Closetalk: Sexing the City UP!

Closetalk: Sexing the City UP!

I'll admit it: at first, I didn't get what the big deal was about Sex and the City. I mean, ok, so here you are, a gang of four women: the cribbing writer, the slut, the horsey powerbabe and the prudish cinderella, but so what? Then I spent three days watching Season Six on my laptop, and I was hooked. Line and sinker.



Wafted into flatmate's room and told her how it was so completely a gay series, and she jumped in her seat, as she is wont to do, whenever I classify so-and-so as 'gay', etc.

FM: "Why on earth is Sex and the City gay, of all things? It's about women!"

CT, flitting over to the sink to try on apricot scrub: "O, please, it's wasted on women! Women don't obssess about things or enjoy them half as much as gay men do! And there's just soooo much de-lish male nudity! It's just picturised on women to be safe!"

FM: "You're hopeless!"

CT, happily, through walnut bits: "I am! But then, think about it! I can easily place all my gay friends there... and not just as either Carrie or Samantha or whoever, but as a combination of them!"

So, that evening, I sat on the computer and hunted out the Sex and the City quizzes available online, and decided to see which said what about me! As predicted, none of them came up with the same answer.

Quizilla, for instance, proclaims that I'm that gorgeous Slut, Samantha. I got on the phone then and assaulted designer/decorator, who completely agreed that with my sex drive and penchant for shock value when he least expected it, I could be no one else! And I must say, she was the one I was looking forward to being the most. That woman has profound insight into human character, some great nuggets of wisdom (and we're not talking about her boobs here!), and I can only hope to be as sexy and smart as she is! And yes, I completely adore her relationship at the end with Smith Jared.



Another one whch agreed on the Samantha card was this one by Cosmo. This one was not about whether you were like any of the gals, but rather, who your style quotient resembled. It had all to do with: what would you wear to a gals' night out, or in our case, a GB party, and of course, I fitted the bill for 'curve hugging with skin show', which in my case means 'tight tshirt with nipples protruding'. There's also the fact that I'm the bubbly one in the group at these parties, the first one usually out on the dance floor, and that ties in what Cosmo says about Samantha: "encouraging other women to walk on the wild side without apology". Lucky for Boy that my idea of foreplay is "not printable!", my ideal date-dress is "matching gstrings and fluffy slippers", and lucky for me that Boy fits the bill of my "best love match: A man who can unlock your heart as well as your bra (= g's) with one hand - he dresses to impress, and wears tight black boxers underneath. "

;-)

Then there was a surprise by YNR, which said I was most like Charlotte. But then, when I heard their reasons why, I realised a part of me is quite like Prudish Cinderella. As the quiz said, I'm the Ultimate Romantic Idealist: "hurt in love before, but that hasn't caused me to give up on love, and if anything, the resolve to fall in love is stronger than ever." And as I realised, while giving the test, what was my main problem with dating? Hoping that things go smooth very fast - and that's as Charlotte as anyone can get!



Crossing my fingers, though, cuz the quiz verdict also said: That guy you are seeing (or crushing on)? Could be very serious - if you play your cards right! *wide grin on face*

And then there was Quizfarm, which said that I resembled that Mistress of Manolo, Carrie Bradshaw herself. Shouldn't really have surprised me too much, since I tend to worry about my relationships a trifle too much like her, and tend to gossip about them with my friends like her, and have writing ambitions like her as well. But, when push comes to shove, I would like to be Samantha, rather than Carrie. In the end, though, the quiz was not about who I would like to be, but rather who I am.



Strangely enough, the quiz thought that, after Carrie's 75%, I'm most like Miranda, who comes in at a close 67%. And that's not only Quizfarm. There was this other quiz, perhaps the most comprehensive of them all, because it sees how much of me is proportionally like the foursome, and it concluded I'm most a Carrie-Miranda mix. I turned out to be 40% Carrie, 30% Mirandra.

What pegs me as Carrie? Well, there's the fact that I'm inquisitive like hell - I discovered my dad's porn mags when I was 13! - and am very much into Indecision and Avoiding Tough Issues - their language, not mine. I love to talk, and need my mate to be a good listener (thank you, Boy!), and I Exude A Quirky Charm, or so say the guys I've slept with. Meanwhile, much like Miranda , I would prefer to be Cautious In Love And Seek Stability - though, where a LDR comes in here, I frankly don't know! And yes, I have those Seething Career Ambitions.

Sultry Samantha finally comes in at this point, and contributes 20% with my leo fire sign. Enter the Thoughtless, Selfish and Audacious part, which gets caught up in Immediate Gratification. At odds with this, is my 10% Charlotte: Romantic At Heart, complete with that Boy who Completes Me and Tethers me to the earth when I get carried away with my fantasies. And yes, I Cry At Commercials And Sappy Movies.

After five tests, two phone calls, much giggling on the phone and many more comparisons, the material for this post was ready. This was going to be one of those Introspective ones. The ones where I stand in front of the mirror, and go swishing with wands to see what I'm like. Not many occassions to really do that when you're happy. Most people tend to do that only when they're in a purple funk, and that's not a great option. Naaa, this is way better. So, here, instead of The Big Apple, we have this Giant Train Line which passes off for a city, and instead of four rather unidimensional (now that you come to think of it!) girls, you have one very complex gay man.

Entry to the closet is free.

No scrubs!

No scrubs!

The other day, I was lounging over at Delhi Designer Friend's Bandra home, and I peeked into his loo. Reappeared a second later with a grin on my face and remarked, "Do you think that every gay man in Bombay uses apricot face scrub?"

Now, DDF has seen it all, done most of it, and taught a little bit of it, and so he says, grinning back, "Every gay man in India, yes."

CT, shutting loo door: "Every gay man in the world?"

DDF, stretching and yawning like the lazy Delhi faggot that he is: "Possibly, probably, hopefully."

CT, puzzled grin on his face now: "But why on earth, apricot? Why nothing else?"

DDF: "Don't you like apricot? What have you got against apricot now?"

CT, rolling over in laughter: "Nothing, actually. I use the stuff myself."



DDF, feeling vindicated in a lovely gay bitch sort of way: "There you go! It's... nice! And it feels so lovely to use apricot as a base. Something decidedly... faggoty about it."

At this point, CT glances over the room they're in - the blood red crimson linen curtains over the French windows, the overhanging mini-chandeliers, the six foot mirror against the wall, the kitschy cushion covers sprawled over his bed with Marylin Monroe grinning out of them - and decide that he's right about the 'faggoty' part. Not even a combination of Gujju and Shetty would be able to cover this one! So CT nods, and: "And strawberry too. I think there's something very gay about strawberry."

