Getting homely here

Getting homely here

I've spent three days now, without Boy. I cried on day 1. Day 2 was better. Chatted with d/d on Day 1, and Emily on day 2, and both of them were sweethearts. There's a GB party on tonight at Velocity, and a part of me wants to go and dance. Another part of me feels awful that I'm not going to be dancing with Boy for a very long time. Conundrum. And I'm getting whiny again, so maybe it's time to take a break.

I went to this fabulous home last night. Related to work, and I wondered what it would be like, to live together with Boy. I think ahead, I know. It would be a strange experience. I asked him, when he was here, whether he was as messy a home-keeper as my Flatmate, and his reponse? "Well, I could be."

"Fine," I responded, "Then with me, you'll get both a lover and a housekeeper!"

He laughed and lifted me in the air.



Living with someone always seems so much of a strange adjustment to make. Before I met Boy, d/d and I had decided to move in together if we were still alone by the time we were 45 years old. We would have separate bedrooms, of course, and separate drinks in the bar: port wine for me, and white for him. A corner full of arty-farty stuff for him, and a corner full of books for me. The kitchen would be spotlessly clean. There would be a room somewhere, where we could each enjoy one-night stands. All precisely worked out.

Thank God I met Boy! ;-)

In the more immediate term, I've toyed with the idea of moving out, when my current lease expires. Move out on my own. One of the main reasons why I moved in my current apartment with my current Flatmate was that I didn't want to live alone. That came during the break-up with NatureBoy, and I hated the idea of being in a flat all by myself, and obsessing over heartaches and heartbreaks and being alone in general. So, I moved in, and my mum was alarmed at the thought of me living with a girl, poor naive Bengali mum that she is! ;-) But, of late (and this is even before Boy days) I've been itching to get my own place - not just a room of my own, but a bathroom and a kitchen and a second room kept neat and tidy and spic-and-span, the way I like it. My flattie, God bless her, is a very understanding soul, but she's messy as probably no one else can be!

And now, there's Boy. And dreams of living together someday. Anywhere. Either here in Bombay, if he moves back, after his Green Card. Or in Ohio with him, if I finally become a published author, and can quit my crummy Bombay-centric job, so that I can write/earn from anywhere in the world. And I wonder what that will be like.

I mean: what kind of hitch can there be after all?!

The mother-in-law? Mmmm... well, Boy says she's easy to get along with!

Packed for the Long Haul

Packed for the Long Haul

When Boy came back from Dubai last Friday, he came in to my apartment with a gigantic red suitcase and a couple of other smaller bags. On observing my stunned face - he was supposed to be staying over for just two days - he grinned and announced, "I'm moving in!"

He ended up staying over at my place since then, for almost nine of the ten days he's been here on the second shift, and that red suitcase has occupied pride of place in my room. He's moved in, into my life and my room, both. I know that so sorely now, when he's due to leave back for the US tonight.

I will sound mushy now. Terribly so. I will sound maudlin now. Horribly so. Last night, he was supposed to spend the night with his extended family, and so he left around eight o' clock. And I felt awful. Gut wrenching. Dependent. Cast aside. I sent him a message, telling him I didn't know how I would deal with his leaving... and twenty minutes later, my doorbell rang.

At eleven thirty pm, he had packed an overnight bag and rushed over, and I stood at the door, shell-shocked, bewildered, but o-so terribly happy.

(Emily might be crying now, but it's ok, because I was weeping buckets myself...!)

It's passed by so quickly, my time with him. I've fallen in love, within a month. Have I ever allowed myself to be this maudlin this fast? Actually, not. It took me five days to realise that I was hooked, line and sinker, by this tall Gujju who came with this fantastic Parsi imitation, a smile that could put Helen to shame, and a set of red luggage that would make d/d green with envy. He's special, and I know that. It's going to be awful, dealing with his going away tonight... but his coming back last night may have actually helped to make things better. Perhaps, I shall deal with it better now. I'll still mope and whine and moan... but I guess it's all part of the LDR phenomenon. I'm not a big fan of this... I never was... But I fell into love with him with my eyes open.

The song I picked for him was "Can't smile without you", Barry Manilow.

You know I Can't Smile Without You,
I Can't Smile Without You,
I can't laugh and I can't sing,
I'm findin' it hard to do anything.

And then, I decided, someone as beautiful as Boy doesn't deserve to have a song with such depressing lyrics as this... however catchy the tune may be. But then, there's one line there in the song which does ring true...

You came along, just like a song,
And brightened my day...

All my days. ;-)

I could do black magic

I could do black magic

Boy is back. *Big Grin*

Decided we needed to dance, the other night, so we found ourselves at Voodoo's, the one and only, in Colaba. Dressed for the night, of course. Boy looked amazing in a black sleeveless T and red cord pants, and I was drooling. I sound like a dolt at times, talking about him. D/d would say that I sound like a dolt most of the time, but I'm in a good mood, too good a one to respond in kind for.

;-)

The last (and only other) time I went to Voodoo's was with this Friend With Benefits from Calcutta. FWB and I had hit the club, and promptly hit the shots after that. He wasn't the kind to dance on the floor though, so he mostly hung around at the bar with his drink, while I boogeyed my ass. Came back after an hour and told him I had good news and bad news.

FWB: "What's the good news?"

CT, grinning: "Made out with thise completely sexy hottie on the floor, and took his number."

FWB, back slapping and vodka guzzling: "Well done, CT! So what's the bad news?"

CT, looking shamefaced, or as much of it as he could manage after three shots: "Not sure if he's a hooker or not!"

Well, that's always ben the case with me at Voodoo's. Can never be quite sure who's above board and who's under the wallet. Wasn't sure last Saturday either, when Boy and I hit the floor... There was big brawny and blond Muscle Mary, in a black ganji and blue jeans, red-and-white Calvins way higher than the jeans, and I could have sworn that he was a pay-boy, but when his wet hair smacked Boy's arm, and Boy responded with an angry aside about '".. the wretched pros", MM looked quite offended.

Boy likes to dance. He loves to dance. He dances in the back of the cab, when the old Punjabi cabbie puts on deedaar de, deedaar de on the ride. And when he hits a disc, he's the one who pulls me out on the floor, vis-a-vis the other way round, like it used to be with my exes. Boy's hips swivel, his eyes sparkle, and his lips smirk, because he's a fantastic dancer. (And yes, I'm gushing now.) So we danced to a number of silly songs, and quite a few of the good ones as well. Strange thing to say, but I actually prefer Voodoo's music to GB music. And of course, last Saturday, there was much of the same crowd. Recognized Punjabi Muscle Top, dancing with several nubile youing boys... Then, Iranian A was there as well, in a tight full sleeve shirt, concentrating on a tall gangly creature, and I beamed a polite smile at him. Also present was Muscle Ad Guy, with his little coterie of friends, and I shook his hand as well. Butterfly, butterfly....

My wings are clipped, but I'm not complaining.

