Googly in the Over

Googly in the Over

Went out for dinner last night with Travel Agent, who's an old friend of mine hailing from that outlandish part of town called Colaba. Travel Agent and I used to date, ages back when I first came to Bombay, but then , after I started seeing my first ex, we sort of settled into comfortable 'friend' mode. And now, we have a very funny relationship - we make plans to meet, but invariably meet after a gap of a month or so, have dinner at a fancy place, pledge to meet up soon, but only do so a month later.

Last night, we went to Under the Over.

And on the way back, we met up with a friend of his, whom I see regularly on the gay.com chatroom. It's actually quite scary that I'm such a frequent visitor there that I recognize people by their chat ids, but let's not go down that road for now... Breach Candy Regular, BCR, is getting married next month, and should be on his honeymoon by the first week of January. Strange, considering that he's all of 22 years, and the entire time last night in Travel Agent's car was spent reminescencing about the 'jolly gay times' the two of them had shared.



As we left BCR, Travel Agent explained to me how strongly familial pressure works in Gujarati families like his. It's expected that you get married, and fast, and no excuse is just ever good enough - not the "I want to settle first", or "I want to earn more money first", and definitely not "I'm gay, you see, folks". So the BCRs of Bombay, even from the time they hit the gay scene, are all very clear in their heads: I'm gay, but I'm going to get married soon, so everyone else better be clear with that. I found it even stranger that BCR and Travel Agent had once been so close that BCR had asked for a relationship.

"A relationship? When he knew he's going to get married, and he's not even going to put up a token resistance?" I asked Travel Agent, who laughed, as he coursed the car along the road.

"You don't know how it works there," he replied, "They have it down all pat."

I suppose I'm the only one who hasn't.

Old is gold... but we demand platinium!

Old is gold... but we demand platinium!

What is it about being gay in Bombay that makes you feel old? Even as I type these words, I realize that I'm not being completely honest. I've seen young people. I've seen young people act old, and older people act young. There's The Mythologist who loves throwing parties at his home, frequented by good-looking young men, while he remains devoted to his love interest overseas - he's one of the most gregarious gay people I've met in Bombay, one of the most generous and the nicest. I've also seen Aged Director, who loves to spend time alone in his flat in Bandra and doesn't socialise much, has no love interest overseas or onshore to speak of, but is still immensely satisfied with himself and the herbal cream that makes him look 35 despite his 55 years of age. So, yes, there are people...

And there are people!... People like me at the GB party last Saturday, dancing like a wild dervish, when suddenly I stop and stare. I'm out of breath, I'm just under three drinks (diluted - GB is not known for spiking its drinks), and I have the saddest feeling of deja vu. Been there, done that - true, I have, but what's so effing different this time, I wondered. I've known for ages that GB is not really the most fashionable place in town, with the best crowd anywhere - I've known that for ages. I go to GB parties to party and preen and generally giggle like a gay boy. Crystal clear priorities.

Hell, maybe I'm just growing old. I looked around me Saturday, while leaning against a wall, and decided that all the people on the floor could be fitted into either of three categories:

a) Trashy
b) Snotty
c) Been there, done them.

The evening before the party, Insane Bitch asked me in an sms whether I had still not got bored of the same old rigmarole at GB parties, and I replied indignantly to the negative. I like being the butterfly that evening, once in a fortnight. And that spell of boredom Saturday night makes me wonder now if a butterfly ever gets bored of being one. All wings and colour - damn, now what do I do next? Become a dull caterpillar? So out of the question!

This is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. I know myself too well to realize that that's quite unlikely, in the absence of a regular boyfriend to give me my bi-or-tri-weekly dose of that ridiculously sexy thing called sex, - so no, this is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. This is a post about a moment of strange melancholy - one of the moments that symbolise the screws in the apple that used to be the watermark of this blog earlier. Every gay man goes through these moments, decides to deal with them in some such way, and then... moves on.

So I'm not going for the next two GB parties. I'll stay at home, or I shall go out for a movie or a dinner or to a straight disc.

And then, I shall... move on. C'est la vie.

Under the hammer!

Under the hammer!

Your favourite closet has gone 'public' in every sense of the term - shares of the blog are listed on Blogshares, and you can buy your very own part of it. This bull run is sizzling, people!



***

The other day, a bitch came to my house. An insurance bitch. A sweet tall Parsi woman by the name of Phirozi, who came to collect the cheque from my flatmate for her policy. And then, when she heard that I don't have life insurance taken out on my own, she proceeded to try and brainwash me.

I earn a pittance.

I don't save anything.

My mutual fund investments will not be there when I need them.

My parents will soon die.

I may soon die.

Of some long, horrible disease that will be expensive.

A bus, an airplane, a train, a bird are all conspiring to kill me even as I write this.

Insurance with equity plans are loads better for my feeble brain to understand, rather than my mutual funds.

My future family (wife, three kids, dog) will be left poverty-stricken after I die.

Material Men

Material Men

The return of the icon, is how Madonna would like to put it. She's back in a brand new flava, and the press loves it. And you have to admit, she looks faaabulous, dah-lings. The music's pretty snappy too. Thanks to Nature Boy, I can attest to that.

In a recent interview, Madonna hopes she's still numero uno in the list of gay icons of the world. Apparently, Kylie has in an earlier statement said that, while she may be the princess, the Original Material Girl is still the biggest Queen Bee around. Compliments galore for her confessions on the dance floor...



It's very strange, though, don't you think? That a gay man's icon would be a straight woman? Straight women? Judy Garland, Cher, Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, Kylie, Beyonce.... what is it about super-sexy (alright, not Garland or Gaynor!) women that makes gay men across the world think of them as... icons? I mean, I think George Michael is H-O-T - always was, and is still! I even go for the skinhead look of Right Said Fred. But how come the Pet Shop Boys never made it to Gay Icon status? How come that recent Russian boy duo, whose name I just can't recall, never made it to the drool-list of gay men worldwide?



;-)

They say, it's about the image. They say it's about being flouncy. The abandon. You feel the abandon when Cyndi Lauper hollers that Girls just wanna have fun, not when she says that Time after time things don't go well for her. You identify with Material girl because deep down you like the bling-bling, you can't wait to Strike a pose on the dance floor, would love to be caught in a picture reading Vogue, feel sentimental when you remember what it was to be Like a virgin, but you don't really give a fig about crying for Argentina. And, yes, you have sooooo many Confessions of the dance floor, that it's not very funny at all...

To each his own. Despite this long-winded speech, I must admit, I've been a die-hard fan of Madonna since I was twelve years old. I guess that answers my question about whether you're born or made gay...

First in line

First in line

Remember that old question about whether you're born gay or whether you're made so? That question which every gay man and woman has probably asked him or herself at some point of life. I did too. Not whether I was ever induced to have sex with a man, but whether my continuously having sex with men automatically meant that sleeping with a woman wasn't half as fun. That's the old gay vs bi and bi vs straight and gay vs straight question. Why am I gay?

The first time I had sex, I knew I was going to have fun. I had not planned the occassion, and like most people, my first time came completely out of the blue. But I guess I was prepared for it. I 'rose' to the occassion, pun intended, and satisfied most of the kinky thoughts and desires that had existed in my closet. No one forced me to have sex with them - they offered me sex, and I took it, because I was curious and well... horny.

;-)

I actually had sex with a woman after that. I kept on telling myself that maybe I was just bisexual... this was alright, even normal, that I lusted after men, and I tried to force myself to lust after women too. But Baywatch left me cold. Pamela was slutty, but I liked the guy she was french kissing on the beach, and it was his speedos I was thinking of, rather than hers. It was clear that this line was not going to work.

It took a brief affair with a close female friend to make me realise that I was gay. Not bisexual. And certainly not straight. I'm not attracted to women at all. My flatmate says, she's more comfortable around me, a gay man, than she could ever be around either a straight guy or a straight woman. I still don't know what to make of that.

And then there are the stories from other people around me. The stories about classmates who've later 'turned' straight. Next door neighbours who raped them when they were younger. Experiments with cousins in the dead of night. Whispers and threats and loves and persuasions. No single first experience is ever the same, though you may be tempted to classify them under Schoolboy Sex or Neighbourly Nudge or whatever. When I first started having sex, I kept on asking them about their first experiences. I found it turned me on, to some extent. Or it horrified me, which in turn helped me feel tender towards them and infuse some real passion in the sex that followed. I'm not sure who it helped more: me or them.

And it never answered my question of whether we're made gay or whether we're born this way.

You can ring my bell!

You can ring my bell!

The party was good. I may be biased since I'm the one who hosted it, but the rest of you will all be ungrateful SOBs if you say you didn't have fun.

;-)



Gay interior designer/ decorator was tickled pink at the idea of the gay bloggers' party and came two hours early to play dress-up. Of course, me being the Desperate Housewife that I am, I was knee-deep in last-minute chores like getting the cold drinks (which turned out to be lukewarm, seeing that I don't own a fridge) and rearranging the mats in my room, and hanging the sketches on the wall and what-not. My look for the day was decidedly Filthy Bear: an exotic species in itself, wearing tight tshirt and faded jeans, stubble on face, and iPOD on hip, as I dashed across the neighbourhood, with a decided smell of mansweat. I still didn't hook any ghaati boys in the neighbourhood, though. Expected.