DDF frowns, pats his Marylin cushion: "Didn't your straight ex flattie use strawberry flavoured face cream?"

CT grins happily at the memory of discovering ex-crush's cream in the loo a long, long time ago, and proclaims: "i'm soooooo sure that he was a confused little boy!"

DDF, in the lovely sarcastic manner that Delhi bitches have mastered: "Yes, yes, and waiting for a good little boy like you to deliver him from a fate worse than death!"

At this point, CT being the calm, dignified, poised, elegant and non-bitchy creature that he likes to believe he is, deigns to not reply, and the conversation shifts to other topics. But earlier today, while chatting with the Wicked Witch of the West, I wondered whether there are any so-called Favourite Cosmetics that men - straight, gay, trannies, what-have-you - use. A background check is necessary at this point: WWW works for one of the country's foremost girly mags, and CT was enquiring as to whether the aforesaid girly mag might want some freelance stuff from the closet. That's when WWW crooned, "It's a shame you can't write anything about beauty products and all", and thereupon I remembered my earlier conversation with DDF. "Well," I responded, "You never know: I could just do that!"

Think about it. What do men use and what do they don't?

From my experience of rummaging through the bathroom shelves of Indian men, a large number of whom were of the... ahem ahem... 'faggoty kind', here are my findings:

a) Everybody loves a large and ugly hunk of herby or some-such ayurvedic soap. Usually concocted from the weeds found in and around Pondicherry, and usually a deep forest green or muddy brown in colour, the soaps are ugly to behold, and smell like a bunch of tulips. Can be procured from those Fabindia or Khadi Udyog-like places. And yes, they usually cost a bomb. The days of Pears are long gone.

b) Shampoos must always be ayurvedic as well. Same principles as the soap apply here, again. Usually the bottles are very dowdy looking, but the users swear to the glossy effects of the muddy brown liquid contained therein. Dr Batra's usually packages the same stuff in smarter looking bottles.

c) The much-discussed apricot face scrub. A must have and you're a social nincompoop if you don't agree.

d) Conditioner for the hair. Usually only for gay men. Haven't seen on too many straight men's shelves, myself.

e) Face wash or face mask. Generally speaking, men tend to go for the former, though a minority of the 'faggoty kind' go for the mask/pack as well. My mum used to favour the cucumber mask, but I'm not sure whether people still go for that these days. Rose water concoctions are also popular. Sweet smelling and all that. Orange peels are supposedly hep, but personally, I think they look ghastly.

f) Does hair gel actually count as a cosmetic? I mean, hey, even the poodle uses it these days! And no, the really sexy guys don't use Brylcream.

And inspite of all that brouhaha last year about that new 'fairness cream for men', I haven't seen it on any guy's bathroom shelf. Or maybe they're hiding it, like the company that markets the cream claims/claimed they do. Honestly speaking, I don't think too many men would care. I mean: most of the guys I've met are those that hanker after darker toned ('wheatish' in gay chat room lingo) guys. I mean, that's one of the reasons I've met them! So, that's one cream that doesn't seem to be too much in high demand.



Just called up DDF and informed him that I told a friend about our apricot face scrub conversation, and darling boy responds with: "Aren't lubes also considered 'cosmetics'? What have you recommended in that category?"

Well... I don't really kiss and tell...

Untitled and Unknown

Untitled and Unknown

A party the other night, and the drink of the order was hibiscus juice protracted from Pondicherry, laced with vodka. The Penguin made a face, but the young gay interior designer/decorator was in no mood to take criticism about his beloved drink and made a face back, while I was threatening Emily that I'd bone him in the kitchen, Flight Attendant was mesmerized by the number of people who wanted to get into his pants online, and Gupshup surveyed all, in the serene knowledge that in a day or two he would be jet-setting it to the Maldives, away from all the chaos.

What troubled lives we do lead!

It always feels very nice when you go to a new website and make a new profile, and see how quickly the other carnivores online rush towards you in the heat of 'new meat'. One gets flattered by all the attention, and it gets heady. You tend to spend more and more time in front of the screen then, a modern-day Mirror, Mirror... not without its own pitfalls.

I have no idea why this post took the line it has taken. I must be troubled. This was supposed to be a fun post about the party the other night, the beautiful people, and the laughs and the jokes. It was supposed to be a post about watching Sex and the City episodes on the computer non-stop, and wondering which of them, or which combination of all of them, I would slot myself as. It was supposed to be a fun post.

And instead, it's turned out to be this. I must not be in a writing mood. Or if I am, I must not be in a mood for writing fluff. Serious yet divine, and I wonder why on earth I use these mouldy words. No, I'm not troubled. Not really. Not anything. Blank.

Close the closet doors hurriedly, lest anyone walk in.

Musings

Musings

Sometimes, I wonder how my relationship with Boy sounds to the world at large. Perhaps, if I were much more private, I would have hated baring my soul and my relationship like that, but then there's the exhibitionist streak in me that overcompensates...

We're heading onto six months over here. Much of that time has been spent well. Getting to know each other better. Loving each other. Involving each other in our lives and schedules. Boy's work at the university and the dance classes. My work at the TV channel. We've talked to each other about prospective job changes. About the GRE and the complications it involves. When my parents were down here, and they were worried about my elder brother not getting a suitable mate, I felt stifled somehow, unable to tell them that I had found the love of my life... wanting some sort of warmth from them, but of course that was quite inevitable. Boy would call me at night, and we would talk about his mum and his old school teacher... and how good it would be to live together, finally.

Of course, things have not been all rosy. Issues have cropped up, time and again. We've been torn because of our libidos, for one. Webcams have a limitation, after all... and with both our new jobs, even camming has proved to be elusive. It has been ages since I saw his face - live - and I miss that. He knows that. I hate the fact that because of our now busier skeds, it's so much tougher to stay in touch and reply to every sms message. And I must confess, there have been so many times I've behaved like the shrill housewife angry when hubby is late from work.

I've grappled with issues like: where does one draw the line between seeking reaffirmation as a measure of uncertainty, and seeking reaffirmation as a measure to stay involved. There have been superstitious issues as well - none of my previous relationships have lasted beyond five months, and I think that made me more itchy in my head. I've tried to toe the line between two extremes: being so up-close as to be intrusive and pushy, and being so withdrawn as to allow the relationship to fall into a rut.

So, yes, it's been a tremulous time, not without its shocks and jolts. And not without its moments of tenderness. Moments when I can hear him sing into my ears - hume tumse pyaar kitna... And though my Gujju Boy is no Kishore, his words are music to my ears. Recently, I made mum listen to the rendition of the Bengali song aay re aay, that I'd taped of Boy singing when he was in Bombay, and Mum loved it. I was so tempted to tell her all then, but I didn't. Despite all the frustration at the LDR crap, I remember why I've fallen in love with him. Despite all the temptation to have sex and forget, I remember the way his lips made me feel, the words he says, the touch he evokes, the tenderness in his eyes. The advice he renders. The inscription on our rings...