;-)

Funny point of the evening: This ABCD who's chatted with Boy online ages also turned up in Voodoo's , and was apparently quite smitten. He kept hanging around us, trying to make polite small talk and in general trying to get rid of me. There was even that silly message later in the night about him being alone and drunk at the hotel, and whether Boy could slip away. I want to snip off ABCD's balls.

O, wait, he doesn't have any.

Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!

Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!

Drumrolls accompanied Emily as he stepped into the Tea Centre. And I followed meekly behind. Actually, I played quite the insolent cur, and made the Maharani of Worli wait for an hour before I showed up. And of course, it was quite inevitable that when Closetalk meets up with Emily/Maharani, the two of us would gather over a cuppa tea and shiver in our shawls like two old English grannys.



This was part of the Bonding Exercise, you see. Enough of sleaze, I'd decided, it was time I met up with old chaddi-buddies and hung around, discussed men and hung around, sipped tea and hung around. So, we started off with garlic bread and tea, and since we were both famished (both of us being on killer diets), I ordered a mushroom salad and Emily had soup. He put dollops of butter in the soup, but I pretended not to notice.

Soup and salad over, hungry as ever, the two of us decided to amble over to where the Strand Book sale was being held. For the record, the Strand is quite an institution in Bombay. It opened yesterday, and the sale will last till February 5. You get discounts ranging from 40-80% on the books, so if you're new in the city and want to know where to pick up some great books, hit Churchgate station for the sale. There, that was the advertorial. Emily and I did the rounds, up and down the aisles, looking for new books. Saw this collection of gay short stories that Emily trashed, so i put it down again. He picked up a completely hilarious book for a mutual gay friend, and then we started reading unabashedly from the 'adult' section. Excerpts from the story of a guy who goes to a gay gogo bar for the first time. A Parsi aunty passing by glares at us, and Emily hoots in laughter.

I end up buying Dhanvi's Last Song of Dusk, because that's been highly recommended by both d/d and Emily. Then, another book about two gay men that Emily sobbed over. And finally, Bapsi Sidhwa's The Crow Eaters. True, Boy's no Parsi, but he does a Parsi Gujarai imitation that always gets me in splits!

Of course, I had to end this post with something about Boy! He's coming back to Bombay tonight, and I shall do cartwheels now.

;-)

How gay is my life?!

How gay is my life?!

Came home the other night from work, and switched on the radio. GO92.5 FM, the best-est radio station in India, was playing some really nice songs. The Nightshift with Glenn... and nothing remotely seedy about it, though it sounds decidedly so. Tossed my shoes, hung up clothes, changed, glugged some Pepsi from Flatmate, and begged her to let me use her laptop. She agreed, cuz she was on the phone with mum and dad. So I sat. And I blog-surfed. And did some more of that.

And that's when I ended up typing 'gay blog' in the search option of Blogger. Then in Gmail. Then in other search engines, all the while listening to Karma Chameleon on the computer. By this time, Flatmate had finished her phone call and wanted her paws back on the laptop, and fumed when I told her it would take some time. Many more rants later, and glares at the contents onscreen, she huffed and puffed and said that I was completely hopeless and was obsessed with all things gay these days: my life was completely dominated by the gay part of me now!

Shocking news.



Because, maybe it's true.

Do gay men tend to ignore most other facets of their lives, in favour of harping on that one little homosexual difference between them and society at large? I hate to sound like a Harvard prof gone survey-collecting in Mumbai, but I broached the conversation later with d/d and a couple of other pals. D/d replied in the affirmative, and said, it's important for us, and straight people just don't get that, however well-intended they may be. It's a kind of charm then - a fairy charm (if you will) which you simply can't see.

Of course, it's about much more than just looking for a new gay blog... Hell, there's the whole phenomenon about gay bonding-shonding that's there. Somehow, a fag and his hag are great, but the fag needs a couple of other fags around him, to complete the full look. However pathetic that sounds, it's actually very true. All this demands a post dedicated wholly to Gay Bonding, but that comes later. Knowing my penchant for procrastination,... much, much later...

So maybe it's a kind of search. Even though you know you're not the only gay guy in the city/world/universe, and probably not even in your building complex, you still want to search out and see whether there are other gay guys like you that write blogs like you. I remember a post from Jalaj, where he listed some gay bloggers he liked. There was Famous Gay Journo who called me the other day, doing an article on gay Indian blogs, who asked me whether I'd come across many others of the sort. And I remember hunting the net myself, looking for new guys, Indian or otherwise, who're gay and who blog. Affirmation? Or just plain insecurity? Or maybe, it's to prove a point that gay men write best!

;-)

Chilli Special

Chilli Special

Sunday, if old songs from the 60s are to be believed, is supposed to be a day of rest. Not true at all, last Sunday for me. Hurried and harried socialising, really, truly, madly, as I dashed off from d/d's house in the armpit of Andheri, after spending the night there, to the apartment of a lovely little lady.

Well, not really very little, but her room mate's boyfriend is quite yummy, and so I'm inclined to be kind to the Insane Bitch. All on account of the cute roomie's boyfriend who comes out of the room sleepy eyed and tousle-haired.

(Viji, stop laughing. Yes, I'm joking. I hate straight men, and everyone knows that.)

I'm not sure what I had in mind, about meeting Vijayeta before meeting Vijayeta. I expected a dynamo That Woman who would regale me with stories of asshole exes and show me her closet full of sharp black stillettoes. I thought I would fade away in the background of a plethora of rich and whacky gay men, and since I'm neither rich nor very whacky, I must admit that I was a bit apprehensive about meeting Viji.

Of course, Insane Bitch will probably hate me for stripping apart her online armour, but Viji's one of the sanest people I know. She does have an insane hankering after shoes, the expensive ones, but she also wears the tackiest rubber chappals at home. We chatted about saddi dilli, and how we both love it, and though that may not exactly sound very endearing to this audience which is decidedly Bombay-biased, we had a really great time yakking. Bitching. Moaning (about servants, mind you!). And Mooning over good looking men on the telly. Quite a normal fag-meets-hag kind of a situation. I'm so thrilled she's not the Rich Bitch With Attitude kind of a person. Whew!

And then there was lunch with family. Very nice, atop Shoppers Stop in Bandra, ginger honey chicken for starters, fried rice and devilled pork for main course. Time for hair cut, so right now, I really DO have that buzzed cut that the famous pic in black shorts boasts of!



Time to meet Wicked Witch of the West (Bandra). WWW is Nature Boy's original fag hag - sorry, da-ling, I forgot how you hate that word - and I treated her reverentially as The In-law at one point of time. Of course, with age, the old witch has thawed her cold tits, and the two of us went to St Peter's for a bout of six o'clock evening mass. That dispensed with, it was time to meet Pansy Straight Boy at JATC's. WWW painstakingly sharpened her claws for the meeting.

