' is passe.
2. The longer, the better.
3. Rainbow is soooo out, it's not even gay anymore.
4. Curved handles are the only way to go.
5. Bright solid colours are safest, but if you wanna have fun, you can play with prints.

The cute guy with the great dimples, getting wet by Carter Road is the only choice if he scores on all those points. You can practically visualize walking by the ocean, getting soaked in the sea-spray and the rain, munching on corn, laughing about something undoubtedly funny, wearing something impracticably elegant, looking so genteel...



It's another matter altogether that the cute guy with the great dimples and the perfect umbrella is never there by Carter Road.

Guest Post: Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...

Guest Post: Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...

I've been toying with the idea of SnowWhite's Stepmother writing a guest post for ages now, and while the thought has appealed to him as well, he's always shied from the task, making up one silly excuse after another ("O, that's too scandalous, I can't write about that!", "O, people will think I'm a horrid person if I really say that!", "B-O-R-I-N-G!" etc etc etc). I could sense the ice thawing though when sometime back the cynic in me surfaced and I wrote a post about how futile it seemed to find love in Bombay, and when SS responded with a "It sounds like I wrote that post, not you!"... And when I saw the looooooong and obviously heartfelt comment in the preceding post, I told him outright: I'm going to copy-paste this onto blogger, and this is going to be your Guest Post.

Aaaa, but of course he finally bit the bait. And the drama queen did his "O, let me spruce it up a bit" line. So here, it is, spruced up and all, with pictures scoured by him, and me retreating to the sidelines. SnowWhite's Stepmother on Bombay and her gay relationships....



Relationships, eh? Many a night has been spent brooding over this word. CT knows. I sure do. One of my closest friends calls me a relationship junkie. Am I one? *sheepish grin*. So when CT did his little LV bag versus relationship post, I knew it was time. Time to do the Guest Post I had offered to write and promised CT. Months went by. It rained. Relationship status was still the same. The way I seem to be going, it looks like its going to be the same...

*SS ponders, gets pensive, sips hot chocolate, starts typing again*

While CT writes on a myriad of subjects (some very interesting posts, I must say... and some... well... *beatific smile*), I never figured what to do the guest post on. Being the self-proclaimed expert on the subject *SS looks around, ready to shoot anyone who rises to object to the fact*, it just made so much sense, na CT?

I am going to support what I have to say with rhetorical questions.

1. How many of your close friends are in a relationship currently, CT?
Ans. None!

2. How many (completely) monogamous couples do you know, even tangentially, CT?
Ans. None!

Like Samantha once said when she was asked if she was in a relationship, "It's tedious and the sex is dwindling, so as far as I know, it's a relationship." (hahaha)

And about the theorems....

1. All men are bastards

2. An LV will never cheat on you, I promise you that.

3. CT and I are the Nicest and Finest Young Men in the City. We really are.

4. Carrie: "Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the way you you love, well, that's just fabulous."

5. It's ok to be single, but not single AND fat.

6. There are no fine boys/men in Bombay.

7. Chalo Dilli.

8. Samantha (to Carrie, when Carrie asks if she looks back on her old relationships): "Honey, you look back so much, you should have a relationship rear-view mirror."

9. A good b/j always works when you hate being single. If it fails, get a Bloody Mary. If that fails, God help you!

10. One of the sweetest guys I once (kinda) dated, didn't sleep with me saying, "SS, you are not one-night-stand material". I still don't know if it was an insult or a compliment. (And no, I am not asking you what it is.)

And while I’d like to post a plethora of images (full frontals, of course), I am sure CT with his delicate sensibilities will not permit me to do so * snigger* I think I’ll just sign off with a picture of me *chuckle*

Ummm.. for the record, that is not SnowWhite's Stepmother. Yes, yes, I just had to burst the bubble, didn't I? :)

Top Draw/ Bottom's Up

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Masters of the Universe

Masters of the Universe

All you need to do is get in a car or cab, go down to Andheri Link Road, turn left after the Infiniti mall, go straight ahead, turn right, and there you are.

In He-Man Land.



Also known as Lokhandwalla Complex, but then it's so much more correct to call it He-Man Land. Every street corner has a gym, almost every street intersection has got a huge hoarding with bronzed ab muscles advertising one or the other of those gyms, and every third guy you look at is He-Man minus his loin cloth and mighty sword, and clad in tight tees and jeans instead. Aa, well, he might still have his 'mighty sword' tucked away, but then SnowWhite's Stepmother, Vivian and I were too polite to ask. We weren't too polite not to stare, though. :)

It was after a yummy dinner at a Bengali restaurant tucked away in the outer corners of He-Man Land that SS said he'd take us to a 'magical land where we would love to be', and so, curiosity at peak and all, we pile into his car. A few quick turns, and we find ourselves at a street intersection with a Barista on one end and a Cafe Coffee Day on the other. And Men. He-Men. Everywhere.

Vivian declares that he must walk to the nearest ATM to withdraw cash, and I decided to accompany him, while SS finds us a table with the best vantage point. Soon enough, V and I are ogling at men in rippled tshirts, and shirts unbuttoned to their navels, and utterly tight jeans, and gorgeous dimpled smiles that probably hide a nonexistent brain behind them - but then I'm being utterly parochial here, so I'll stop that - until we get inside the Citibank ATM. And let loose our girly cackles and giggles at the delight of having stepped into Candycane Land.

Vivian: "OMG, did you see the guy with the tilak there sitting at Barista?"

CT, nods: "O, yes, yummy-mummy, but he did have a tilak after all, na? Tacky. *sigh* What about the guy in the tight pink T sitting with him, though? And those guys at that corner table of the Lebanese joint outside are utterly de-lish as well, na?!"



For those not in the know, Lokhandwalla Complex is the Mecca of not-so-welldressed but very buff hot young men. They come in droves here, from all over India and some from the Middle East, all to try their hand at the great ole jackpot of Bollywood. Gyms have sprung up here, reasonably affordable housing is a thing of the past here, and steroids as common as your next caffeine fix. This is what you call the 'model crowd' of Bombay. The yuppie crowd of gay Bombay. Mostly brainless, but very beautiful. Drool-worthy, like you wouldn't imagine. And the best part is, if they're gay, they're very interchangeable. So, the hunky buff guy who seems like a pucca 'top' in his snaps is very keen to bend over if you tell him forcefully enough - or, more likely, with the promise of an introduction to Karan Johar.

When I first moved to Bombay, I stayed in Lokhandwalla at a friend's place for about two months, so this place does hold some nostalgia for me. I used to walk down in the evenings for my walk around the circle, and sometimes duck into the Naturals ice cream store for a treat, before heading back home. I remember all the not-so cheap shoe shops and the designer knock-off shops and the restaurants selling Tandoori chicken, catering to the largely Punjabi residents here. As SS once remarked, Lokhandwalla is like Mini Delhi in Bombay - Karol Bagh, dahling, not Greater Kailash. :)

But for us that night, Lokhandwalla was He-Man Land. A Saturday gay-boys night out, and here we were, ogling pretty young things, and slurping on ice cream. Not too bad really, even though we didn't make it to the GB party.

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.

:(

The Date-A-Base

The Date-A-Base

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Name	Location	T/B/V	Age	Remarks
Ashish	Bandra	T	28	'pure top' - no oral sex, likes being sucked
Raj	7 Bungalows	V	32	excellent head, anal sex not a specialty

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

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

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

***

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