Now?

... Always.

My Cup Runneth Over

My Cup Runneth Over

A warning is necessary from the very first line here, that this is a strictly adult-rated gay post, but if you have permissable parents, then PG is allowed. Since I'm neither an adult, nor am I 'out' to my parents, it basically means I'm not going to be allowed to see my own post, but what the hell, just the fact that I wrote it down in rainbow hues is good enough for me!

World Cup fever! And while dad and bro are watching the game excitedly, yours truly is sitting hunchbacked in the closet, fantasising about which players he would like to Do. Let's face facts: soccer is vastly more exciting than cricket could ever hope to be, the uniforms are tighter, there's so much more sweat factor, and the shorts fly higher. Irfan Pathan may be hot, but hell, he's all covered up, and those ugly white costumes and pads make you exercise your imagination so much that quite frankly, it's not worth the effort!

So here's a list of the Top Hotties on the field that Closetalk would like to get down and dirty with. Every little sordid detail of it...

First off, let's eliminate that stupid monkey with awful hair and severely flawed teeth who's supposed to be the toast of Brazillian football. I mean, the man gets his stoooopid galfriend to dance with her big jugs in a football bra and you can't get any more camp than that, it's true, but in sheer U.G.L.Y (Unceasingly Grovellingly Loathesome and Yellowish) terms, that is one Brazillian who is un-humpable.



Closet Reject No 1 is: Ronaldinho!

However, thankfully for world soccer, there are far more delectable men on the field, and so the closet moves on next to that Guru of Gayness, England's very own David Beckham. In fact, in the current English line-up, there is a whole host of beautiful men I'd like to get into so many fascinating positions here (we're only playing ball here, honey!), but Becks still gets a special mention. (And Veed is having an orgasm as we type this out here!) His Mohawk, or his black nail polish, his very obvious flaunting of the fact that he loves the gay idolatry, his Spice Girls wife and his flings with the nanny, all earn him a Major Star from the Closet.



Closet Award: Chocolate Candy First Class.
Becks is to be tied down on a chair in a deserted warehouse, only in his soccer shorts, and hot chocolate is to be dripped slowly down over his face, neck, shoulders, chest, o-so-smooth tummy, till he is coated with the gooey stuff, the smell of hot warm bubbling cocoa is everywhere, and all anyone can do is DIG IN with a vengeance. I expect Becks to make a lot of noise by the way, and of course, we want to encourage that in every way.

After we have made use liberally of the paper napkins at hand (bbye, Becks!), we shall move onto the next soccer sexbomb. Luis Figo of Portugal is not a new name, or a young one, but the man simply typifies the saying, Old is Gold. Personally, I would love to have him covered him in molten gold *screw chocolate!* and installed in a secret chamber underneath my bed, but since that would amount to culpable homo-cide of such a fantasmatic piece of MAN, I will instead award him a special prize from the Closet. With his tall, hunky frame, sinful smile that would make a witch's tits sprout warm milk (ewwwwww, ewwwww and all that!), wisps of curly black chest air that would make a bitch in heat howl into the night, this hot wolf gets me on fire!



Closet Award: Wolverine First Class
Figo cannot be tamed, so he must clearly be the one in charge. Picture bed with crimson satin sheets, and Figo's tanned, hairy frame swathed in yards and yards of the fabric. The creature bounds up to you suddenly and overpowers you, lowers himself in such an enigmatic way that you can feel the searing heat from the tall candles placed all around the bed, and locks eyes with you... a touch.. a whiff... a growl. The best course of action is to turn your head and expose your neck and shoulders and wait for the bites.

After we've faced the envious stares at the red welts on our necks in the morning, we must work on the strategy to ensnare our next Football Flame into our boudoir. What is it about Italians? All that romance and all that reputation, and just when you think it's all bunkum, up comes running towards you at a hurricane's pace is Franceso Totti. The man has modelled for Armani himself, and you don't need to wonder why. Totti is not about devil-attitude ala Becks, or sheer-intensity ala Figo - he's the God you want to see dressed up in his suit, and stripped down in his bare un-essentials, in your bedroom. Totti's the beautiful man, the one who is smart enough and sexy enough to know what you want from him in bed (and on the field, but that's secondary here!) even before you ask for it. The result: heaven is a place here on earth.



Closet Award: Sauve Killer First Class
Totti is the date guy. So there must be the red rose, the violins, the impeccable Italian accent whispering in your ears, and midway through the elevator ride, that's when his hand snakes out to halt the car, and he's all over you in the dark. Armani slithers off, belts buckles off, throaty voices in the dark, urgency at its peak. Totti is pushed back till his back is against the glass wall of the elevator, and within view of a shocked city of glittering lights, you get down on your knees to pleasure a god.

Ahem ahem. And the cup goes to...



Closetalk
*shy grin*

Fa(r) - a long, long way to run...

Fa(r) - a long, long way to run...

Last week, I found myself in a funny position as the Wise Old Sod on the mountain, when two friends came to me for Relationship Advice. That was actually scary. The strange situation that catapulted me to this position? - well, both my friends have opted for the rather circuitous and long-winded route to happiness - the Long Distance Relationship.



My good friend Chimneypot recently met a guy whom she calls Boo. It's actually amazingly cute, the fact that they call each other the same nickname - Boo. Boo, however, happens to live in saddi dilli, whereas Chimneypot is very much the Bambaiyya chick. Which thus leads her to think of me as the gospel on LDRs and how to navigate them. The other week, when Boo (the dilli one) was in town, all of us met him, and I was suddenly thrust into the role of the Parent, very similar to something I'd encountered myself earlier. So, I tried to put on my best Parent face - friendly and yet protective, and made the appropriate noises:

CT, clearing throat with hot chocolate at Barista's: "So (young man)... what is it that you do?"

Boo, grinning: "Well, I'm a journalist in Delhi, and I do scientific reporting."

CT, wondering whether I should ask him his 'prospects': "O, cool... is it... interesting?"

Boo, thinking to himself that this guy is a flake: "Ummm... er... yea, sure."

CT, harrumphing away his doubts: "So, you guys have known each other for... how long again was it?"

Chimneypot interrupts: "Chatting for almost three weeks now"

CT, eyes slightly widening: "Three weeks? That's... umm... fast!" (nervous laughter)

At the end, however, wisdom finally kicked in, and I realised that I usually sleep with a guy after knowing him for less than three hours - forget weeks! - and since the two of them are so obviously in love, I gave my blessings. Tathastu!