For the record, PSB is a friend of a friend, whom I'd met in saddi dilli when I was living there. He's moved to Bombay now, and we decided to meet up. It was his bad luck that WWW came along with me. The more charitable ones would say that PSB is pansy because he was born in a year of the Goat, according to the Chinese calendar, and such people are expected to be effeminate. WWW, of course, is not very charitable, so she couldn't resist trying to prove every few minutes to PSB that he was a confused twenty-seven year old who wanted to screw the cute waiter serving us. Poor PSB stammered, stuttered, tried to flirt, was quite unsure of where he stood, and stammered again. It was quite hilarious, of course, watching from the sidelines, but then I decided to step in, because after all, I had called him myself, na?

CT: "Don't mind her, she's a witch!"

WWW, pouting: "Yes, I am."

PSB, grinning but not feeling the grin: "Hahaha, you guys are a riot! You're so funny!"

WWW, silkily: "Not half as funny as you are, da-ling!"

CT: "Hush!"

WWW: "So, what do you think of that boy there?"

PSB, flustered: "Huh? Wha-?"

WWW: "I think he's looking at the two of you."

CT, diverted now: "O, he's cute! Green shirt, long nose, but cute."

WWW, cattily: "You have a boyfriend now."

CT sighs but agrees to behave.

PSB: "I don't think he's gay, though. I have a very good gaydar."

WWW slits her eyes and purrs: "I have an excellent gaydar too, da-ling, and I know you're squirming to get in his pants right now!"

PSB stutters and sips his Coke.

Well, I did order Devilled Pork at lunch.

Black cats and superstitions...

Black cats and superstitions...

Friday the Thirteenth happened to me today. So,

1. I was stuck in a meeting for four hours at Cuffe Parade, but couldn't get to meet the person I wanted to. (Strictly work related, you understand.)

2. I dashed away from the four-hour long wait without lunch to wait again for another hoity-toity floozie, and had to wade through a maniac mob in order to get him to say the things I wanted to hear. (Again, strictly work-related, you see.)

3. Missed Boy's phone calls twice, while I was waiting/dashing, so I felt guilty about that, since the poor dear is taking time away from his soddy relatives in Dubai to call me every day.

4. Finally, after getting my floozies to open their mouths (no puns intended, really!) I had lunch. Which basically means, my diet resolution flew to the winds. German strudles with dollops of fresh whipped cream. Boy will murder me if I compare it to sex, so I won't.

5. Came back to the office with a murderous headache.

6. Realized there was an emergency event in the evening, so I couldn't go back home by six as I had planned.

Buuuuuuuuuuuutttttttt....

There's an angel watching over me up there (or in Dubai!) after all, cuz,

1. My handling of the emergency evening event went off very well.

2. Boy finally got through to me on the third try, and we exchanged the usual mushy stuff. (Excuse me while I giggle in appropriate coquetish terms now.)

3. Staying back at work meant that I went though all the blogs in my chain at the left, something which I haven't been able to do in a very long time!

4. And yes, I found this simply delectable pic of Ricky Martin on the net.



Shush, and don't breathe a word of this to Boy!

Pink trings

Pink trings

Telephone conversations with that purple panther of the gay blogger world, d/d, is quite entertaining. But then, anyone with half a brain who reads The Closet knows that. (Anyone with less than half a brain is easily amused by my prattle, so all of you're welcome, too.) What do we talk about? Everything, really. He insists that he wants to slap me hard when we meet next at Toto's or wherever, because of the way I carry on and on about Boy. He's already bracing himself for the solid wall of whining headed his way when Boy finally leaves for the US of A.

And of course, there are the memorable quotes: "Straight men are also normal, you know", "Of course I must have a merc, a platinum ring, and a boat by the time I'm 30! Only essentials, da-ling!", etc etc etc. All very entertaining.



Phal, on the other hand, is mad on the phone. Fiendish cackles, outrageous ideas to do things to people. Clever schemes to make them cry for mama, and many more fiendish cackles on the way. She's on a perpetual high. Not too many quotable quotes here - I'm usually left in a daze after she's done.

The other day, I received calls from two other pink pals, people who I thought had quite forgotten me. One was Emily (fondly known as Worli ka Maharani) and the Penguin. Both had heard about the Boy, and they called to learn details and make general coochie-coo noises. Sweethearts, both of them.

There was also Nature Boy who called, and we chatted for quite some time. We talked about Boy, and how he can't recall him at all, from the time I introduced them at the GB party on 31st, and then we moved on to other topics. Food, killing work skeds, mutual friends, haircuts and shopping agendas, coffee as well. Promises were made to meet up - soon - and pleasantries exchanged.

So that made me decide on a resolution: I need more close gay friends. Not just d/d, who is and forever will be, Special. I need more sounding boards to whine about Boy to. I need more 'girls' to have fun with. Somehow, along the way, what with work and carnal drives, I lost touch with these guys. Lost touch with the phenomenon called Gay Bonding. And that's sad. It's sad, if Gay Bonding is relegated only to once-in-a-fortnight parties at d/d or Gupshup's place or GB. How ironic: when Older Ex In Delhi broke up with me, I sniffled and told him that it would be very hard for him to find love because he always clung to the apron strings of his gay pals - and here I am, looking for pals to get gay with. But then, I'm a different person now, than I was in Delhi. And if, more cynical, also more optimistic. Strange combination.

So, as a first step towards my resolution, I'm asking Veed out for that cup of coffee. Veed, you have been formally/informally invited. Just give me the date and time.

CAVEAT: Boy comes back to town on the 20th, so after that I'm probably going to be mooning about him all over again.

So can you hear the bell around my neck?

So can you hear the bell around my neck?

Was chatting with Sam the other day online, and after about five minutes, he huffed and puffed and told me that now that I was part of a Couple (capital letters), I was no fun any more. Damn, I swore, really? It seems that Singletons are much more fun. Especially when you're online and talking to brawny beefcakes like Sam, who lives in Sydney Down Under. He said, it was very sad that he couldn't flirt with me any more, and when I responded with a surprised why? he said that flirting with me just wasn't enough fun any more.

Yikes!

It's like I'm now officially Owned Cattle.



Now while that may give me a warm glow whenever I recall Boy and me on Kashid beach over the weekend, it also amuses the hell out of me. I mean, there I was in a stage about three weeks back, where the Coupletons always seemed to have the very best of things, revered by all the lowly Singletons, and suddenly, you realize that at least as far as online chatting is concerned, the Coupleton is akin to a pariah.

It reminds me of that memorable line which my flatmate says whenever she meets a good looking gay person - and with me around, she meets lots of those - "What a colossal waste!" In Singleton terms, I suppose a Coupleton could be termed that: a complete loss of assets that could otherwise have been theirs. (Of course, this is also a fantastic way of looking at things to massage your own ego.)

Nevertheless, on this particular online conversation with Sydney Sam, I laughed and tried to flirt with him as much as possible in a naughty kind of vein, but he was not very satisfied. Especially not when I told him that even though I was 'hitched', we could still carry on with 'harmless' flirting. "And what the hell is harmful flirting then?" he growled back, and I honestly didn't have an answer to that. So I gave him an online smile and a great big hug (online again), and exited the conversation.