So, finally, we did play dress-up. I played Bombay Whore. Which involved a full-sleeve diagonal striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to half-length, only one button just above the belly, and tucked in imperfectly to show a glimpse of tummy, teamed with stonewashed jeans and a red cloth belt, and white 'low' undies on top of the jeans. And, in case you missed the point, I had a name tag titled S.L.U.T. aka CloseTalk slung around my neck. Ding-dong, do I hear the door bell ring?

Meanwhile, d/d was the French caddy slut for the night - small white tshirt, tiny black shorts that gave everyone around a great look-see of his jewels whenever he parted his legs, and my fake leather beret on his head.

Natureboy was wearing a white tshirt which proclaimed SHOWOFF!!! in bold red, together with white shorts. French beard optional. Emily came in a red kurta and folded-up jeans, accessorised with two jewelled belts bought from some disreputable pimp's showroom in Colaba, a very cute anklet and a pink Minnie Mouse hairband. Hehehe

Apple-boy came dressed all formal, teamed up with a fluorescent orange tie around his neck. Lovely trousers. He brought with him Gup Shup, who went all American boy chic, with his uber-tight tshirt screaming SELF MADE MAN. I should have had hookers for the party - sigh.

But then, we did have French caddy slut, aka d/d.



The late-comers were Funny Parsi Guy, who dropped in on his way to another friends' birthday party, and Visualscribe who had everyone in the room (with the exception of FPG) lusting after his gold sequined mojris.

The cold-drink lady sniggered when I opened the door to get the bottles, in my over-under-wear, and I'm hoping I won't be evicted from my building. My flatmate of course had a blast seeing so many exubert fags going all tipsy.

Wine, black rum, Bacardi, Alcazar, paapris with tartar sauce, paani puris. Gloria Gaynor, and we discussed Nazia Hassan's Disco Deewaane. Bappi-da was mentioned, as we preferred the Hindi version of D-I-S-C-O to the English one, or at least, Vik did. There was general lamentation about not having New Meat at the party, but I really didn't want to hold a GB party II.

Played Kajra re, and d/d promised to do a mujra at the next party if I can get Kua mein dub jaoogi. But the actual performance came much later, when most of the guys had gone - Emily and d/d threw one of my flattie's green dupattas between them, and did the most awe-inspiring dhak-dhak moves to Madhuri's Maar daalaa!

Moral of the story: Cyndi Lauper knows what she's talking about when she says that Girls just wanna have fun!

POP!

POP!

Ok, so I uncorked the bubbly again.



The gay slut has returned to his haunts. And no, before anyone starts tut-tuting and saying 'I told him so' lines, while I take my stillettoes out again from behind the closet, I just want to reiterate that I never said earlier I'd abstain completely from sex. Random sex was what I meant. However, as it turns out, I could find enough loopholes around this one.

Random sex means a phone call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet and screw?

My brand of non-slut sex was a phone-call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet, have the cuppa coffee for propriety's sake and then go for a bang at your place?

Sigh.

I could get away with this line, of course, but then some sort of reality dawns in my pretty little head, and I decide that one type of slut is as good as (or, as bad as) any other. No use pretending to be something I'm not. So I might as well just slip the stillettoes back on.

But I'm a Desperate Housewife, really. Finally met up with Beret Boy the other night, had the rudimentary coffee and conversation, and convinced him to come back home with me. Lovely boy, good sex, but all my hopes (and giggles) of the earlier post for a possible relationship are down the drain, of course - 22 year old boy who's just new on the gay scene and wants to fuck around, and I'm not in the mood for babysitting.

But here's the crunch: Guess what I do, after he leaves, and I proclaim two hours well spent to my flatmate?

Promptly take a broom and start sweeping the floor of my room. Sigh. Beret Boy is quite, quite hairy, you see, and seeing hair follicles strewn on the ground gives me the Monica itch. So, while I swept the floor, I even muttered to myself, Nice boy, but next time I get a tarpauline on the floor for you...

And the Slut Saga continues... I'm still waiting for that Sp[ecial Someone, however. Bated breath and all.

OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday

OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday



I'll try to send all the guys invited their individual invites before then, but this post serves as one big general invite as well. November 12, come 8.30 pm, all you gay divas are going to assemble in my lil pad for some funky dancing.

The theme for the night is Gay Diva Slut.

Over the top.

You're supposed to define 'over the top' with this one. So get out the spandex, the tight sleeveless muscle Ts, the floral printed frilly shirts, the hot pants, the vinyl paddings, the torn jeans, the crosses around your necks, the beads and the bracelets, the strap-ons, the cloth belts, the hip huggers, and hell, even the make-up, if you're so inclined.

Let's see just how 'funky town' us prolific gay Bombay bloggers can get. ;-)

As for the ladies (the real ones), I know y'll really wanna come, but I think the other ladies in the house will die of embarassment if anyone other than Family sees them!

Just a little (?) crush

Just a little (?) crush

The other day, I had an sms conversation with my Ex-Roomie, which went something like this:

ER: Hey, bitch. Having a good time? Still freeloading on brother?

CT: Hey, ass. Of course. Where do you think the good times come from? And you're still living off your sis in Delhi?

ER: Sure thing. How's the partying and the sleeping around?

CT: Partying like same, more or less. Trying to cut down on the sleeping around. Will try to have relationships now. Think I'm growing up?

ER: I'll believe that when I say Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece.

(He hates the book.)

To introduce ER, he was my first flatmate in Bombay, and I've known him for a year-and-a-half before that. He's this tall, fair, brawny Punju who looks so utterly cute when he sleeps, and of course I have the world's greatest crush on him. That's my concession to the norm of gay-men-falling-for-straight-men. I'm weak too. But it would have been the same for you, if you'd known him. I've had a crush on ER now, since the day I first met him, and it's been more than two years now. Almost three. My crush for him intensified, upon his reaction when I came out to him.

So what's this particular post about then? Am I merely reaffirming a silly little crush on an old friend? I'm not exactly sure, really. A lot of things are happening fast. First, there was the discussion a coupla months back, with two other friends I'm out to, who said, they got some vibes that ER may actually have been a confused gay boy as well. (He had women throwing themselves at him, but always kept himself away from them.) Then, there's the promise ER made, to come with me to Pegs N Pints, the gay bar in Delhi, when I arrive in his city. And, coming up in March, all of us are going to Bangalore for a mutual friend's wedding. ER will be there. We may have to share a room again. And I'm getting hopeful again.

Sigh.

I told a friend of mine the other day, that if I ever got ER, I'd probably turn a new leaf and become absolutely asexual towards other men. I have a strong desire to do that. I really do. Or maybe, I'm just telling myself that, in a silly effort to convince myself that this thing I have for ER goes beyond a crush and is all about... gulp... love.

Now, why on earth would I do that?

Karaoke Queens

Karaoke Queens

First I was afraid,
I was petrified..
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...
But I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong...
I learned how to carry on.

I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I will stay alive.
I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give
And I'll survive.
I will survive...

That was one of the songs we were supposed to croon Monday night at Karaoke night at Jazz by the Bay. This, and Like a Virgin, Y-M-C-A and Dancing Queen. So, it was gay boys' night out, and CT, Gup Shup, gay interior decorator/designer and Penguin Boy decided to sing the town red. Jazz is a lovely place with a great crowd, and we were openly staring at all the lissome South Bombay boys. Most of them dressed and danced like gay boys, so we were aided in our fantasies that maybe, just maybe, the hot muscle boy in the khaki cap would be all too willing to make out in the car, or that the striped shirt angel would give an excellent blowjob in the squeaky-clean loo. I had a gin-and-tonic for the first time.

Horrible drink.

D/d paniced from Gloria Gaynor and Y-M-C-A, however, and the two of us ended up with a pretty tame version of Pretty Woman. We were bad. Bad. B-A-D. So bad, they took ages to get us on the damn stage for our little number. So bad, that the DJ's gal-friends came over and started singing with me and d/d... which sort of diverted the attention of the crowd away from the horrible singing and d/d's jerky dance steps.

;-)

And yesterday, I went out on a date with Funny Parsi Guy. Now, I've known FPG for ages, almost since I first stepped into Bombay, but I never actually thought about going out with him for a date. But we had a great time yesterday. Dinner and dessert and coffee and a walk down the beach front. Nice. He can't stand Parsi food, however. Being the pessimist I am, though, I'm just going to say it was nice, and let things unravel as they will, at their own pace...

By the way, am still waiting for the remaining confirmations for the Blog Party. Please hurry, guys.

Part-ay?

Part-ay?

Well, to everyone here: a happy Diwali.

And to a select few, by virtue of sex and location, (two outta three from ASL?!!), a special invite. Rather than an invite, a poll, actually:



This is going out to all you gay bloggers from Bombay. I'd like to have a little get together at my place sometime, and I wonder if you guys will come. For a couple of you, I haven't ever met you, but I'm pretty curious. Some of you do know me, on the other hand. I think it would be a fun time, over music, chatter and some great booze in the house, and I'd like to have a party!

(Strictly not the Delhi farmhouse kind!)

Planning for next Saturday, so please do holler and tell me if it's cool with ya guys. You can leave your response in the comments box here. I've also mailed you individual invites to your blogs, dudes.