And then, there was the architect of my own 'Meet the Parents' episode, many eons ago. NatureBoy called me the other day, and informed me that he had fallen in love - and the object of his affections was another Delhi-based lad. So that led to another conversation about farway loves and what they entail - the problems of being in touch and the issues sex maniacs like NatureBoy and I have to face when faced with the prospect of a drastic cutdown in our sex skeds.

NatureBoy: "But how do you get by? I mean, not just the sex part, but the bonding part also?"
CT, nods sagely: "Aaaa, well... there's the phone and there's the internet chat sessions... I guess, there's nothing more you can do, but be involved all the time. Involved in his life."

NatureBoy: "I've got huge phone bills, and it's not been a month as yet!"

CT, recognizing similar financial problems: "You'll soon have to change your internet usage plan to a more expensive one also. And tell yourself, that it's acceptable."

NatureBoy: "What do I do?"

CT, with a patient smile: "Let yourself be. And stay in love."



Moronic advice to give, I admit. But I never actually said I agree with the idiots that I was the LDR expert. Hell, I'm the first one to admit that Boy and I, we're a growing phenomenon. It takes a lot of hard work to stay involved, and I'm not just talking about the phone bills here. There's the whole issue of being in touch. And sex... Fidelity... is a whole different ball game. We all want to stay celibate, and yet often don't turn out to be the romantics we wish we could have been. And while I would so want to know for sure whether they'll be able to make it, I'm keeping my own fingers crossed that I'm able to make it myself!

And that's the honest truth about LDRs.

Meet Kit

So, since a lot of people I know are getting PETA friendly, I decided to choose an adorable kitty of my own.

Meet:

Complicated Closets

Complicated Closets

A lot of strange things about gay men. Why do so many of us find vampires sexy - as evident from the widespread approval to the last post. Why do so many of us aspire to look beautiful? The word was beautiful, not attractive, mind you. What makes so many of us think we're the cat's pyjamas when it comes to taste - and are careful to say that vertical stripes are very Last Season. Why do so many of us long for love - while quite happy with shady couplings in the dark every three to four days. Why are so many of us complex, with severe complexes of our own.

Full stop. No question-mark there.

This past week has seen me mending bridges with a close friend whom I threatened to rechristen ComplexBoy. Of course, he balked at the prospect, even though he acknowledged privately that he fitted the job description. But, I thought, rather than bringing an unwilling participant into the limelight, let me take the opportunity to be honest, and present some of my own complexes:

1. The ego. It looms large over me and is often the master source of several of my other complexes. The good thing about Boy and I is that we both recognize the other's ego, and we know how to work with/around it.



2. One night stands are fine by me and do not affect the ego, but if I am made aware that I am placed/displaced because of someone else, the ego kicks in and I in turn kick the ONS goodbye. Have bid adieu to several such ONS' in the past.

3. Sometimes, I switch off. Just like that. Don't mind me, please. I'll be fine in about thirty minutes or so. But for those thirty minutes, don't bug me.

4. I love money. I always calculate the cost behind a thing. Horrible habit, but I do that. Not that I was severely deprived of money while growing up, but... I always tell myself that you can only not give a damn about money if you have a lot of it - and I don't fit that category. As a result, when I've gone out on a date with a guy who's rich and who loves spending a lot, I always feel very self conscious.

5. I don't go for guys who look very young. Twinks don't do it for me. On the other extreme, I actually don't go for guys who're very old - though I must confess, I once slept with a fifty-eight year old.

6. I usually don't relate well on a date with someone who's too chatty. Then, it feels like I'm chatting to the Cheshire Cat, and I feel like breaking his teeth. People who presume too much about me at the very onset also end up being discarded by the wayside usually.



7. I always think I'm gaining weight. I probably am. But that doesn't stop me from pigging out, either. White and dark chocolate mousse are my faves. O, but no, I would never go for a fat guy. Over the years, however, I've reconciled myself to the fact that there are loads of hot men with pot bellies, and I have taught myself to ignore a pot belly if it's marginal and the guy is cute. *cue for a sigh here.*

8. I hate the classification of tops and bottoms, and that ridiculous habit of calling someone 'dear'. At the very onset I tell the ONS that I don't like classification by 'top/btm' and he is not to ever call me 'dear', if he doesn't want broken balls. Boy, thankully, doesn't do either. ;-)

9. I hate eating before sex. I would much rather have sex on a keen, hungry stomach, and then pig out afterwards. That's why, whenever Boy and I went out on a dinner date, after coming back we would dance and talk or go on a long walk or something, and only then get into the mood.

10. Am a maudlin at heart. When I fall in love, I give it my all. But then, anyone who reads these posts will probably already know that.

PS: Apart from the complex crap, there's good news: Karma passed his 'kindergarten' level of doggie training school yesterday, and Boy and I are quite thrilled!

Welcome to Nerdy Land

Welcome to Nerdy Land

Lazy Sunday, and I went to see a movie with Straight Buddy of Goa infamy. ST wanted to see Cheaper By The Dozen 2, a Steve Martin movie, and since I had loved The Pink Panther earlier when we went to see it (though ST's hopes were apparently dashed by the movie!), I had no objections. The tickets were all sold out, however, and what we settled for in the end was Underworld: Evolution. I was delighted.



Underworld: Evolution is part two of the Underworld series, that started out with a movie of the same name. It is essentialy a saga of war between two races, the Death Dealers (vampires) and the Lycans (werevolves). Part one of the saga sank at the box office without a trace, and I was kinda surprised that they even brought out a sequel, but when I found out that they did, I knew I had to see it.

Because, beneath all these supersexy layers of sluttiness and homosexuality tripe, I'm a.. ahem ahem.. Nerd (capital letters). I love fantasy. I adore fantasy. Throw me a vampire or two and I will be your willing slave. Perhaps that's why I never find anything odd with S&M. *wink*

My tryst with Dark Fantasy (read: vampires and mummies, ghouls and demons) started with that beautiful blonde from Sunnydale, Buffy. Sarah Michelle Gellar exemplified all that was beautiful and sexy in this world and the fact that she used to battle ugly vampires, while falling in love with two gorgeous vampires herself (first Angel, and then Spike) was simply too yummy to not fall for. SMG was Gorgeous Decadence personified, and her cheesy one-liners were everything any devotee of sordid American teenage dramas could hope for.