***

On an unrelated stream, Boy and I spent the weekend at Kashid. We had a glorious time together, and I'm going to cherish those memories forever. He's left for his Dubai trip now, though, and I can't wait till he gets back to Bombay next week. I'm praying hard that I get swamped at work now, so that it takes my mind off him for some time at least, but look at me now - smile on my face as I type this out, remembering him and the moonlight strolls on the beach and the grilled prawns on the hotel patio.

Mush. I apologise.

Sleazy Me

Sleazy Me

So the gang came back from Goa, and they heard the news about Boy. In fact, some of them are having dinner with Boy and myself tonight. Prithvi at Juhu. If you're there and you see a table with raucous laughter and lotsa good looking young men, come over and say hi to the closet king and his new love.

I did say KING there, you notice.

;-)

Of course, D/d will be there as well, and he promises to give me the lowdown on my new love. He heard me go all mooney-eyed and -voiced on the phone the other day, and said that regulars to the closet might not take too kindly to the shift in gears here.

D/d - chomping on pasta at the other end: "You know, your readers might not like this change in your tone all too much."

CT, dreamy: "Huh, what?"

D/d, smacking lips: "Yea, I mean, everyone comes to your place for sleaze, you know. That Jalaj chap and all."

CT, perplexed: "Really? They come to me for the sleaze?"

D/d: "U-huh."

CT, whining now: "But that's awful! I'm about more than just sleaze. I'm about love and gay issues and boys hurting and love blooming and so many other noble things in life..."

D/d, filing nails: "I'm filing nails now."

CT stops, screwing up lips. Then: "Of course, sleaze is good, too."

D/d, blowing on nails: "Sleaze is the best."

CT, thinking hard: "Jalaj did say somewhere in a comment that he would stop coming to my blog if he sees me get all cerebral."

D/d: "There you go. Is this Jalaj chap cute? I like boys who don't want cerebral things."

CT: "I don't know whether you'd think him cute, but he's not rich, I think. You only want rich guys, anyway."

D/d, putting away file: "Rich boys are convenient, yes."

CT: "I think it's all a show you put on. A little show to pretend you're all shallow, you're really looking for loooooooove. Like me and Boy. In love. I think so, I really do. So, if you just close your eyes and think about falling in love..."

D/d, abruptly: "I'm never going to read your blog again, if you carry on in this vein."

Stone cold silence.

;-)

For the record, I'm NOT going to stop gushing about Boy... not till he breaks my heart at least (hope that never happens!) and even in that eventuality, you know I'm going to blog about him in a scathing terms. So, yes, I suppose I shall be talking about Boy for some time.

And also for the record, D/d has decided not to comment on my blog again, because he feels people don't take too kindly to his naturally bitchy comments. I hate that. So everyone please join in my plea in making D/d comment again.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year

Wise men say, Only fools rush things
But I can't help falling in Love
With You...

And I always thought this was one of Elvis' mushiest songs. Look at me now: I'm about to embark on something I've traditionally scorned. Your typical Long Distance Relationship, complete with capital letters. To get you up to date:

Last week, I met someone quite by chance. I've got a million names for him right now, ranging from Glitter Boy and Big Nose to Mushy Snot Pot and Fang. It's come to that now: silly nicknames. We met, we met again, and by the second date, it was quite clear to both of us that things were poised to look really great. I think I'm falling in love. It's as simple as that.

And as complicated as that, too.

Because I have to face the fact that come next Tuesday, my boy will not be in Bombay. He'll be somewhere in Dubai. He'll be back again, at the end of January but only for a few days, and then he's gone once more. After that... there's a gap of six months. At least. And I will then moan to my friends about how I miss my boy. Damn.

I always tell people that LDRs don't work. I tell them, that's the surefire route to heartache. If for no other reason, then than that old excuse: libido. I told my Boy the other day, it was silly to expect me to be celibate for the six months he would not be there, and he ruffled my hair in response. He hopes I won't fall in love with someone else, though he says he understands my point of view. I hate acting like the slut that swallowed Bombay, but it's best to get things cleared up, right from the beginning. And I've always hated LDRs because I've found it as a silly excuse to have wanton sex while you're in a so-called relationship. Yikes. I should've bit my tongue at least a thousand times while I told all those people all those things. I feel like biting my own tongue now. Because, honestly speaking, I'm terrified. I'm terrified that what I'm getting into with Boy will leave me shaken and horribly stirred when he leaves and I'm left alone in Bombay again.

...

But does it sound maudlin to say that it seems just so... right? To say that when he smiles at me, I feel so frikkin' happy? To say that I want to dance with him all night long, not just those sexy salsas and those romantic clasps, but also the silly stuff, where we're both experimenting and not really sure of what we're doing? To say that we laugh like clowns at our stupid (and some good) jokes? To say that I smile to myself in the mirror, when I see the hickeys on my neck and shoulders? To say that I believe him when he says he'll be back for me? To say that I believe him when he says that all we need is some patience and focus to make this work, against all the odds? He makes it seem so easy... and though I know it's not going to be quite that way, does it make sense to say that his confidence is enough to bolster my own?

I've asked myself so many times if we're rushing into this too soon. There's the experience with so many earlier exes telling me that I may be setting myself up for disaster again... and there's the little hope that maybe I'm not.

I love his smile. I love the way his eyes crackle with repressed mischief. I love his big nose, which I like to touch in a baby's grip. I love his elfin ears, almost devoid of earlobes. I love the contrast his six foot frame poses to my five foot six-or-seven. I love the way he cackles in glee. I love his cross between a cough and a burp. I love his generosity and kindness. I love the way he winks at me across the dinner table. I love the way he holds me in his arms, and turns me towards the mirror, so that I can see us both in it, and when he whispers in my ears: See how great we look together?!

And so I have my fingers crossed.

Cleaning out the Chimney

Cleaning out the Chimney

Ahem, ahem. End of the year, and most people have resolutions. I decided to clear up my phone book. Yes, again. Somehow, each time after i do it, it gets cluttered again. So here, I decided to show you my list of the ones jettissoned.

I'm sorry, it's a kinda long list.

1. Andheri CA. We chatted on cyberspace, eons ago. Decided to meet up for coffee and a hook-up... sometime. Sometime never came. Spoke on the phone, tried to meet up, but never managed. Flush.

2. Ally Churchgate. Older man. From the period in my life when I was in a "I hate myself and I'm only fit to be used for sexual joy of others". Surprisingly, he turned out to be a nice old guy. But I'm back to liking myself now.

3. Anil Muscles. Oldish again. Chatted online and then on the phone. Only a couple of times. He lives far, far away, and I hate travelling to the suburbs.

4. Raj. Wild goosechase person. Supposedly, a flight attendant. With a name that can be found in any old Yashraj movie. Coordinated endlessly to meet, but always ditched in the end. So I got exasperated and decided to call it a day. Good riddance.

5. D/d's Ex. I liked him as a person. Till the shoddy way he treated d/d. Asta la vista, bab-eh!

6. Dilliwalla Traveller. Suppoedly a GK-II breed. Came down to Bambai for a dip. called on the phone and said he'd call back later, as he was getting another call on the line. Never did. Ho-hum.