And, just for clarification, the gay Bombay bloggers I'm familiar with are:

Amchi Mumbai
Vikster
Nature Boy
Lefty
The Gup Guy
Kris Engayged
Wassup, Doc?

Have I missed anyone?

A Couple more movies

A Couple more movies

I'm trying very hard to not make this post read like Gup Shup Boy's, but I absolutely must mention how delicious the breakfast this morning at Crepe Station was.... and with that over, I shall now go back to the movie reviews.

***

First on the list, is Latter Days, of which I've seen mentions earlier in both Sin and Aryan's blogs. Sin has a lovely post on this, and all I can do right now is affirm that it's a very cute movie. Just what you'd expect a Hindi gay movie to be like, if there were any Hindi gay movies. I'm not counting My Brother Nikhil here, you understand.



Hot guys, pacy script, taut emotions, lovely divas, and uncomfortable questions about the gay lifestyle. At times, I identify with the sexy West Hollywood playboy (fluff boy?), and at others, I think I'm more like the Mormon... The real CT remains, as always, unsure of himself. Now, isn't that strange...

Second, there was something called The River, a Finnish film, to which I can't find any link online, I'm afraid. Very nice story, placed in a small town, showing how everyone's lives are interconnected to each others', the bungee jump event in the town square, and an attempted suicide. I saw this one alone, cuz Gup Shup was all sleepy and had gone to bed, and i finally turned in myself at 3 am this morning.

Lovely movie, though. And yes, even number two had the perfunctory cute gay couple.

Cinema CINEMA

Cinema CINEMA

Saw a terrible movie last weekend, called U Bomsi 'N' Me. Atrocious. There were gaps, far and in between, where you actually chuckle, but by and large it typified the low budget, low acting, Hinglish movie from the Nineties. Bunch of models, and the character who played Bomsi had an irritatingly nasal voice that made me want to bitch-slap him.



Now that would have been appropriate, from yours truly... hehehe...

Saving grace was the cute guy, who of course has no idea how to act: Gautam Rode, who played this dumb Punju-Gujju mix called Sam 'Mac' Patel.



I'll just give you a sample of how dumb the movie was, by giving you Sam's two alternate reasons for the 'Mac' in his name:

Reason 1: He's a product of the new Gen-Y, and is a regular at McDonalds. Yes, and this is the less stupid one.

Reason 2: His dad is Gujju, so he's a Patel; his mum was Punju and names him Sameer, which he shortened to 'Sam', because of the (you guessed it) Gen-Y influence; and his wife is a Goan Christian MacKinshaw, so he shortened that to 'Mac'.

Wow. Rocket Science.

Or at least, it would be, if I could create Rode in a test tube. I wouldn't mind being the ascetic then. ;-)

One night in Wonderland

One night in Wonderland

So I was down four shots of black rum - neat - and was swinging to Kylie's Spinnin Around, while inspecting myself in the full length mirror at home. The party hadn't even started, but it was clear that this was going to be a fun night.

Shiny disco balls!

CT enters rocking club with scores of cocky young men, pun intended, cradling their drinks, and chhammak-chhalo-ing to Kareena Kapoor film remixes. Orders a rum and coke - black, of course - when he gets a message from Mumbai EXpress No 1. You're looking hot tonight, and I turn around to flash a grin. Of course he's got a boyfriend now, and I'm playing Vishwamitra these days, but it's a GB party and I'm feeling like the devil tonight. So I smile and I dance and lick his ear. I'm evil, if no one ever told you that before. Old Friend Who Clings Around Too Much also came by, but I gave him the cold shoulder for the EX.



Also spotted: Seemingly Shy Broadcast Babe behind a pillar. SSBB had a one night stand with a dear friend (who owes me a sundae at Baskin Robbins) some time back, which ended in a comic affair, and I decided to try my luck with him. So I smiled, and said what's up tonight?, and he smiled back, and asked me how I was doing. Boringly mundane, so I decide he's not worth a long drawn-out conversation, when I spot Newspaper Baron. The Baron is down from Delhi, and was always good for a fun night out (and in) during my slut days, so I amble over and say hi to him. Grabs my ass, but I push myself out of reach, laugh and tell him, I'll see ya around.

That's when I bump into M, a cute li'l twenty-four year old. M was sweet to me, as always, but I'm playing the role of the ascetic these days, so bonking twenty-year old cuties is not in my time table. Sigh... Just when I think I should change my modus operandi, and go bite M on his neck, I spot the Gup Shup Boy.

Gup Shup is this absolute sweetheart I met through gay decorator/designer, who's not at all bitchy like d/d is. So we shared a couple of drinks, wondered who the bonkable ones were in the room, and that's when d/d shows up, in tow with AirBoy and Malabar Hill Dunce.

Air Boy is a mutual friend of both d/d and Gup Shup, so I'm obliged to be nice to him - he's this typical Punju flight attendant boy who wings his way across continents, the kind who every gay man would like to screw, simply because of the 'air steward' tag. MHD is just that - a dunce. he's got rich parents, multiple houses in Malabar Hill and Lokhandwalla and Zurich, and typifies the dumb flight attendant stereotype. He's horny to boot, and tries much too hard.

Yes, yes, I'm evil, I know.



Let the dance begin! Nature Boy shows up, looking cute in a tshirt (thank god he's shaved off that hideous beard!), and I see Traveler From Zurich, whom both he and I chatted up on gay.com ages ago. NB slept with him, though, and I leered at him tonight. But then, I couldn't leer too long, because Cute Doc comes by with Andhra Doc right then. Both of them, divine, and soon the three of us are in a circle dance jhatka with M. Andhra Doc has heard from M that I'm great in bed and says so to my face, while M reddens in embarassment, and I take that as my cue to walk out of the quadruple.

And that's when I stop in my tracks.

CT spots Beret Boy. Should I say cute again, or is it expected? French beard. Smiling eyes. Red tshirt. Great dancer. Black Beret. CT smiles. And before he knows what he's doing, he walks over to him, wears his Beret, and tells him I don't know you from Adam, but the hat's cute. He smiles, he understands, and we dance together. Not for a very long time, because I'm thirsty, so I touch his forearm, and melt away into the crowd. I'll meet him again, sometime... sometime.

Exhausted, but happy. Soooo happy.

PS: The Dance Diva of the Night Award goes unanimously to Gup Shup. That boy has zoom! ;-)

Climb every Mountain....!

Climb every Mountain....!

Party time comes along again, tonight. The agenda is to dress as non-gay as I can, and just go to have a fun time. Of course, gay interior decorator/ designer will smirk and say that dressing non-gay for me is akin to climbing Mount Everest while getting a piggyback ride from Tarzan of the Apes, but hell, you shouldn't discount the possibilities, even if they're an infinity to one....



;-)

I got sidetracked.

My first party since The Abstinence.

Should be fun, actually. After all, as decorator/ designer and I chatted over the phone this evening, no one ever hits on us at these do's anymore, cuz we're not fresh maal anymore. And that doesn't change, even if we go to a party after a two months' gap, as there'll always be pimply sixteen year olds to grab all the attention away from us jaded twenty-four year olds...! So, it promises to be a fun night of drinking, dancing with other jaded young-old men, over the age of twenty, and generally shaking butt.

'Me party boy. Me climb Everest. After I climb you, Tarzan.' *bashful grin*

Some things stupid

Some things stupid

This is one of my favourite songs, I realised this evening. I came back home after dinner (with a relative, so don't worry, the Pact still holds), and then I switched on one of the CDs I'd bought at the Music sale two weeks back... and I heard the song twice. I plan to listen to it again, before going to bed.

;-)

It's actually a terrible song. When you come to think of it. It's a song about saying the wrong things, even though you're desperately trying to say and do the right things. It's about... the same old things and the new things that scare you so desperately. Any gay person will read the lyrics and ponder about how true it is about life in the Rainbow circle... But... I love the tune. I love the way it goes. I love the croon.

Hehehehe...

I know I stand in line, until you think you have the time
To spend an evening with me
And if we go someplace to dance, I know that there's a chance
You won't be leaving with me

And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place
And have a drink or two
And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
Like: "I love you"

I can see it in your eyes, that you despise the same old lies
You heard the night before
And though it's just a line to you, for me it's true
It never seemed so right before

I practice every day to find some clever lines to say
To make the meaning come through
But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late
And I'm alone with you

The time is right your perfume fills my head, the stars get red
And oh the night's so blue
And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
Like: "I love you."

And, o yes, I love both Frank Sinatra and Robbie Williams. Robbie, a bit more, but then you'd hardly blame me for that.

General ire about dating.

General ire about dating.

That's what I should name this one. Terrible to sit up one day and make up your mind that you're just not going to be a slut. Terribler even, to realise that with your intensely busy work schedule, probably the only way you'll ever have sex again is by being a slut. Dial-a-sex, please? There's that silly radio ad where the gal calls up a pizza place and tells the boy to come over with all his 'toppings', and when you think about it, being a gay slut was something like that.

Easy.

Ridiculously so.

All you have to do, is go online and find a reasonably good looking guy. Check sexual compatibility, and take his number down. Save for a rainy day, or a sunny day, or whatever day. And call. Boy comes over an hour later, you offer him a glass of water, and then have a nice screw.

Did I not say 'ridiculous'?