Next came the slightly literary phase with Anne Rice. I first came across Rice when I picked up her book on the Mayfair witches and the vampire Lestat. Here was the story of how this particularly sexy and devious vampire evolves through the ages, told in a number of books, and how his fate is intrinsically linked to the lives and blood of a coven of witches, the Mayfair family. And of his attraction for Rowan, the most beautiful and talented Mayfair witch, the leader of the coven, and Mona, the briliant young rebel... A Mills & Boons potboiler that goes beautifully blood red, complete with much gore and fantasy and legend. Salivating stuff.



And finally, Underworld: Evolution. Model Kate Beckinsale turned actress for the role of Selene, the vampire rebel, who discovers that she has been lied to all her life by the vampire leader, and she kills him when she finds out that he was the one who murdered her family. In the course of this adventure, she discovers Michael, played by the simply delicious Scott Speedman, who is a hybrid - part Lycan, part Death Dealer and part human. They must join forces to battle Marcus, the First Death Dealer, who is trying to awake his twin brother William, the first Lycan. And of course... they must fall in love.



Sigh... if I were "joining forces" with Scott Speedman, I'd fall in love too.. *grin*



Poor Straight Buddy didn't get much of the movie though. Bah, imbecile!

Tamarind Tales: The Net Experience

Tamarind Tales: The Net Experience

I used to live in a part of Chennai called Kodambakkam. A quiet part of town, and possibly the only notable thing about it was that a lot of Kollywood film stars and singers lived nearby, and the place was also supposed to be inhabited by the most famous Thunder Thigh Madams of the south Indian porn industry.

Very colourful neighbourhood. And of course, I thought it was my solemn duty to add to the colour with my own special brand of Rainbow.

Closetalk in Chennai was quite the shy persona. The hidden chap who used to have sex furtively, rush out to the neighbourhood cyber cafe to get online and search out possible mates. In those days, I hadn't discovered either gay.com or gaydar.co.uk, and so was stuck with Indiatimes.com. There was a chhottu Chennai room in the website's gay section, and this is where all the denizens of the Chennai gay world congregated. To talk about asls and prefs and mushes and available places and likes and dislikes. Your average profile description would go something like:

28 yo, hot guy with mush, look like Rajni, I like smooching, kissing, body sex, no annals, I like to get sucked but don't like doing, will fuck if you want, have hairy body, 5'7", 75 kg, nice lips, 34 wst, am handsome guy looking for cute boy.



Concise. When a puzzled Closetalk would ask what having a mush meant, that would result in some even more puzzled respondents getting back with: Mush? A Mush is a Mush, da! You know what a mush is!

Trouble was, I knew that da was the local lingo for friend, but I still had no clue what mush signified, till after about six to seven meetings when the genius tube light brain of mine figured out that the puzzled respondents had (in amazing brevity) shortened Moustache to Mush. Sometimes, the results were alarming, as I would stare horrified at the Veerappan clone standing outside my door, expecting me to indulge in "smooching, kissing, body sex, no annals..." with him.

Of course, it wasn't always like that. There are loads of cute and hot gay men in the torrid city of Chennai, nee Madras. And they would be all kinds - Palakars, Iyengars, Mallus et al, who would line up to have sex with what they perceived as a 'North Indian'. I used to find it all very funny actually, their enthusiasm for anyone who enters the chatroom and declares boldly that he is "North Indian, da" - within minutes, the guy would receive hits upon hits and would probably have his share of Veerappans and cute South Indian Brahmins to last a whole week. What was funnier was that anything and anyone north of the Vindhyas would be classified as a "Northie", even though he may not be strictly speaking from the Hindi heartland.

Prospective Mate: "So, you're not from Tamil Nadu, are you?"

CT, typing and praying that PM doesn't have a Mush: "Er, no, I'm from Calcutta. Living here in Chennai for awhile."

PM, with renewed interest: "O-ho! So you're a northie? That's good. You must be expert at sex!"

CT, pleased that his expertise has been recognized, but still puzzled: "Er, thanks. But no, I'm not North Indian. I'm from Calcutta in West Bengal. That's in the east."

PM, not bothered: "No matter. You're a northie. So what all do you like in sex?"

The Bangalorean exports came a close second to the 'Northie' in terms of the hot' factor for most Chennai gay men. But Bangaloreans did not mean Kannadigas. There was a difference here. Meanwhile, Malayalis were supposed to have sensual lips and be tigers in bed. So, as soon as you mentioned that you'd recently alighted from a train coming from Bangalore, or anywhere in Kerala, or anywhere north of the VIndhyas, you were automatically invested with the powers of a sexual demigod.

I believe, the correct expression to use here is: Wheeeeeeeee!

A song I used to sing

A song I used to sing

There are times when you're walking along the road, and a piece of the past stops by to show you how different things could have been. Was strolling in the office complex earlier today, when I bumped into Purana Sexy One-nighter. PSO saw me, grinned in happy surprise and pumped my hand in great glee. Where on earth have you been, he asked me, and I must confess that I felt a certain degree of joy in spotting him as well.

CT: "I saw you the other day, heading towards Gym-in-office-complex the other day, but had passed by before I could shout. Looking pretty hot in your sleeveless and shorts!"

PSO, preening, as all Sexy One-nighters of my generation do: "Hehehe... you should have stopped, in any case! So who're you screwing these days, whore?"

CT, preening as all... ummm.... well, preening: "Aaaa, I'm a One-guy guy nowadays."

And that elicited a round of hems and haws. PSO met this young doctor many moons ago last year, while I was still pretty much single, and the two of them seemed to hit it off instantly. I had had the fortune(?) to sleep with PSO's young doctor even earlier, at a mutual friend's house after a night of drunken revelry, and of course I know for a fact that the young doctor bites a lot and is what is known as a 'pure top' in gay.com lingo. *sigh* So when PSO announced that he was seeing this young doctor, I grinned, wished them all the very best, and lightly ran my hand over my shoulder where the brute had left me a scar that lasted a week after!

PSO: "O yes, well, that's over now."

CT, hands cup mouth Sushmita-Sen-style, but not really surprised: "I'm surprised! Didn't last?"

PSO, shrugging, as all Sexy One-nighters of my generation do: "We were on holiday in Goa, and I couldn't resist the cute firang in the deck chair next to mine. Doctor walked in to find me conducting an examination of my own."

CT, shrugging, as all... ummm, well... shrugging: "He bites, you know."

PSO looks at me with newfound admiration: "Wow! I didn't know you'd done him. Before or after I was seeing him? Can you give me anything I can nail him with?"