7. Juhu Artist. Has to be said: was very interesting on chat. Bustling schedules, though, make it hard to meet. Plus, the Faraway Suburb Factor. Ta-ta.

8. Punewalla Visitor. Chatted with him both online and on the phone ages back. Another Andheri resident, so meeting never happened. Saw him recently at a party, and discovered he's in a relationship. Good for him.

9. Bandra Stylist. Freaky conversations about eating spiders and drinking blood. Date at Brijwasi, Bandra. Nice person, but scary. Saw him later in the newspaper. No regrets at all.

10. Call Centre Boy. lol. They're a breed apart. But this one was nice. Sweet, actually. Couldn't talk much English, but sweet nonetheless. But I'm not in that space anymore. I wish him all the very best.

Bored already?

11. Doc Matunga. has a boyfriend. Screws on the side. That's what you call an 'open relationship' in amchi Mumbai. Convenient. One night stand.

12. Doc Andheri. Sweet. Has old fashioned notions about emotional involvement in a one night stand. Ridiculous.

13. First Party Boy. Went back home with him, after my first GB party in town. Had an 'out-of-town reference' for him, from Delhi Ex No 2. was quite sad, though, when, after a night and morning of mindblowing sex, he never called me back. saved his number all this time for sentimental reasons. Mental reasons.

14. Byculla Boy. Mozzie. What they call 'pure top' in gay lingo. Awful. One afternoon stand. and good riddance.

15. Intrepid Reporter. Well, he tracks Bollywood sitaarein on a regular basis. used to come for yoga classes at a joint near where I live, and we made countless appointments to meet, but the story's the same. Not meant to be.

16. Dadar Parsi. Nice chap. Student. My Ex hit on him once, last Christmas, but when I met him later in person, I wasn't attracted to him at all. And besides, I can't stand younger guys. Not even for one-nighters, apparently.

17. K. Have no idea who he is.

18. Telephone Boy. Because he works for a telephone operator service. Met him in the course of a menage a troi some months back, and the boy professed clinging adoration for me. Freaked me out, and I ran. Fast.

19. Mac. Suburb too far away to travel to. And, anyway, once I met him in person at a GB party, I decided it wasn't worth the effort. Meaow.

20. Rahul. Together with Raj, the other favourite false name in gay circles. He works in TV, he said, and was quite charming on chat. Spoke on the telephone as well, but only once. The charm disappeared when I learnt that I had to travel to Powai to meet him.

21. Punjabi Munda. Decidedly hot. Decidedly young and immature. Would love to have a one night stand, but when he spoke continually about Squeeze and Bed and threesomes and foursomes, I decided I feel very old at 24. Think I posted about this, earlier.

22. Finance Consultant. When I heard his profession, I licked my lips in anticipation. Plus, he worked not too far away from me. However, like so many others, he seemed elusive to actually meet in person, since he kept on cancelling dates. When he suddenly asked me out on the weekend without ever meeting me, I decided it was a sad state of affairs, and called it quits.

23. Shrek. The ex of an acquaintance. Well, I met him online before the acquaintance did, but they started dating, so I pulled away. Met him ages afterwards, and he came over for his one-night stand with videos, toys and condoms. Nice night.

24. Liar. Because I met him online twice, on separate occassions, under two separate names. And he lied again, saying it wasn't him. Because he pissed me off by being rude on the phone and I decided, no screw is worth all this trouble. So the phone got slammed down on him.

Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy..!

'Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy..!'

Lovely Christmas with family, though I did disappoint friends by not hanging out with them. But now that Santa's over and done with, there's more apprehension in store. New Year's is fast coming up, and I have absolutely nowhere to go.

So it's time to make a sad face, I suppose.



Last year, of course, was GB. Horrible little Chaat-Masala, beside the Bombay Stock Exchange, and there was Ex and I, jostling for space. I had a Santa cap on my head, and was glad when I heard a couple of appreciative comments from strangers in the queue, while waiting to go in. That's the leonine ego for you. The disc was crowded to beyond capacity, and the Ex and I had a horrid time trying to dance in the crush of bodies. But it was also strangely exhilarating. How can I explain, that's a part of the GB charm for me - crowded, yes, but you're still so free to do your own thing, to dance with the man you want. I have a silly grin on my face right now, as I remember that night.

But that's over now, of course, and the Ex is gone. Last Christmas, the Ex bought me a bottle of expensive cologne (of which I still have some left, by the way), and he showed me the display window at Damian's furniture store near Bandstand. That's a legendary window, he told me, as we held hands together. And now he's gone. I hate being alone, but I don't regret leaving him. We couldn't have been able to work, I think.

End of flashback.

My best friend d/d is not going to be in town. He'll be in Goa, with the rest of the gang, and I'm not going because (a) I won't get so many days' leave from work, and (b) I can't afford it. So here I am in Bombay, stuck with no boyfriend and no best friend. Scratch out that 'no best friend' part. There's Chimneypot, but she has work on 31st night, though she said she'll meet me around 1 am on the 1st. What's the alternative? Hanging out with family? Going to GB alone?

Boy from Hyderabad will be in town, though, and maybe I can go to GB with him. How strange that would be, though. I've never met Hyd Boy in person: only chatted with him online and on the phone... and New Year's Eve seems so... big. Graphics Designer is still stuck on his crush. The Gujju Expat I've been kind of flirting with for the last two weeks will be in Ahmedabad with the rest of his Gujju folk. True, Natureboy will probably be at GB, but he knows that I hate the other guys he hangs around with, so it's a problem.

Closetalk has a major problem on his hands, and may well turn out to be the wall-flower on 31st night.

Yikes.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

This is the official Christmas post, so of course it has to be naughty. And, it has to be pic heavy, since it's a gay man writing about what he lusts after at Christmas. So I scoured the net, looking for some pictures that were interesting, peculiar and just plain HOT. To start off with, wishing all the gay men and women in Bombay, and I do use 'gay' in its wider meaning, a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!



I guess it's the time of year when we also feel a bit more insecure. Happy time of the year, true, but it's also the time when you want to be holding hands with that someone special, gazing up at falling snowflakes, and yadayadayada. Which brings me to the next pic - a laugh riot, if you're feeling naughty like me...



Onto the fun factor. Imagine cute old man. Imagine presents. Imagine red cap. Imagine HOHOHO! Now imagine all of them in bed. Funny? Depressing, actually. ;-)



Which finally brings us back to the sin factor. Naughty or nice? The verdict is, undoubtedly, naughty. The naughtier the better. For me and you, both.

Coffee in the closet

Coffee in the closet

Good morning, and I'm still sleepy. I haven't had my morning cup of coffee yet (plain white, not mochacinno anymore, as I must look good in the bathing suit in Goa for New Years!) so I tend to be a bit drab. Happens to the best of us. Well, maybe not to peacocks and d/ds, but I did say, the best of us...

;-) I'm still bitchy though.

Anyhow, so since I'm drab and blah right now, I'm merely going to pick on odds and ends that I got from converations I've had, dreams I've dreamt and journeys I've taken, since I last posted.