Cut to present state of affairs. Oops... wrong word, given my absolute lack of love life. The present state has me going to work at 8.30 am, and back at around 10.30 pm. I plop down on the bed and listen to Don Williams croon Fever for some time, and then I nod tiredly at my flattie when she comes out from her coccoon-cum-room to ask how my day was. And then I undress and go to sleep. Yawn.

And to think, I'd decided once upon a time, that virginity does not agree with me.

There are times, of course, when I wonder what's keeping me from the antidote. I mean: cute, funny, twenty-four year old guy in a city that has probably more gay men than the Big Apple, so why the hell am I single? And that's when I tell myself, I shouldn't try so hard or think so hard, that it's not what newly-liberated ex-sluts do. Newly liberated ex-sluts generally rant out their ire about how tough dating is in the big city.

Ergo...

Welcome to a brand new closet

Welcome to a brand new closet.

Of course, I still miss the apple.



The very famous apple, regarding which there has been soooooooooo much debate, yadayadayada... I remember a conversation with Geebaby about what the silly fruit was all about, and I simply could not find any other, or any better, representation of what being a gay man in the closet meant.

I said, in a previous post: The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself. And, it's still true.

... Despite the fact that we now have a brand new closet. One with some pretensions of the artistic in it. ;-) How gay is that, then?!

Hang 'em!

Hang 'em!

So, the word across town goes, Closetalk has decided to hang up the slut stilletoes.

Ok, you don't have to gape quite that much.

CT walks into a crowded room, wearing padded slippers. Holds up sparkling, glittering heels. Fiddles with microphone, and then harrumphs. Once, twice, not thrice.

CT: "Ladies and gentlemen of the press...."

(hushed response)

CT: "Here they are...."

(hushER response?)

CT: "The rumours you heard were true...."

(somebody faints, somebody titters)

CT: "The slut shoes are gone!"

(collective gasp, scribes write furiously, flashbulbs pop)

CT: "I've decided to move on with my life..."

scribe 1: "CT, what led up to this.... catastrophe?!"

CT: "Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear scribe 1.... I choose to think of this as a transition... I'm merely changing my shoes here." (shows padded slippers - very unsexy!)

scribe 2: "CT, what advice do you have for all the novice sluts out there... the ones who've looked up to you, and revered you, and worshipped you, and.... ?"

CT (smiles, and waves, and laughs): "They can still revere me and worship me, silly!"

(room dissolves into chuckles, as heads nod at Closetalk's superior intellect.)

scribe 3: "So what will you do now, CT?"

CT pauses. Looks heavenwards for inspiration, then hellwards, and finally looks at scribe 3.

CT: "I'm going to wait..."

Pujor Pronaam

Pujor Pronaam

Closetalk is a Bengali.

A most misguided Bengali, who feels extremely nostalgic about Calcutta and Durga Pujo, now that he is not in the City of the Bongs at this time, after all. So, he ambles over to Ram Krishna Mission Hospital in Bandra on Sunday, naba shoshti according to the Bong Pujo calendar, to gaze reverentially at the goddess. He feels strangely sad that he's the only one of his family right now, not in Calcutta, and decides to bury his sorrows in hing kachori and chholaar dal, topped off with a gigantic rajbhog. Of course, having eaten all that, he also feels mildly cheated, because he has spent all in all Rs 50 for something that would have cost him only Rs 20 or so in good ole Calcutta. And so he proceeds once again to gaze reventially at the Goddess at RK Mission.

Contrary to what the Martini Man said in an earlier post, there were no goodlooking Bong men for Closetalk to gaze lustfully at, which was perhaps a good thing, as it might have disturbed his otherwise pious intentions directed towards the Goddess. Besides, Closetalk was dressed in a block printed blue kurta, buttons undone of course, that would scream out BONG! BEWARE! to all and sundry. The gathered faithful at RK Mission thus took to Closetalk as one takes to one of their own flock, misguided and alone, at such an auspicious time. Even the presesnce of a dazzling silver bracelet on Closetalk's left wrist that screamed out his homosexual inclinations did not deter the priests and the mithaiwallas from their extreme kindness towards the misguided soul.

Closetalk departed a happy gay Bong boy.

Just peachy!

Just peachy!

There's a new cream on the block, called Fair and Handsome. Hehehehehe... it's targeted at men, and it's the 'male' version of the infamous Fair and Lovely. Honestly, I don't know why on earth they would need a 'male' version in the first place... I mean, how different is it from the 'female' version? Use of pheromones, perhaps? Boggles the mind.

Was seeing the ad of the product this evening on TV, and my roomie was quite horrified! Apparently, the woman has banned all fairness creams in her own house, especially since her seventeen-year old brother expressed his desire to smear some on. She watched the ad, and screamed out, that though she was glad the fairness cream thingy was becoming 'asexual', it was probably going to be used by gay men only!

Gross miscalculation.

I suspect: we're going to have Punjabi mundas wanting to get creamier, and dark Tams getting fairer, and even some errant Bongs who would like to try some of the wonder cream. I mean, let's face it. So many of those Punjabi mundas, Tams and Bongs have been using their mums' and sisters' fairness creams forver, before F&H came out. The world likes to look beautiful, and let's not club this as an exclusively 'gay' thing. My straight ex-roomie used some kind of strawberry flavoured cream for his face. I use a scrub at times, when I'm not tooooo lazy. The mantra is to look good.

Gay, or otherwise.

Personally, though, I prefer my own coffee flavour. Peaches and cream sounds like a good ice cream flavour, but not mcuh good for much else.

;-)

Disastrous Date No. XXX

Disastrous Date No. XXX

So, I'm supposed to meet a guy with a first name that makes my first thought go GUJJU! ;-) But, he says he's Punjabi, and I've never been the ethnic cleansing kind of fanatic, and he seems like a really fun guy on chat, so I decide to meet him. We're supposed to see The Grudge together. It's a throwback to the good ole repressed gay days of loving Buffy.

And Xander (aka Nicholas Brendon). ;-)



Date is horrendous, however. Cute boy in picture turns out to be tall and skinny with a long nose and a nasal voice and teeth that look utterly desicrated. I can't believe human beings have teeth like that.. especially since my own pearly whites are... well... it must be said... perfect.

*beams a smile at you*

And the hair. Didn't fringes go out of fashion ages ago? Especially when it's teamed up with a (ROTFWL) mushroom cut?! Welcome to the era of New Kids On The Block and All Sorts Of Strange Creatures.

To make matters worse: he's talkative. And sarcastic. He starts attacking me within five minutes of meeting him. So, I tend to to go silent by then. The tickets have already been bought, and I'm hoping The Grudge is paisa vasool. It turns out to scare the living shit out of me, and I can't help wishing I was sitting next to a six foot two stud with green eyes and beautiful lashes and beautiful teeth, whom I could clutch onto. Then kiss in the darkness, even...

Poof. Dream ends.

O well, Gujju-name-boy was nice, though. He let me listen to songs on his i-pod, in the train. However, when he declared in the ricky, o so ceremoniously, that it was time to review how the date had gone, I could not remain kind. I said, there was a complete lack of chemistry, and it had been nice meeting him. Then, I shook his hand, and patted his knee, and scampered out of the ricky to Subways.

I had a nice big Italian BMT sandwich. Some meat is better than none.

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Terribly rushed for time these days. Came home last night at 11. 30. The previous two nights at 1.30. It's all about setting your priorities straight, they tell me at the station. Sometimes, I feel like murdering them. Particularly gruesomely.

Terribly rushed for time these days. Barely have time for sex these days.

Barely.

;-)

Well, read between the lines. You'll find the grin.

Past midnight

Past midnight

How strange. It's past one am, and I'm sitting here at office. No man around me. No sexual romp planned any time soon. I suppose, it's when I say things like that, that some people think I'm quite the cat's whiskers around town.

Important lesson to learn: A sex life is NOT a social life. Remember that.

O gawd! I hope this isn't going to turn out to be another whiny post! I don't usually like that kind. I usually prefer to avoid that kind. My life isn't that bad, really. It's not rockin', but it's not bad. Except that Architect Ex-cum-Friend skipped the country from Delhi to Bahrain without telling me, and I found out only yesterday and quite by chance. I'm getting to be awfully disconnected from saddi dilli these days! Am I so completely a ghaati now?

Ouch.

I wince, despite my own love affair with Nature Boy. By the way, Nature Boy was ghaati. Not in the derogatory sense of course, just in terms of his ethnicity. So you see, I have absolutely nothing against ghaatis. I might find Gujjus garish, but some of my closest friends are Gujjus and I have absolutely nothing against them either, other than their swollen heads. I'm quite an understanding and patient person.

I shall go to sleep now. Alone, smartypants.

A trunk-ated story

A trunk-ated story

Ganesh Visarjan came and went. I came to Bombay last year in the middle of the 10-day Ganpati extravaganza, and was quite clueless about the goings-on here. One of the people I called up in The Family at that time, told me to make sure not to miss the visarjan at Girgaon Chowpatty, at the head of Marine Drive. It was supposed to be one of those 'cultural' events for the gay populace in Bombay, and if I wanted to meet new people (as indeed I did, at that time, knowing only two gay guys in the city!), I should go over.