The conversation veered off to different directions then, when I informed him that my dalliance with the biting doctor had been well in advance of his eventual affections. We stood under the shade of the trees lining the driveway, and reminescenced about the good old days in the old flat, when I would call him over while Punju Flatmate was at work, and we'd have an excellent two-hour session. I always made sure to keep the refrigerator packed with cold water bottles in those days, so very necessary for post-coital chit chat. (I guess the lack of a refrigerator in the current flat heralded the fact that the Slut days were to soon draw to a close.) You sure you don't want me to come with you to the flat now, he asks, and I grin and reply to the negative. It's a serious thing, I tell him. Too serious to fuck up for fun. He laughs, because it's the first time he's heard me say something like that.

Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way...
(- Mary Hopkins)

Hey, being almost-25 isn't so bad after all.

Talking Boundaries

Talking Boundaries

The other day, a friend called me from Delhi, and we got chatting about men, men, the things they do, the things they are, the things they make us feel, men, men and more men... Yes, so it was a long conversation, as you can well imagine. ;-)

And in the middle of all this, he spoke about something called the Emotional Fling.

And so I wondered how an Emotional Fling was different from a Relationship. And how a Fling was different from an Extended One-night-stand. And I thought, let's make the next Closet post yet another page from the hallowed portals of Gay-India-101. And even though I don't particularly like my spectacles, those who've seen me in them, say I look very high-brow boring teacher type, and so on they go again.

FreeSpirit of course has his own definitions, and I have my own. (Separate definitions come in handy in the gay universe, as anyone and everyone knows.) A one-nighter-or-nooner-or-eveninger for me is when I call up a guy whom I've met online and say, Hey, you look pretty cute, so why not come over for some coffee and a bada-bang - or if you're in a real hurry, we can always skip the coffee and head straight to my place for the bada-bang.



(Five times out of ten, they meet at the coffee shop; three times out of ten they meet me at the station and then decide to skip the coffee and head for the bada-bang; two times out of ten, they make up their minds from the very first that coffee is not what they're looking for, unless its dripping on my skin.)

And do I call the one-nighters/nooners/eveningers back? Well, I might, if they're good in bed, or if I'm bored the next time around and hunting for new meat will just absorb too much effort.

But, of course, that's still only an Extended One-night-stand, and not a Fling. (At least in my book, it isn't. FreeSpirit thinks otherwise, though.)

Meanwhile, the Fling starts with a real date. We're meeting on a date, we have a nice time, and we end up in bed. Good sex. But, it's clear on both accounts, from the very beginning that, hey, things are not going to get anymore serious than that: some great dates, some great sex, some great armcandy to parties. End of story. Draw the line after the paragraph. That's what you call a clean-cut Fling. When you're done, you 'fling' him away. *titter*



The real trouble starts, however, when you forget the rule you started out with. And after date no. 5 or 6, you start feeling moony about the Fling. You think: ok, he's smart, he's funny, he's sophisticated, I can identify with where he comes from, he can carry a conversation, he's a demigod when it comes to sex, so maybe there coiuld just be a teeny-weeny little spark of.... something?! That's when the Fling becomes the Emotional Fling. And that's when all hell may well break loose. Unless you know that the other person may also be thinking along those lines, it's best to nip things in the bud. And sometimes, you may just end up being as lucky as I was with Salsa Boy, who saw me going moony-eyed in the Emotional Fling mode, and firmly but kindly popped the bubble.

The Relationship, of course, is different. That's when both parties meet with the avowed intention of having a date. Which may or may not lead to sex. And the decision where you chose either A> Fling or B> Relationship may come either before or after the sex. That's when you decide, you're going to see where this goes, and cross your fingers for good measure. Extra tight.

***

And then, there are the exceptions. The strange little mongrels that sneak up on you when you don't really expect them to. I'm blushing here, because I'm thinking about that beautiful boy called Boy and me. Boy and I were supposed to be a one-noon-stand. I was free, and so was he, and when he called to say hi, he was in Bombay, I replied, hey I'm free this afternoon so come over for a bang. He did. He did. And, he did. The one-nooner licked at my toes like the cutest li'l shitzu you ever saw (I'm talking about Karma, of course) and I was hooked. Line and sinker.

Which just goes to show, for the umpteenth time, there are Boundaries and there are ummm... boundaries... in this jolly gay life.

Say Hello!

Say Hello!



That's Karma. (Provisional name for now.) A lovely lass came by to Boy's workplace with the pup, and Boy's boss bought the little tyke for him. I just finished chatting with Boy, and Karma was snoozing on his lap. hehehe... Little tyke snores in his sleep and sleeps on his back, so that Boy can rub his tummy. And he has an appointment with the vet at 3 pm Boy-time. (Ouch!)

;-)

Boy's kicked like hell, and so am I. I'm just kinda sad that I'm missing all the action... aaa, well, hopefully next year, I'll be there too, to see Karma. We feel like parents. I know that sounds corny, but it's kinda true. It's truer for Boy than for me, right now, of course, but I'm gonna call him up in about twenty minutes on the phone, and I'm sure that as soon as I hear Karma yap on the other end, I'm going to fall in love a second time. Again, corny, but hey, you were warned.

Why Karma? I thought the name was awfully heavy for a cute li'l pup when I first heard it, myself. Boy had options like Mocha or Chin Too. But we decided to ignore the advice of his friends who felt that a Chinese breed dog should have a Chinese name, and Boy thought Mocha was too common a name. (I love the name, though, and so it's going to be one of my nick names for Karma, the other one being Chocolate. Yes, I'm hungry right now.) Other choices? Button, cuz the teeny mite has a cute li'l nose, not like his Big Nose Daddy at all. (chuckle) Booger, because while sleeping during Boy and my online chat, he let loose a chhottu bubble from his wet nose. I also thought about Tum Tum, after Boy told me about the sleeping-on-back thingy, but I didn't voice the suggestion, because it sounds way too Chinese.

No, Karma it is. Provisional, but we've grown to like it. Grown to love it for him. And even though I thought it was too heavy for a cute li'l pup like him at first, Boy changed my mind when he reminded me that Karma, Opera House in amchi Mumbai, was where he fell in love with me.

Don't worry: I'm not one of those pansy floozies who goes to get a glittery disco tunic for li'l Karma.

;-)

On GAY TV Tonight...

On GAY TV Tonight...

So ok, I'm sitting and watching the telecast of the Gladrags Megamodel and Manhunt contest right now on Star One. Please don't hate me: I'm not always this retarded, but sometimes I like to play the role of the Gay Dunderhead. *sigh*

What isss to be doingsss?

Anyhow, the way I see it, Gladrags is a highly gay themed show. Why? Well, decide for yourself: hot babes in bikinis, Maureen Wadia, dumb hunks in bikinis, Pooja Bedi, sarong-pyjamas falling of dumb hunks, John Abraham, fashion shows, Arjun Rampal, the hyper-active younger Meet brother performing at the show who kept jhatkaoing his hips, and yes, again, John Abraham. *drool*

TRING! TRING! It's Boy.