***

Phone conversation the other day with d/d, and he said it was a fickle sign of gay life that every 1 year of a relationship here was actually worth 5 years of heterosexual coupling. That explains why, when we come across couples who have been together all of two years, we gasp and giggle and pass envious looks, and that's why when they break up in the third year, we shrug and decide it was in the coming, any way.

Yes, of course, d/d and I have lost in love repeatedly, and that explains our sour grapes.

***

How strange it is to work with gay men in the office. You know that he knows that you know he's gay, and he knows that you know that he knows you're gay, but you're never going to say a word about it ever. There's one guy in my office I slept with ages ago, when I first hit Bombay, before I joined my current job, and I see him everyday. We do our best to keep out of each other's way, but when we do bump into each other, we do the Polite Smile Getaway trick. Then there's the other gay man in my office, who smiles at me with saccharine sweetness and an extra zing to his hiiii when he passes me in the hall, and gives me the once-over with his eyes. Older guy, sweet I suppose, but not my type - cute but unattractive.

***

And of course, there's the funny bit in being gay at the office, per se, but pretending not to be. So when they see you at some party dancing closely with a girl, you have to hear silly jokes and see stupid smiles when you get back to work the next day. And you have to smile and nod, and be careful not to utter a word because you don't want to give the game away, but you're grateful for some sort of extra closet-space anyway.

Welcome to the closet.

Wedding bells

Wedding bells

The other day, I went to a wedding with my Chimneypot (nee Nutcracker) and we even did the Wedding March. It was great fun, as we'd tanked up on ruby red sparkling wine before that, and the sumptuous high was aided by the simply delicious caramel chocolates that had been placed beside each guest's plate. And yes, I truly adore Christian weddings now...!

But Chimneypot was a bridesmaid, and so she was always going away now and then to ghus-phus with the other bridesmaids. After trip No. 3 or 4, she says very shamefacedly, "They all think you're my boyfriend. They keep asking me if you are."

CT, bored, as this has happened countless times before: "Yawn, yawn. Yes, and the maid of honour has got such a SEXY boyfriend."

Chimneypot, whining now: "But they think you're my boyfriend...!"

CT, intrigued now: "So let's pretend...! Let's play that game."

Chimneypot, interested a bit: "Should we?"

CT: "Of course we must. Now join me in bitching about that ugly mug of a maid in honour."

Chimneypot, giggling over her fourth glass of wine: "She walks on those frikkin' heels as if she were an ostrich!"

CT, giggling now too: "She certainly has the legs of one!"

Chimneypot: "And that fat arse of hers could fit a football yard in. No wonder she got all the boys in London, when *Blushing Bride* didn't!"

CT: "I'm in love with her boyfriend. Can I kill her?"

When we proceeded to join the Wedding March, you could see my office mates' eyes pop, and even Blushing Bride was suitably surprised, though she knows I'm gay. We ate our dinner together, standing in a corner, and yapping. I went out of the hall with Chimneypot when she wanted to smoke, and when we came back, Ugly Maid of Honour was peering intently at her dress for signs of upheaval. When the DJ started playing Rouge later at night, Chimneypot and I did the dirty dance, forgetting that we had some middle class Aunties staring at us.... and I'm not just talking about Ugly Maid of Honour here.

;-)

Strange. I guess heteros will never understand that *thing* which gay men and fag hags have. We're special for each other, to each other. I'm not sure I get the whole picture myself.

Picture this

Picture this

There's been so much furore/squibbling/speculation about the famous pic and the famous boxer shots, that I thought I'd make it the subject of a post. Phal calls it the "scandalous pic", Guppie says I look like a slut in it, and d/d frankly calls me "nanga" when he comes online and sees me there.

;-)

Terrible, actually, but the fact of the matter is that I just don't have a decent picture online to seduce the other hopefuls.

I have five pictures online. The first picture is a closeup of my face some eons back in the college canteen, where I flash my pearly whites. Killer smile, but the online connoisseurs say, it makes me look chubby. Aaa, it's a throwback to my college days when I weighed in a at a hefty 77 kg, so I suppose the connoisseurs are justified in that take.

Then, there's the picture from last Christmas, when I visited the Sunderbans with family. This one shows me straddling (love that word!) a boat, and smiling gleefully, hair windblown and all. But of course, this was winter, so I was wearing a chunky woollen turtleneck, so even though I was a very svelte 62 kgs by the time this pic was taken, I look well... hefty again. Damn.

If you thought I was going to be third time lucky, you're sadly mistaken. This one has me on Marve beach about three years back, so it's a facial close-up of The Podge once again, albeit with gleaming Pepsodent smile. To make matters worse, it was raining that day on Marve, so I'm wearing my hooded jacket and smiling, looking like Darth Vader who's slipped off the diet wagon. Not very seductive, you understand.

Onto number four. Hyderabad. This is studious me. Thin, yes. Not a close-up, yes. Great view of the Charminar framed behind me. But... sigh. I'd gone to Hyderabad that time with friends for a job interview, and the pic was taken after the interview, so there you have me looking quite undernourished, completely shabby spectacles, shirt looking quite worn, your neighbourhood courier guy. Compare and contrast with the pictures other cute men have online, all polished and studio shots or sexy sleevless tees, and I lag hopelessly behind in the attractive segment.

Which finally leads me to the "nanga" pic. By this time, I'd had enough. So, I roped in a helpful friend who's moved out of Bombay since then, and went over to his place to make use of his digicam. What followed was an hour long session of posing in black cord shorts, underwear, sheets and even curtains. We experimented with lighting, played with composition and tripped on style. When we examined the pictures later, it was a laugh riot. I hit my friend on the head and told him he was completely hopeless, and he agreed. The only bit of salvageable material was the (in)famous "nanga" pic.

Actually, when you come to think of it, there's nothing much too scandalous about it - especially when you check out all the pictures other hot men have. It has me in this funny inverse pose on a staircase, wearing the black cord shots, and yes, nothing else. I'm smling beatifically at the camera, but let me assue you, it was bloody torture holding that silly pose for the full five minutes my pal was taking with the snap, and I was cursing him silly under that smile. I labelled the pic on gay.com, Chocolate?, and yes, I've had a lot of associated corny comments thrown my way, by prospective mates when they see it.

But here's the rub: I may not look hefty in that pic, and I may even be exposing some saleable skin there, but... my hair's not like that anymore. At that time, I'd decided to experiment, and shaved my hair down to a buzz cut. Punk from Gay Bombay? ;-) And so, now, whenever I get those corny comments about chocolate, I have to hurry and add, that my hair is quite 'normal' now, and not like in the pic - at which point, they look confusedly at the other pictures and shake their head perplexed.

Losing battle, but o, I do plan to get buzzed soon.

Typ(o)s

Typ(o)s

So like I've explained before, the top three questions in any gay chat online are:

1. A/S/L?
2. Have place?
3. What are you looking for?

There's also a fourth here, actually, which springs into use when you don't have a picture of the other person to check out: What's your type? And this is where that great big phenomenon called the Gay Sort comes in.