I was quite charged up... and then, I heard about the crowds that throng the beachfront. And about the rampant sexual stuff that supposedly goes on there, quite uninhibited, right there under the noses of the cops. There were horror stories about potbellied traffic havaldars forcing gay men to give them blowjobs in the crowd, and I chickened out. I was having none of that, I decided!

I thought about that first episode, the other day, driving past the crowds, on Ganesh Visarjan. Strange to think there could be lustful hordes of gay ghatis around. Oops... did I say ghati back there?

;-)

But Ganpati is now over, here in Mumbai. The fairy lights are dangling over the street, but are quite lifeless, and just the fairies are left behind. The madness is quite, quite over. Mumbai's favourite son has gone off.

Is it funny that on the morning of the visarjan, I slept with a nice young man named Vinayak?

;-)

Project Resuscitation

Project Resuscitation

There was another party last night. For those of you wondering at the frequency between the GB parties, this month happens to be GB's anniversary, ergo you have the extra parties. Ergo, you had the cheap Rs 150-three drinks party last night. For which I had no plans of going, but finally went cuz I actually had a date.

(Five minutes after meeting, while walking to the club, my date and I decided that we weren't each others' types. That makes life oodles simpler, na?)

So, the rest of the night was predictable, but nice. I spotted friends and hugged them, danced with them, and stood in a corner afterwards with my drink. I decided not to dress up for this party, so it was a simple half sleeve shirt, jeans and sneakers - no medallions, no bracelets, no gay stuff at all. I was attempting to be preppy. I hadn't realized, I'm just an old fag inside, these days.



For the first night in ages, I didn't mix my drinks, preferring to stay with my rum and coke, on the rocks. N, my first boyfriend in Bombay, berated me for acting old at the tender age of twenty-four, and then proceeded to dance with some thirty-five year old who kept making solemn fuck-me-now looks at him. I stood alone, till I saw pal A come by, and we danced to (what else?) kajra re. Tere Kaale Kaale naina...!

When I spotted hottie dancing rather suggestively by himself, I decided to try being my old daring-do self, and sauntered over with a come-on line.

CT: Hey there, are you a Leo?

Hottie (crinkling cute nose, and flexing sexy biceps): Nooooooo!

CT (lasvicious leer): Well, you dance like you have something to show off!

End of scene as Hottie turns away, and CT dances by himself for a few seconds to regain his composure at being unceremoniously dumped.

But...!

Then, I bumped into M. M is a very nice and very cute twenty-year old boy, living in South Bombay who seems to have taken a shine on me. Of course, I've slept with him before, but frankly, I hate the idea of having a relationship with a twenty-year old thing. Last night, however, he pulled me close to the dance floor, and made some wonderful comments:

M: So who are you trying to impress tonight? You look really cute!

CT (surprised like hell, in his attempted preppy outfit): Who, me? I just pulled on a shirt. You call this 'cute'?

M (grins wickedly, lovely boy!): Naaaa, you're not cute. You're just fucking HOT tonight!

M (grins some more, while CT becomes more and more bewildered): In fact, you should have worn your glasses, like the other night. You look very cute in them.

CT (totally clueless): Wha-?????

And then, of course, M's friend Nik comes on the scene, looking quite sexy in a black silk shirt, and whispers with a decidedly sultry tone in his voice, Aaa, so you're CT from XXX... I've heard quite a lot about you!

All the rejuvenation an old fag could have needed!

Tis the season to be jolly...!

Tis the season to be jolly...!

Break-ups and make-ups seem to be in the season. These are the days of helter-skelter and hurry-scurry.



Friend A had met young enterprising doctor a month back, and there were flowers blooming from every branch, or so it seemed to A. But a month down the line, he calls me up and complains that they were too 'different' and hence the magic could not - would not - last. A is back to being single, hence, and is looking to jump anything that walks, having a penis between its legs.

Friend B had found his own relationship suddenly skuttled a month or so back. There were 'irreconcillable differences', he said, and he refused to be with a person who could not handle B's obvious emotional heart-on-the-sleeve act. All fine and good, except that a week later, B realized that perhaps he had over reacted, but by then it was much too late. B is turning cartwheels right now, however, because the other day he and the object of his affections went for a movie date, and is praying double time that he gets a brand new start.

And then there's Friend C. C and I were going around for awhile, and then we split up - for reasons far too complicated to explain here, now. We drifted apart, C and I, and then rediscovered our lost chemistry in the form of a purely platonic relationship, best represented by lunches together whenever I was in his part of town during work. Then I learn the other day that C has been seeing a boy I've heard of, for the past three weeks. Hmmm... I smiled, of course, and told him how cool it was. I asked him how things were, between the two of them, and he said they seemed to be on the road to 'serious' stuff. I cringed slightly, but still smiled. It's ridiculous, I'm over him, and yet, I'm jealous. It's quite ridiculous.

It's a cycle, or so it seems. And this is the age when you see the confluence of a lot of other ages happening! Smart, young gay boy decides that it's time to find a sweetheart, and he dates X, they go about for a coupla months, wherein they're in the first flush of (something like) love. Violins and all. And then they have the jitters, they split, and smart young gay boy decides that he needs to do something to forget X forever, and so he decides to screw every kind of eligible man out there for another two or three months. Till finally, he realizes, the strategy really isn't working, and he decides to try dating again... enter Y. And the cycle continues.

Vicious, or divine, is anybody's guess.

Play, Boy

Play, Boy

The party came and went. I had my gulab jamuns, six of them with lots of vanilla ice cream - strictly gastronomically speaking, of course. On the amorous front, I struck a zero, as usual. And then I go back to asking the same question that I do, after every GB party: how come I never get lucky?

There are various theories about this, of course. There's one that goes: since I never go to a party without my friends and since I love to dance, I spend most of my time on the dance floor, strictly with my friends. Even when I go to the bar to get a drink, I don't hang around there like all the other stags, waiting to rub shoulders, legs, or even more, and instead, boogey straight back to the dance floor, glass/ bottle in hand. So, where on earth do I get the chance to lock gazes with Tall, dark and Handsome strangers, anyway?

In consonance with the same theory, there's an accusation that I project a very haughty demeanor on the dance floor. Almost as if I love dancing by myself and my friends, and if you think I care a rat's ass about you asking me for a dance, you can just go and wring out your pantyhose...! Hmmm... must be the eyebrows. I need to get them plucked.

Then, there's Theory Number 2, which I hit upon on Sunday morning. The day after. Why don't I get lucky when I wear the sleeveless number and the tight cord pants? Well, because being a slut simply isn't my type. Being an overt slut isn't my type, I mean. There are simply better and hunkier sluts available in Bombay, and anyone at the party who wants this variety simply mosies over there and feels them up, giving me the ditch.

So, what should I do? Stick to my full sleeve shirts and nice pants, and cradle my drink in my hand? Sigh, I'm not just the cradling sort. Sooner or later, I'm going to get hot and sweaty while dancing like a maniac, and the shirt buttons will get undone. Slutboy reawakens. Let's face it: I never meet interesting people at parties. Definitely not the kind I'd like to date. My best side is the cute guy next door with a great sense of humour. And that's not a side of you that you can easily promote at GB!

What this means is that I'm not going to get lucky at a GB party. Probably, never. (Counting aside the one or two times I have, that is.) I may not exactly be the wallflower, but hell, the wallflower will probably go home with some phone numbers, and I'll just be tired, drunk and quite satisfied at my twinkle toes. No number, though.

But maybe, the whole point of the exercise is to have fun. I have plenty of that.

All Razzed Up

All Razzed Up

Glitter and spangles. ;-) The Razz opens tonight, after ages ago, and I'm all charged up. The late night blues of the previous post seem to have been tucked underneath the closet for now, and I'm looking forward to an evening where I can just let my hair down. Actually, that's not possible, since my hair is quite closely cropped up, anyhow.

Whatever.



The Razz!

GB!

Razz + GB = probable fun.

Unless.... (1) the old heart kicks in and I tremble at the sight of ex boyfriends (damn!)
(2) no one takes a second look at mua (double damn!)
(3) the music sucks (ouch!)
(4) the food gets over by the time I finish my twinkle toes routine on the dance floor. (ummm...!)

I need to get myself one of those optimism books. Who ate my cheese? Actually, that question sounds quite gross in the gay format! ;-)

See you at the party tonight! ;-)

Screwed

Screwed

It's been a long day, and I don't feel like being witty. I don't feel like being snipey, snarfy, or half a dozen other things that my alter ego gay queen is so good at. I wonder if hyperactive gay boys are ever allowed to feel tired, and yet this one is going through just that phenomenon now. I feel hungry, as well.

So this is a tired post. The one where I look and hope that in ten years' time, my life is infinitely more settled than it is now. I would actually not like to wait the full ten years. Even a couple of them would suffice. I don't need to still be standing at the crossroads, still chatting in the chatrooms, still f*&%ing like a jackrabbit, still exchanging one-night stands, still bemoaning the lack of a love life. It's... tedious. Almost as tedious as being in love.

O, wait. Now, how would I know that?

Let me manage a weak smile now. A tired smile.