CT: "Hey sexy, I'm looking at hot almost-naked hunks strutting over here. They're dancing and shaking their groins a lot."

Boy, a bit alarmed: "What?! Where are you?"

CT: "At home only, baba. I'm not that pretty to invited for orgies like that, you know. *titter* It's the Gladrags Manhunt Contest on TV."

Boy, (do I hear him sigh in relief, and should I feel offended that he apparently agrees I'm not orgy-hot?!): "O, OK... you're watching TV..."

CT: "O,ooooo... these guys are actually wearing sheer leopard printed sarong-pyjamas, and this guy's thingy just fell off, so he's dancing in teeny-weeny black speedos!"

Boy, getting into the groove now: "Ooooo... do you have popcorn with you? This sounds like fun!"



Aaa, well, yes, fun it is. And that's another one of the things that's gay about Gladrags. The fact that all these straight men, just because it's the much-awaited swimsuit round, start grooving and dancing and twisting their bodies and pumping their muscles, as if they're in some teeny overcrowded alley of Bangkok's seediest red light area. I mean, come ON guys! So you're modelling for a swimsuit, but you don't need to get all jiggy with it, just cuz they're playing Black Eyed Peas!

All those gay hooker moves are funniest when you consider the opening lines they gave when they first walked out on the stage. 1. "Hi, I'm so-and-so and I have been wanting to come to this event since I was 17, and now 6 years later, I am here, and I pray by the grace of God who watches over my family, that I win..." 2. "I don't believe in winning and losing concepts, What really matters is that you try your best, and that is what I will do. I am a simple boy from Patiala, and I want to do my country proud by winning this title"... Yea? What title? Mr Bang-Cock 2006?! 3. "I quote - A bird flies yonder/ aching to break free/ to soar/ to leap/ to see - ladies and gentlemen, that bird is me."

Yes, That bird is you, dude. Cuckoo.

Observed: Maureen Wadia of course must seat herself between Arjun Rampal and John. John was looking divine in his spanking new haircut, and was quite open-mouthed when the Megamodel gals started doing the ramp in their swimwear round, and Arjun's white shirt was perennially open to his belly button - not that I'm complaining. Maureen Hag was routinely whispering thingys to both her boytoys. I love that woman. *giggle*



Observed Again: Most of the judges were having a ball, while the others were just plain bored, and Sabina Chopra looked pained. Riteish Desmukh has a new haircut as well, but is still as sad as ever. Was giggling continuously with the persona non grata next to him. The only judge who looked remotely interested in judging was (don't faint!) Pooja Bedi. (She looked quite shocked at the final choices, by the way.) Maureen was probably wondering what services she would extract from the three boys (read: winners) delivered to her room that night. I love that woman. *giggle*

Observed Over and Over Again: Jeh Wadia of Go AIR fame, sitting behind the judges, looking quite flustered. What is mummy upto tonight?! But, o good god, where o where was dreamboat brother Ness? *swoons*

Overheard: The answers in the Question Round. ROTFLMAO. Do people actually have so little brains collectively? Riteish asked his boy, what is the biggest problem in the world that needs to be solved, and please don't say poverty? The boy replied "women!", and just when the audience started clapping and sighing that finally there was one with a sense of humour, he spoiled it all, by copying Answer No. 2046 from the Ms World Handbook about women's education upliftment. *groan*.

John was best: after his first question got used up, he asked What is global warming and how is it caused? As soon as the dumbo boy answered, Yes it is a real problem, it happens because there is too much pollution because of cars and all, John baba thought we shouldn't really expect too much and put in a quick, O that's right, thank you for answering that question very well. Huh, wazzat! Ummm.. wasn't John baba one of the Gladrags crowd as well, at one time, now? *chuckles*

Lost and Forgotten: The Megamodel gals contest. What, where, who, why???

Best part of the event: Shivani Kashyap's performance (I lurrrve her voice, absolutely!) and Jon of course.



Update: OK, so the show's over, and does anyone really want to know who won, since they're all U-G-L-Y? The cutest guy, one Vikrant Oberoi, was saddled with Mr Congeniality and that's it. Bah!

Delhi Memoirs - Part Two

Delhi Memoirs - Part Two

So, the other day, I was online and after chatting with Boy, I bump into the Ponytail. Hey, says I, so what's happening with you? Still enconsced in your comfy 3-bhk-flat- in-Gurgaon-with-two-balconies?

Ponytail: "Naaa, dude, I moved out some time back. Decided to take a 6 month sabbatical from work, so I moved in with the parents."

CT, shock and awe at a handsome and virile young gay man being forced to live with parents: "I'm shocked and awed at the thought of a handsome and virile young gay man being forced to live with his parents!"

Aaa, well, the conversation wasn't exactly earth shaking, but he did tell me that Salsa Boy was also online at the same time, and I promptly buzzed him. Salsa Boy is currently living in the UAE, by the way, and I keep teasing him about the Arab Sheikhs on his plate, when I see him online.

CT: "*BUZZ* So how many gay Sheikhs are there now, hotstuff?"

Salsa Boy: "hehehe.. Waiting for you still."

CT, grinning: "Awww, you're a cute liar."

Salsa Boy and I first met up ages ago, at a private party in Delhi, hosted by this other gay man who was leaving for Sri Lanka the day after. I had gone to the party with this other guy on our second date, and my date knew Salsa Boy. My first impression of him, however, was when he snaked his way behind me suddenly, and tongued my ear, saying I was a juicy treat.

Aaa, well, interesting first impressions. I was a bit turned on (the vodka, the vodka!) but quite quite stunned, and retracted myself from his boa-like vice, aided suitably by the not-too-amused glare my date was flashing at me. But I did flash him back a grin. Three weeks later, when the thing with the date boy fizzled out, and Salsa Boy sent me an sms, saying he still remembered me and how was I doing these days, I decided to reply.



(Of course, I was majorly flattered that the guy had hunted down my phone number to sms me!) So I reply: Yes I remember you. You're the Friendly Neighbourhood Tongue Man from So-and-so's party.

Well, anyhow, we decided to catch up after that, and went to this nice place called the Big Chill in Khan Market. We talked, we laughed, we had a nice date, and no we didn't have sex on the first date. Of course, that was purely on his insistence: I would have jumped him in the car if he had allowed me to - Salsa Boy is marvellously hot! - but he insisted that we not do it then. Sex happened on the second date and it was mindblowing - and thereby began a two month journey with Salsa Boy.