In case you had no idea before, gay men can be divided neatly and without much of a whimper, into 'sorts'. As the gay interior designer/ decorator explains, he looks at the entire exercise as a folder, with its own little partitions, A-Z, which have little leaflets bearing the biodata of several personable and not-so-personable young and old men. So when he feels like he's in the mood, he flips the folder over to type 'A' and dials a man. Simple and sweet.



What are the types, then? Well, the porn sites online delineate gay men according to body type. So, we have a) the bears, big and swarthy, with oodles of body hair, b) the twinks, fresh and bratty and below 19 years of age, c) the hunks, who're between 20 and 35 years old, call the gym their second home, and don't have too much body hair, d) the matures, who're the oldies above 40 years, and so on and so forth. There are also several subcategories here, for example, the bearcubs, who're not so hairy and not chubby at all and quite young, and the cute guys, who're in the same age group as the hunks, though they may not have the rugged muscles, and they make up for that lack with a certain twinkle in their eyes or their smiles. For the thinking man alone, beware.

;-)

And then, there are the other types, that personable young gay men like d/d and I decide upon, over a glass of chilled white wine and a story about an ex. There's the penguin, who's the very nice young guy but who fcuks your love life completely because he's not in the same emotional space that you are, and it's so much more fun to blame the other guy than it is to blame yourself. There's also the cute, but unattractive tag that fits some guys - the classic guy who's perfect for a relationship, has excellent taste, but you're simply not sexually attracted to him. There's the underage kid, who's really not that underage at 21-22, but then you hate the idea of being in a relationship with someone who's always going to be the 'younger one' and for whom you'll have to be the 'mature guy', so that there's no hope in hell that there'll be anyone to handle your tantrums when they come. There's the other twenty-one year old skanks, whom you despise, because they get all the attention at every damn gay gathering, just because they're twenty-one and you're twenty-four, though they're more or less on the same cuteness scale as you.

And a million others.

So that, when you get asked that question, What's your type?, you have a vast array of answers to choose from. And yet, I wonder if it's ever possible to choose. I never can, actually.

Take me for instance. I would probably fit the bill as the cute guy between 20 and 30 years old, who can also be a sort of bear cub. But what's my type? Tough question. The guys I've dated have been all sorts, really. Bearcub, muscle-hunk, penguin, cute but unattractive, underage kid, yadayadayada. So, very often, the Great Folder Theory just comes a cropper.

But the importance of classification is very often not for rigid swearing-by. That's never the case, even in science, the motherlode of classification theory. You need the theory as a sort of yardstick, and sometimes, for nothing but to measure how you've changed. Types are not meant to remain as the be-all and the end-all, as in I slept with a bearcub when I was eighteen, so that means I'm always attracted to bears, but rather to see how you make that progression from a bear to a penguin.

In case I forgot to say so earlier, Welcome to the Zoo.

Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio

Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio

I went on a date this evening. An utterly unexpected date, for which I had to be cajoled to go. I made the person I was going to meet think that I was this completely horrible person who judges people solely on the basis of their online picture profiles... which is not completely untrue, but then...!

And I actually had a great time. The person in question, whom I shall call GA because of his black Giorgio Armani tshirt, was funny, intelligent and quite attractive. We had the most mundane date ever - burgers at MacD's and then he smoked outside Barista's - but then, this wasn't really supposed to be a date in the first place. We just planned to 'meet up' - because, in spite of me acting like a first rate bitch online, GA came to my side of town all the way from the suburbs, even though he had to get back to Juhu by 10 pm for a night out with his pals. I was flattered, if nothing else. And that 'nothing else' quickly became a lot of 'elses' when, getting inside the cab that was to take him back to Juhu, GA leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I stood there, quite stunned to respond, because for all I knew, a million and a half people on the street had seen that brief kiss. Whoa!



Of course, on the way back home, I've promised myself that I'm not going to make mountains out of molehills. I'm not going to imagine a big and bright future with GA after just one great date. That's the easiest way to go downhill from here. I'm going to say to myself, Well, CT, that was a great date, and it remains to be seen what else is there to follow... but that's it. Nothing more.

But that's the crux. That's the crux. Sometimes... things happen. Things happen when you least expect them to. Nice things. The other night, I was having a conversation with a friend who lives across the border, and he was in a deep funk over another conversation he'd had earlier with a common friend. My across-the-border friend, ATB, recently moved out to his own place, and since he hates eating alone, he has this very real psychological problem facing him at mealtimes... and then the mutual friend screws it further by telling him: Hullo! You're gay, so chances are that you'll never find anyone to share the rest of your life with, so you better get used to eating meals alone! Wowch. That hurts.

But that's a truth most gay men have actually taught themselves to deal with. We may not force ourselves to face that truth every day, but we have our own way of dealing with that. Gay men have an excellent friend support system. Gay men are extreme optimists. We party. Hard. And then harder. Yet sometimes, the chink in the armour shows, as it did with ATB, and then you wonder: FCUK! How am I going to end up?!

I don't have an answer to that. I really don't. I didn't have one for ATB the other night when we were chatting, other than to tell him, that that kind of shit might even face him if he were straight. Who you end up with depends on the kind of person you are, and your luck in finding that person, and not so much on your sexual orientation. That's the eternal optimist in me talking. In the meantime, you depend on your friends, knowing that the really genuine ones will not desert you in your hour of need, no matter what familial commitments they may have.

And then of course, there are those little incidents, like an ordinary coffee meeting turning into a very delightful first date, that reinforce the optimism in you...

That reinforce the optimism in me. ;-)

Server problems

Server problems

I'm so completely stumped. Even as I write this, Gay.com refuses to open, owing to some server problems or whatnot, and my only method of meeting new people in the gay world is dead. True, I don't really get to meet new people as such, since they're mostly the same old fags from Bombay, Dilli and phoren, but you do get my point, I hope. And it's quite silly, but true, that though I may bitch about how shallow chatroom lingo is, it's role has gradually expanded in my life, to the point that it is my only window of ever finding a guy these days.

Bah!

The other night, while I was online, a 32 year old Gujarati man (his nick was *something*shah) comes up and asks me "asl?", to which I reply, "Sorry, I'm not looking for sex right now." Now, the bugger gets offended apparently, and retorts, "You think too much dude - who said I was looking for sex with you?" And of course, that gets my hackles up, and I flare back, "Listen, dude, your line sounds like it belongs in a meat market! If you wanted something other than to beat your miniscule cock, you'd come up with a cleverer line or even (god forbid!) a simple "hi-hello"! So go sell your beef elsewhere, cuz I'm not interested!" I'm usually polite with strangers, but some of them can really... well... get to ya!

But the sad and strange part is, that's the only mechanism I'm used to nowadays for meeting new people. I dance like a dervish at GB parties, and maybe that's why nobody ever approaches me there. I socialise sometimes with my friends' gay friends, but as far as I know, no one has ever evinced any interest in me thereby, either. I gave up walking round and round in circles in the city's so-called gay haunts ages ago, and have no desire to resume that again. So, sadly enough... gay.com is IT! My passport to a happy love life.