The funny part is this: I'm probably going to forget all this tomorrow morning. After I go home, have a bath, order take-out, switch on the music, curl up in bed with a book, and drift away to sleep, I shall wake up the next day late for work, as usual. There will be a whirlwind of activity the next day, which shall see my exercise my attempts at humour, I shall go on a date with a sweet young man in the evening in whom my interest has waned after the first date, and I shall come home slightly tipsy. Time for music and book again. Maybe, scratch the book. Just the music and bed will suffice. And I may tell myself now that I don't want to bring the boring young man back home to bed tomorrow, but something tells me I still probably will.

God, I sound pathetic. And whiny. And gay.

I guess now you understand why the green apple at the left has all those screws. ;-)

My favourite Queen

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The first one

The first one

Let me tell you about my first love. Love is too strong a word, actually.

His name was Nikhil, and he was just one of the milky-white twenty-one year old Punjabi men who dot the landscape of Delhi. There's no way you can tell him apart from the other Nikhils. He was unique, though: the Nikhil of my folly. I met him online, in a chatroom that I have now come to despise for its sheer lack of depth, and we hit it off instantly. We were both staying in Central Delhi, and we decided to meet that evening. The Jaypee Hotel, in Rajendar Nagar, was the venue. He was wearing a black tshirt and jeans. I was wearing something similar.

I thought he was cute. We talked. We walked the half-hour walk back to my place. The landlord was in, so we sat outside on the pavement and carried on chatting. We spoke about his life, his college marks, his brother, his boyfriend, my job, my stint in Delhi, what we were both looking out for, crummy jokes, and the like. We talked. And talked. And talked. For six straight hours. We were immensely comfortable with each other. But because the landlord was still in the building, we parted - a quick hug, and a promise to meet soon. He messaged me within five minutes of leaving, how he was already missing me.

The first time I had sex doesn't seem momentous to me. It was just one of those things I'd been planning, and one of those things that felt necessary. The first time I made love to Nikhil was monumental. I had never kissed anyone like that before. Forgive my dramatics. We made love for seven hours. On and on and on. I never wanted to let him go. He was special. He had a boyfriend, and I told myself that Nikhil and I were only about sex, but... he was special.

That facade ended the next time we met. It was another stormy session. We met, we walked, we kissed, we kissed, we kissed, and we made love. And then he told me, he was in love with me. I balked. That's ridiculous! You have a boyfriend! We've only just met! It takes more than that to be in love! he shrugged, told me to take my time, but made it clear that he was in love with me.

I refused to believe it, then. But then, there are things that you... believe in, even when you know you shouldn't. There were phone calls, sms messages, meetings in my room, fantasies shared. I would travel in the Gurgaon bus, looking out at the rain, and wish I could make love to him there. He would call me at random hours, and say that he was missing me. He kept on telling me that he was in love with me. And while we did all these crazy, lovely things, I found myself needing more and more of him. I sent him poetry sms messsages. Ridiculous. I've never done that since.

And so I told myself: perhaps, just perhaps... this is love.

And one evening, as we lay on my bed, spent, exhausted, yet very much eager, I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I loved him.

Nikhil and I were together for five and a half months. They were glorious. They were tempestuous. I hated the fact that he refused to leave his boyfriend, simply because I don't want to hurt him - we've been together for four years! I found that silly. I decided that I would come back from Bombay, after my impending transfer, so that I could be with Nikhil. He would leave his boyfriend then, he said. We told ourselves that we must not get too attached to each other, because my transfer was coming closer and closer... three months, two months... But then, we would pant that we loved each other too much to take it slow. And the poetry sms' continued. Ridiculous.

We broke up twice. One weekend, he went away to Shimla with his boyfriend, and I was left behind in Delhi, hissing with jealousy. So, I went online in search of a mate. Just for spite. I found one. I cheated on Nikhil. Again and again. With a little affair on the side. I reasoned, if he could not leave his boyfriend, he had no right to demand fidelity from me. Nikhil found out. We fought, and he broke up with me. I cried then. The first time I'd ever cried for a boy. I bawled my heart out. I begged him to come back to me. I pleaded my case: jealousy. After a week, he decided that he would forgive me. But, he said, things would never be the same again. I knew they would, though.

And I was right. We were together again. But not for too long. I could not handle his boyfriend. I could not handle my own jealousy. So I still slept with my little sex interest. I still found other dalliances on the side. Sometimes, Nikhil called when I was with one of them, and I lied that I was out with my friends and I would call him back later. When I got back home, I would call, and Nikhil and I would chat on the phone for an hour or so. And then fall asleep. My phone bills skyrocketed.

I suppose he guessed what was happening. On one of those rare nights that he spent the whole night at my place, in my arms, he went through my cell phone while I was in the loo. he found some messages a dalliance had sent. He didn't say anything that night, while we made love, and only told me the next morning. How strange: I was furious. I'm not sure, at what. I was furious that he would go through my phone. In my book, that was a serious breach of trust... but then, I was sleeping around, too... but then... there were tioo many 'but's in my head. I stormed off. I told him that I wasn't ready to see him again. In some strange calm, I told him, I'd probably said the love word far too soon. I wasn't ready for him, for his complications, and he wasn't ready for his. I was willing to take it slow, if he wanted, but I would not want to say that I loved him anymore. Because I wasn't sure if I did...

The funny part: the sms that he saw was from a dalliance I hadn't actually slept with, as yet!

Another week passed by. I agonised over my decision. I tried to meet other people. And then, Nikhil called back. We argued, we fought, I never cried though. The old flame was over, he said, he would pay more attention to his boyfriend from now. But... he wanted to see me. He didn't want to lose me... as a friend. I was satisfied.

But in the gay world, friends are a funny creatures. The next time Nikhil and I met was stiffly formal. But then, we had a burger and we chatted, and we loosened up. The time after that, we ended up in bed together. None of the original passion was diminished. We kept meeting after that - once every week, and we would go straight to bed. It was a funny arrangement. I started dating someone else, but then, those once-a-week thingys carried on. Funny arrangement.

The time came for me to leave Delhi. Nikhil called, and said he would miss me. He said, perhaps, it was all for the best that we had broken up. Broken up. I laughed, and said, 'perhaps'. He wanted me back in Delhi, and I said, 'perhaps'. Three weeks later, while I was in Bombay, he called me to say that he didn't want to be in touch with me anymore, because he was totally committed to his boyfriend: he didn't want me to call.

I cried that night. It suddenly struck me that Nikhil was out of my life for good, now. Yes, I'm a pansy at times. I'm more cynical now, though.

The disillusionment came later. I had introduced Nikhil to some of my dalliances and friends, after that last break-up. He said, he wanted to meet other gay people, since he lived a fairly cloistered life, and so I introduced them. A week or so after the final phone call, I learnt that Nikhil was hardly being the devoted boyfriend - he was painting the gay town red with all of my dalliances, and many others of his own finding. My cloistered ex was the new party boy in saddi gay dilli! The clincher, however, came later: a close friend of mine refused to sleep with Nikhil, because of the boyfriend factor. And it was then, that the skeleton tumbled out of the closet: Nikhil didn't have a boyfriend. He never had one.

He never had one.

Why did he do it? I can't explain it, to this day. Some sick machinations to make me fall more in love with him? Feel more jealous about him? Could anyone be that depraved... or even pitiable? I found the whole thing loathesome. I was glad he was out of my life. I couldn't stand the idea of meeting the person who made an utter fool of me for so long.

And of course, I met him again. When I was in Delhi, in May. He heard that I was in town. He called me. He asked to meet me. I said yes.

A cafe in a Gurgaon mall. Nice and glitzy. I ordered a chocolate mousse and waited. He was late. When he finally came, I smiled at him. He smiled back. He was looking stretched. Pale. Thinner. There was acne on his face. I told him he looked tired, and he replied that he was. We talked about life in Bombay, life in Delhi, Pegs and PInts versus the GB parties, whether we were dating anyone, etc. I asked him about his boyfriend, and he said he had broken up with him. I smiled. I finally did what you wanted, he laughed, now you can come back to Delhi. I laughed. He was making a joke. A bad joke, but one that deserved a laugh.

It was a strained conversation. Not the seven-hour sparkle like when we first met. Too much history for that now. Too much agonising. We talked for about an hour, and then I got up. I had to meet an old friend, I told him, and he nodded. I have to go too, he said, keep in touch.

I will, I replied, and shook his hand. Patted it.

And walked out of the cafe. It was a hot Gurgaon afternoon.

Single, and Married

Single, and Married

Welcome to heartbreak hotel. Actually, it's not completely fair to say that. There are possibly thousands of people the world over, categorized as the 'other woman'. When you're gay, you're just 'the other man'. Same role, different gender, possibly more dramatic.

Case 1: You see tall, dark and handsome specimen stalking the room, and you amble over to introduce yourself. A couple of drinks and some seductive comments later, you find yourself smitten. A couple of nights later, you realize that the plain gold band on his finger has a deeper, darker significance: Welcome to the family, honey!

Case 2: You know he's married. But, what the hell, he's gay! If you can do it with a guy who's in a 'relationship', you can very well do it with a guy who's married. So, you ignore the picture of the little woman at home, and just have a mindless screw. Surprise, surprise: he's actually pretty good at what he does! ;-)

Case 3: You fall in love. You tell yourself that's not the way it should go, but you decide to live dangerously, anyway. You decide: (a) you'll make him realize his inner 'gay' self, so that he'll leave the wife and live forever with you, or (b) you're quite comfortable being the 'main man' in his life, and you can share him with the wife. You're one big, happy family, and it doesn't really matter that that the third leg of the triangle (namely, the wife) doesn't know that you exist.