Ouch.

Room Service at Suite 101

Room Service at Suite 101

Perhaps this is the season of hearts trying to get back on their feet. The quiet period where you tend to step back for a few seconds and try to get over that guy back there who left you feeling somehow incomplete even though you've got everything you started out with, and probably coupla tools more.



And even though I'm no kind of a feminist, I would grumble and mutter under my breath, Men!

The other day, someone who'd seen my online profile messaged me the succinct sentence: 'u r cute', followed by his cell phone number. Well, since I'm shallow like hell, I checked out his online profile, and deciding that he was kinda cute as well, messaged him back. And this evening, we chatted on the phone. And he asks me out to Voodoo's.

Ouch. For the uninitiated, Voodoo's is the original Gay Bar of Bombay. Settled bang on Colaba Causeway, the place is seedy at all times and converts into a gay bar on Saturday nights. The place charges Rs 300 entry fee (non-refundable, might I add), and is populated mainly by old uncles and hookers of every kind (straight woman, lesbian woman, gay man, tranny whatever) all boogeying on the dance floor. In a word, Voodoo's is an institution and deserves a whole post dedicated solely to it, but I'm not going there now.

The point I was trying to make: I asked him why Voodoo's of all places, and he replied, he wants to dance with men but there was someone at the GB party being held tonight, whom he doesn't want to meet and is trying to get over. Heartbreak hotel. I listened politely, said I was very sorry for him, but had decided on a month-long sabbatical from GB parties and was certainly not going to Voodoo's on a Saturday when a GB party was on (that would mean, Voodoo's would have the lowest low lives), and came back home to read a book. Harry Potter, if you're interested.

So, it was heartbreak hotel there. Same address, the other night, on my kind-of date with Graphics Designer. Hell, d/d has been in heartbreak hotel for more than three months now, and truth be told, I've taken up permanent residence there myself.

There's a difference, though, in the way gay men nurse their broken hearts. We don't go about everyday sullen faced like women, but actually party, have fun, go about our jobs with aplomb, though we have the occassional whiney telephone conversation with the best friend... But what we do is this: date with fervour. Sorry, wrong to use the word 'date'. I meant: see people. Meet them for coffee. Meet them for a screw. Love to identify several young men as the promising somethings. And then we make excuses to keep them at arms' length thereafter, making the "it's too soon" excuse.

You can catch me at Suite 101, in case you're interested.

***

On a side note, the other night, d/d and I bumped into a couple of cute guys who apparently read Talking Closets. I'm an egoistic asshole enough to admit that being appreciated feels GREAT. It felt good to know that these guys read my blog and actually like what they read... most of the time. But while it's wonderful to have fame spread, it also restricts the power of being anonymous. I'm going to have to be slightly careful when I go bitchy ballistic, and I don't want that. So, you gorgeous guys with whom I had beer the other night, I hope you keep CloseTalk's Secret Identity with yourselves.

And being the typical egoistic asshole like I said I was, I'm going to blow my kisses at you, and say you're always welcome to come back for more.

;-)

Wine and dates

Wine and dates

Lunching with gay young interior designer/decorator today, and I asked him whether it's true that gay men are never meant to find permanent love. D/d chomped on his spicy surmai pulliguti (green curry with chillis and amazing sauce) and bombil fry, and mouthed out, "Yes, because we're supposed to be pretty and have pleasure."

CT: "You mean, we're like Bacchus?"

D/d, chomp chomp: "Exactly."

D/d, sipping solkadi: "It's all the free sex that we get. The easy sex."

CT, licking lips after a bite of the banana split: "So, straight people would also be in hell, if they got easy sex like us?

D/d, slicing the sizzling brownie on his plate: "Exactly. If they were as decadent as us."

Pleasure creatures. I thought about that definition again this evening on my not-really date with Graphics Designer. I've had this attraction towards GD for a long time, but that never went anywhere because GD had this strong crush of his own on a friend of his and finally summoned up the courage to tell him, but only got rejected in the end. He's trying to get over him now, is not sure though if he really wants to get over him, and is basically in the same sort of state I was, after Nature Boy and I split.

So he asks me how I got over Nature Boy, and I replied, "Well, I refused to meet him for nearly two months. I shut him out completely from my life. And met him again only after things got better. But I'm not sure that's the way for you."

GD: "I know. Because he's part of my close friend circle now."

CT: "But he's being an ass, and you shouldn't run after him at all now."

GD: "I'm not going to."

GD, after dinner: "Is this a date?"

CT: "I'm not sure."

GD: "A date doesn't have to be non-platonic. That's called dating, na?"

CT: "A date is always about more than platonic feelings. Your descriptions are wrong, dude. It's dating when it's frequent. This is not a date,... I think."

GD, after a pause: "He gets a lot of sex, you know. Awful." And that's when I repeat the earlier conversation about decadence, over bombil fry, surmai pulliguti, banana split and sizzling brownie, to him.

GD says "Hmmmmmmmmm...", while eating whiskey sodden brownie with me.

After putting me in the cab, he reaches out and says, "Hope to do this again sometime soon, you know. One-on-one. Another date."

And now, I'm left even more confused.

The story about beer and caffeine

The story about beer and caffeine

Coffee with the Nutcracker is always an amusing episode. I suppose you could call the Nutcracker my original fag-hag, but she's so much more than that. She's the one who pledged to take care of me when I'm old and decrepit without a mate and probably dying of some debilitating disease. And she has a wicked sense of humour. And a lovely ego like mine.

We compliment each other perfectly.

Nutcracker: So, InsipidWoman is probably sleeping with the xerox guy.

CT, scalding tongue on hot coffee: YOWCH!

Nutcracker, sighing: Funny, na? I thought so too.

CT: So what's the latest on your cyber romance case?

Nutcracker: Bored. What about your one?

CT: Turned out to be fat and forty with a bent for the S&Ms.

Nutcracker: I prefer the M&Ms. (giggle)

CT: So do I.

CT: You wanna dance somewhere?

Nutcracker: I wanna get drunk.

So, there we go to Ghettoes, sitting in a space near the pool table, downing a pitcher of chilled beer, and unwittingly become drawn into the conversation of the big gaggle of dumbasses next to us. They're pretty dumbasses, so it's actually much worse.

Dumbass 1: Meet, Rahul... he's my sweeeeetttoooo!

Dumbass 2: Ooooooo, hiiiiiii!!

Dumbass 3, who's also Rahul: I want vodka. Anyone want vodka?

Dumbass 4: I need to go the loo. Sooooooooo bad.

Dumbass 1: I loooooooove your shirt, Rahul.

Dumbass 3: Vodka? Gin? Rum? Beer? WHHHHHAAAATTT???

Dumbass 2: O, the bartender's soooooooo hot! So, what are you doing later tonight, Rahul?

Dumbass 4: Will anyone else come with me to the loo?

CT and Nutcracker: (snigger!)

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.