Of course, all of the above cases are valid, only if you actually let yourself get involved, sexually or otherwise, with a married guy. In India, that happens all the time, since a number of men get married very early and very frequently. An acquaintance of mine has been in a 'relationship' with a married guy for the last three years. Hubby visits Acquaintance three days in the week, he goes back to his wife for three other days in the week, and then Hubby spends the last day of the week with a new gay boy: Fuck-of-the-Month. How's that for romance? While some of us may be tempted to sigh in despair and urge Acquaintance to get out of this tangle, he himself is very satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him the 'stability' of a relationship, he says, and time for his own pursuits, recreational or otherwise.

There's the other extreme, of people who can't visualize even a wham-bam with a guy once they learn he's married. Take my friend the Decorator/Designer, for instance. Some weeks back, I'd met this 37-year old married guy (gorgeous!) with a five-year old kid, and while I had no qualms in making it a one-night thingy, Decorator/Designer found the whole affair quite scandalous. This is how the thing looked to me: 1) he's hot, 2) he's going to cheat around anyway, 3) this little one-night thingy is hardly going to break up a marriage, and 4) did I mention he's hot?

Of course, the thing that seems most ludicrous to me in all these cases of single/married men is how on earth their women (wives or girl friends, as the case may be) don't catch on, when (a) boy waxes body religiously, (b) boy is a drama queen straight out of Alice in Wonderland, (c) boy loves buying trinkets for his hands and various neckpieces from Colaba Causeway, (d) boy has too many out-of-town conferences on the weekends... I mean, how dumb can these women be, not catch on?!

Or, are they merely ignoring the 'single' part of the job description, while we gay lovers choose to ignore the 'married' part...?

In Black and White

In Black and White

I call them penguins. The birds, short and stumpy, cute and sweet, which like to live in the Antarctic, (but if Madagascar gets it right, they thrive in the tropics), can't fly and flip flop on the snow. Penguins. The nice, affable men you meet all the time when you're gay, with whom you get along fabulously with, have a great date or two, fantasize about a beautiful kiss or two with, and then they end up flip flopping on the... erm, snow, in front of you. Penguins. Nice guys, really, but you tell yourself that you can do without them. They just add to the muddled confusion in your head.

So let's count the penguins. There was Nature Boy, about whom enough has already been said, and since we're on good terms now, I shall refrain from being bitchy against (for some time at least!). There's my friend K, who recently found himself dumped by one more bird. Very lovable creature, fine plummage, great smile, and admirable intelligence factor. Two months later, however, the expected jitters came out. One fine morning my friend could hear the penguin squawks, and the writing was on the wall.

And then, of course, there's me. There was this tall, lissome bird I was seeing, and after around three weeks of dating, he turns around and says that he really didn't think we were 'seeing' each other: things had reached a very nice and comfortable 'platonic' stage for him, and he 'assumed' that things were the same at my end, too.

Penguin squawks.

I wonder if I'm being bitter. I wonder if it's a coincidence that the book I just finished reading was one which tries to describes why men leave women and women keep wanting more. Just substitute both 'women' and 'men' back there for 'gay men', and there you have it: the living proof of both why penguins thrive in subtropical Bombay, and how gay men are perpetual Old Cows looking to turn into New Cows.

But bitterness is frankly beyond me. Or perhaps, it empowers me. Isn't every gay man out there bitter to a certain extent? Every smart gay man? I know that my last penguin's a nice guy (heck, that's why he qualifies as a penguin in the first place, and not a jackal), and maybe I shouldn't really be so vocal about my disappointments, but hell, maybe that's just me - "bratty" and "childlike". Maybe I'm the stupid ass who needs his head cleaned of all the "intellectual blah" inside, because when one partner sees things all friendly, the other should certainly stop imagining the bedroom. Right?

Probably.

But then, I guess, I still let those damn penguins fool me.

"That don't impress me much....!"

"That don't impress me much....!"

So, we're discussing impressions today. What do people make of you? Yesterday, someone I'm dating currently told me that I'm either 'childish' or 'childlike'. I had a lump in my throat then, and wondered to myself whether he was a nutcase or not, but then I relaxed when he smiled and said I was probably the latter.

So that's impression number one for me: childlike.

Then there was the SourApple who called me many moons ago, and told me that I should go easy on the sleeping around and one-night thingy, because (heaven forbid!) I might just go ahead and get myself a reputation!... and that might be tricky, if I planned on getting into a relationship anytime in the future. It was basically the 'loose character' tag that our grandmothers had to protect themselves from, when they were being wooed, courted and generally being married off.

Impression number two for me: slut.

(And of course, there was Bombay Godmother who once affectionately called me slutteshwari. Sigh...!)

When we broke up and all, Natureboy once said that he couldn't handle being in a relationship with me, because I would want to be in the know of his whereabouts, and would want to be the centre of his universe, yadayadayada, and all that jazz.

So, impression number three for me: Narcisisstic prick.

(Of course, everything is quite fine now with Natureboy, and I plan to break an earthen vessel on his head sometime soon because of the comment he made.)

Walk into a party with me, and I'll be dancing merrily to some stupid hiphop tune, then stand sedately with my drink in hand when they play Kuan mein doob jaungi, but then do the John Travolta moves when ABBA squeals Voulez Vouz, and then head bang if they play the scarce U2 number. And of course, nobody ever approaches me at any of these parties. A number of queries to a number of friends have yielded the same result...

Impression number four for me: Wallflower-cum-sex god-cum-Diva.

Hmmmmm....

And what about the sweet little boy inside? The sheep in wolf's clothing in sheep's clothing? What about the great guy with a sense of humour and a sense of ease to match? Mmm.....

I think I like 'childlike' best. ;-)

The Ex Factor

The Ex Factor

So when do you decide that you can be 'friends' again? After going through a phase of wishing away your ex-lover, when do you actually start looking at him like a nice guy again - and it really doesn't matter that he's not got the hots for you at all.... mmmm, excuse me while I lick my lips, before proceeding to jump into a lengthy expplanation.

The trigger for this post is a recent event: I'm meeting Natureboy again. Strictly on a platonic basis, however. I'm talking to him, meeting him for lunch, and even discussing the cute firangs who traipse about South Bombay with him. Of course, my close friends think it's ludicruous. As far as they're concerned, Natureboy is still persona non grata, or at least, should be, around me. I agreed with them... till about a month back.

What happened a month back? I'm not sure - I think, it happened when I decided I want to look for date-material again - and not just the one-night stand variety. I think that signified: if I can look again, I must be over him. And of course, it's a farce to not indulge. We both crack lousy jokes, we're both sluts (I still am, he seems to have turned asexual now, though! heheheh), we both follow porn movies avidly (he never stopped, I've restarted), and we both love fatty food desserts. Hell, there was always chemistry there - I guess it depends on where you take that chemistry to.

But... getting back to the WHEN???? question at hand, I wonder if my answer ("When you're ready to date again") works. I have five exes, including Natureboy. The first was an asshole, and I'm never going to forgive him because of something particularly venomous he did, though I would smile at him if I ever meet him and would probably go to bed with him if he begged me - both of which have happened, since we broke up. (I said I was a slut!)

The second is a ghost in Delhi, whom I smile at, and exchange mouldy jokes with, but would never consider being friends with or even sleeping with again.

The third is a great friend of mine - one of the very few gay friends I have, and though we always make plans to have sex when we meet up next, that never happens - perhaps that's why we're still going strong! ;-)

The fourth is an angel, but I'm not in active touch with him. He called to wish me on my birthday, and I felt glad. We still call each other friends, but there's... distance. Somehow. Very little chemistry in the first place, I think.

And the fourth is Natureboy.

Yes, I never had a point to prove, really. Just wanted to talk about my lovely exes. ;-)

flashpoint:
You can vote against Article 377 online here. Just doing my bit for Gay Rights. Ahem, ahem... ;-)

Independent closet?

Independent closet?

Ok, so this post was written on August 15, and I delayed in getting it out... Also, the words/ phrases in blue below are corrected mentions, after my goof-ups were reported to me. Sorry :-)

I feel like Bill Pullman of Independence Day saying: Today.... is our Independence Day! August 15, and hello to all of you. Get your tricolour jhandaas out, for this is the day that your country achieved independence.

I'm at pains here to find some gay angle here to Indian independence. If this were the didactic kind of a blog, I could talk about the irrelevance of Artiucle 377 that still disallows homosexuality and other 'sexual acts outside the order of nature'. If I go out and proclaim that I'm gay, chances are, I may be put away in jail. Archaic laws remain in use.

That reminds me: there's a rally tomorrow, organised by some leading LGBT groups, including India's most famous gay man, Ashok Kavi, at what is arguably Bombay's second-most famous landmark after the Gateway of India, Flora Fountain, to protest Article 377. According to sources, more than 200 people are expected. Perhaps, the number would have been greater, had they organised the protest march on a weekend, rather than on a Tuesday afternoon. Then again, perhaps, the impact would have been greater, had they organised it today.

Now, that would have made headlines!

Being a gay Indian in the 58th year of Indian independence... hmmm... perhaps that merits a long winded essay or two. A friend of mine is going down for that march at Flora tomorrow, and I asked him why: there might be cameras there, they might take your picture, I cautioned, the typical closet talk. My friend hesitated, then said, "Well, if I see that it's getting very public, I might just hang around at the sidelines, and not join in the actual march, but I want to be there, all the same. If we don't stand up for our rights, who on earth is going to help us get them?"

My frend, by the way, is hardly reknowned for activism. He's just an ordinary gay man in Bombay, from a "decent" family, quite well-off, and prone to partying every other night. I would call him a Page 3 person, were it not for the negative hues associated with the term. And he's going to lend his voice against Article 377.

I'm going to confess something here: I told my friend that I'm not going along with him, because I have a fixed-hours job that I can't circumvent for a rally of any sorts... I'm actually glad I have that excuse. I guess, I'm still not ready to leave my closet. Not even to stand up for my rights.

Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe

Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe

This one is actually going to be about gay blogging, and not just me spewing out crap about my erratic and erotic escapades (though some would say, that's what I do best.). Indian gay blogging, to be precise. I've always wanted to find out some guys in India who blog about their homosexuality, whether openly or from within a closet, and I found a couple of them, the other day.

My favourite is Kris', to which I've added a link on the right hand side. Kris is a gay doctor somewhere in Bombay, who saves lives by day and dreams of men by night. Wow - a hot Baywatch hunk gone gay? hehehe.. I wish! (which doesn't mean that he's not, of course.....!) The reason I like Kris' posts? They're amazingly easy: they're about a life, and the fact that he's gay is not the be-all and end-all. There's no sermonizing about gay people - and that's great. In the last few days, I've come across a couple of gay blogs which are full of activism - and it simply leaves me cold.

And that begs an explanation. The critics would slam me for being a 'bad' gay person: I stay behind the closet, I write trivialties about my gay sex (and otherwise) life, and I try to stay as noncerebral as possible. I love the feeling of being unattached. I love the feeling of being independent. I hate to stand up for (and this demands capital letters) Gay Rights. I'm an awful (awful!) person.

That's one way of looking at it. ;-)

But I love the idea of meeting up people who talk about their gay lives online. It's a thrill, perhaps. Something like being a voyeur. Something also like seeing a mirror reflection. A gay person in another situation, in another city perhaps, talking about.....

Balderdash!

I can't explain it. I just love it. Sheesh! This is the last time I try to be all profound. Will stick to the sensational stuff from now on! Harrrrrummmph!

First Cut

First Cut

I'm in the mood for Irani these days. The other day, a colleague from work and I visited this Irani joint in the back alleys of Fort. Nestled there, close to the Bombay Stock Exchange, frequented by middle aged Patelbhais and fat Parsi ladies with striped skirts, sits this place called Cafe Military, which serves up the most divine kheema with egg. Picture a bowl full of horribly unhealthy oil-laced kheema fry, topped with a poached egg, and we have three rolls of bun-maska (bread-butter, in Mumbaiya Irani lingo) alongside. And, yes, two cups each of the strongest, sweetest tea. Irani ishtyle.

Irani Heaven.

I've always wanted to try food at one of these old-world Irani food joints, and especially after I read that much-hyped book The Boyfriend. While the book itself leaves a lot to be desired, its descriptions of the Irani cafes dotting South Bombay, with their unique marble topped tables, and their bearded servers in shalwar-kurtas tantalised me to no end. So, alright, Military has no shalwar-clad servers, but Cafe Olympia on Colaba Causeway does. In addition to an amazing kheema-omelette, Olympia whips up an utterly divine mango juice.

Irani heaven made sense again to me, later that day, when I bumped into A. He happens to be this particular young man I had indulged in some dirty dancing with ages ago, at one of the GB parties, and exchanged numbers as well. Three months later, after absolutely no correspondence from either side, we bump into each other again at last week's party, and exchange numbers for the second time. Finally, that evening, I get a buzz from Iranian A, and I meet him at a ticket counter at one of Western Railways' hyper-efficient stations. Picture 5'9'' tall, lovely tanned frame, biceps that make me salivate, strips of black hair that curl above the two top buttons of his shirt (which are undone, by the way), and a lovely bubble butt. Mmmm..... so.... we chatted, smiled, and walked back to my place. Shut the door, and let the fireworks begin.

Two hours later, after I closed the door behind him, and plopped down on my bed, I took another glug of the vodka bottle we'd uncapped, and smiled to myself.

Irani heaven!

Medicine isn't bitter, all the time

Medicine isn't bitter, all the time

Ta-da! There's a gay party on tonight, and I'm going! Of course, there have been lots of parties between now and then, though I haven't blogged about them. Most of them were fun, actually. I've been meeting a lot of interesting people. Like, at the last one, I bumped into Cute Doc, whom I haven't seen for ages, and it was wild! Cute Doc and I get along like a house on fire, we go at it hammer and tongs in the clever repartee front, and we're fabulous in bed! He wasn't in town for the last few months, though, so he fell away in limbo... but, the other night was great: we swung like crazy on the dance floor and even did a couple of make-out sessions. I've considered telling Cute Doc that we should date... but... not too sure about that. We're both sluts and we have great fun, but I'm not sure how great it would be like, to be together together!

Anyhow, Cute Doc had his friend from Hyderabad, Cute Punjabi Doc with him, and I rocked with CPD last time.

;-)

Flashback over now.

The party's in less than two hours, and Cute Doc is over at my place. (Yes, he still kisses divinely! hehehe) He's watching some silly music show on Sony with my flatmate, while I'm typing. We're gonna talk about what to wear and we're gonna get in a cab together. Flatmate will get all misty eyed and parenty and tell us to have a great time.

I'm hoping they play Aajaa balliye on the dance floor! tonight.

Closetalk goes to Gay Porn Land

CloseTalk goes to Gay Porn Land

I've been surfing the web, and talking to a lot of old friends. have been staying up late chatting in gay rooms and typically trying to hold on to the 'slut' tag. (Kidding!) But I did come across two very interesting blogs.

Warning: What you're about to see may just tantalise your tastebuds, so make sure you're well within your diet limit.

Also: There may be some nudity involved, so make sure your boss/ parents are far away when you're viweing this.

First on the list is Michael Lucas' blog. Lucas is one of those legendary gay porn stars with a killer smile and killer strokes to match. I have loads of pics of the guy in various states of undress/ copulation in my computer at home, and so it was a pleasant surprise to find out that he actually writes a blog. A well updated one, at that! What does he talk about? Well, obviously, porn (which is his profession!), but also almost everything under the sun. The man gets controversial at times, is opinionated always, but he puts his point across clearly. Hell, it's his blog, and he can do whatever he wants to on it! Love him, hate, love to hate him - whatever! - I think it's a cool place to wander by, if you want something fun and sexy.

Next up, is this other place called the Gay Porn Blog. Yes, it's about the gay porn industry. Everything about it you'd probably ever want to know, and a tad extra. Complete with all the spice and the gossip. Strictly for those into porn and the funnies associated with it. The gals who read this could find it hilarious, but I'm warning you guys that they have a lot of full frontal nudity posted on this place, so be careful to clear your history cache after you've gone to the site, if you're on a shared computer. But, generally, I think you should have fun with this one - the guys write very in a very pacy style, very bitchy sometimes, too. But hell, that's all part of being gay, right?

For the record, I've provided links to both blogs, under the right hand corner of this page.

Slut in my soul

Slut in my soul

A friend of mine is turning slutboy, and I'm wondering whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Being a slut appeals to me; in part, a lot because of the steady diet of porn I've been watching through my formative college years. I've got a very simple logic: like every other sensitive young man out there, I'm looking for the Love Of My Life (tall, dark, handsome, yadayadayada...), but till such time I actually bump into Mr Right, and both of us take the time off to understand and accept each other, I'd be an asexual dolt to refuse the free sex that comes my way. Strangely enough, that eminently principled logic serves to categorise me as 'slut', according to some people I knew.

All very well and good, since I really don't care a fig.

But... a friend of mine is turning slut. A friend of mine has decided that till such time in the unforeseeable future that he finds the Love Of His Life (he can't be tall, dark, handsome too, or else, the two of us would be at loggerheads!), he will go out there and look for the free sex that's always available in the Meat Market of Bombay. By all accounts, he's getting to be a pretty successful slut too - even by my high standards - and that's what sets me thinking. Perhaps, even something as drastic as soul-searching.

I don't want him to be a slut. It's as simple as that. Why? I'm not exactly sure. Something just... stings. I want him to be happy, and I don't think that slutting around is the best way to be happy. I want him to wait this one out, at least for some time, and be a teenyweeny bit patient. But I can't help thinking that I'm being hypocritical here: why on earth what's good for the goose not be equally fine for the gander? What on earth can I say to that? Does that old adage about people knowing how to live their pals' lives well enough, but not their own, hold good here? Will I be able to escape scrutiny with that line of argument?

Knowing my pigheaded friend, it's not bloody likely.

So, that's it then. This is my venting space. My space to sigh and hope that it all turns out good for him, hope that he doesn't take me in the wrong sense, and realize that I only want the very best for him - while he sluts around.

In the meantime, I have competition! ;-)