The thing with Salsa Boy was different for me because of a variety of reasons. It wasn't the first time I was dating someone with such a huge reputation of being a Delhi slut, but it was unique, cuz he was still on excellent terms with everybody else - unlike the Slut No 1 I had dated earlier, who everyone bitched about later. So I was a mite nervous and it was gratifying to see the way he fawned over me. Also, it was clear that even though he cared for me, I was not his number one priority - there was his work, and there were his friends, and there was his family, and later, at the no 4 or 5 slot, there was me. He liked me, he wanted to date me, but there it was, the List.

Another funny thing was, Salsa Boy was an open relationship. I knew he was having sex with some other guys, and he never denied it when I asked him, but it was also clear that the other guys were one-night stands and I was the only guy he was dating. As for me, I was having one-night stands as well. The classic approach.

It ended though, one night at his place, after chocolate cake, when he told me he wanted to end the sex part with me, and remain only good friends. I understood why he was doing it: he didn't want the casual dating to progress onto a relationship, because he felt I wasn't the right guy for him then. And he knew that I was beginning to feel possessive, starting to get into the 'relationship mode'. This way, he reasoned, it would be a clean break.



It was. It was the most dignified split I have ever had, and I'm so glad, because after that, whenever we meet online, there's never any uncertainty or slight hesitancy like there is when I meet some of my other exes. That's why I avoid meeting my exes - with the exception (no puns intended) of Nature Boy, who I'm not sure can even be labelled an 'ex'. I appreciated the way he had broken it so neatly, and I told him that, months later online.

Then, the other night, while the jokes on Arab Sheikhs in the UAE had died down, and we were talking general stuff about his life and mine, and what we want from it, he sighs and says he wants to tell me something serious.

Salsa Boy: "I think, if you and I met up now, I woud want to have a relationship with you."

CT, goggles: "&*^#%*)&%@"

Salsa Boy laughs

CT: "This is a change... but I guess both of us have changed."

Salsa Boy: "Yea, we have. It's been such a great thing, chatting with you all this while, watching you change. You've become so much better equipped to handle things."

CT, musing: "Mmmm... perhaps. I've observed how much you've changed yourself. Still quiet as ever, but much more patient, I think. More open to things that don't work out the way you would like them too!"

Salsa Boy: "Too bad you're not in the UAE here with me. Wouldn't have let you go away this time, sexy!"

CT, laughing: "Aaa, well, tales from another day here... "

O, and yes, I told Boy later about this conversation, and we both mused how strange our relationships with our exes are, and how stranger they become with time.

Delhi Memoirs - Part One

Delhi Memoirs - Part One

Sniff out dry Delhi summers even in the middle of the sultry Bombay heat. Last year, I received a phone call from a Delhi ex, Salsa Boy, that his friend the Ponytail was hitting Bombay, and would I be nice enough to meet him and show him around a bit. Ponytail and Salsa Boy are close friends, but he was always too busy to catch up with the two months that Salsa Boy and I were dating, so we had never met. Being curious, therefore, I readily agreed.

I kept Ponytail waiting at the Marine Drive Barista for an hour before I finally showed up, and then his cute dimpled smile made my knees go weak. We walked down Marine Drive, I introduced him to green chilly ice cream at Bachelor's, and then capped the evening at Churchill's on Colaba. I escorted him back to the Gordon House, where he was staying, and as soon as the elevator doors closed on us, we were making out frantically.

;-) My first (and only, to date) time in an elevator!



Well, for the four days that he was here after that, Ponytail and I met up regularly, and not all of our escapades were in the elevator. There was the time when my then flatmate was not working, or when his travel partner was out partying, or some other such episodes. It got so hurried and so frantically beautiful, that by the time he was leaving, he was asking me to seriously consider taking a job in Delhi again, so that he and I could try a relationship.

(I was very, very, very serious about it.)

Well, after that, both Ponytail and I confided the story of our passion to mutual pal Salsa Boy, who found it all very funny.

Salsa Boy: "If you asked me, you guys are so not made for each other! I would never have thought that he would have fallen for you the way he has!"

CT, whiny: "Stop being so cold about it."

Salsa Boy, laughing: "I'm not being cold, just incredulous. Anyway, it really doesn't concern me at all. If it works out for you, I'm happy for you guys!"

There was to be a gap of one month before Ponytail would come back to Bombay on another business trip. During that interval, we were on the phone and online regularly, talking to each other and exchanging steamy scenarios and mushy plans about what might happen when we met the next time. And then, the fateful day came, Ponytail flew into Mumbai airport, and I was to meet him that night at the GB party organized at the Razz.



Zilch.

Not sure how it happened, really. Suddenly, there was Zero Chemistry. We met, we danced, we snogged, we went back to his hotel room and had sex. But, through it all, it felt like we were doing something orchestrated. The second time around, I just didn't feel anything for him, and I wondered whether he could see that. He was in town for just three days that time, and so it seemed natural that we never met up again after that first night.

The next week, when I confided this to Salsa Boy, the bastard burst out laughing.

Salsa Boy: "He told me the exact same thing!"

CT, surprised, "He felt the lack as well?"

Salsa Boy: "Yup, yup. It's not working, he said."

CT lets out a sigh of relief.

So, after that, Ponytail and I caught up online again and rather shyly confessed to each other that the 'magic' simply wasn't there any more, and so all further plans of moving to Delhi were shelved.

Thank God, because in December late last year, a certain Gujarati hottie called Boy stepped into my life.

*lopsided grin*

BREAKING NEWS: DNA opens The Closet

BREAKING NEWS: DNA opens The Closet

Happy Surprise.

Yours truly submitted an article to DNA on integrating the gay life with the straight in Bambai nagariya, and it got published yesterday, on the Sunday After Hrs. My apologies for not telling you guys in advance, but I wasn't too sure myself about whether it would show up, and I picked up my own copy only around 10 pm.

The article is titled Tag-a-long Party, and is featured as the anchor story (complete with cartoon and all) on a new inside page dedicated to menfolk, and is also teased on the front page of After Hrs. The byline is wrongly attributed to Talking Closets (d-uh: TC is the name of the blog, while Closetalk is the author!), but who cares, since they've also linked to the blog.

;-)

So, anyway, seeing that getting a copy of yesterday's paper may be difficult now, I decided to reproduce the original article here. The parts in red are what was edited and kept out of the article when it finally appeared...



Coming out to your friends and coming out to your family are two very different things, as any gay man (partly) in the closet will tell you. Somehow, it's easier with your friends. And its easier for you to initiate them into your 'other' life. True, when I tell them about this fantabulous guy I'm in love with, they may look strangely and wonder what on earth it feels like, to be in love with someone of the same sex, but they also nod sagely, smile with paternal/maternal affection and tell you that Love Is Great.

Amen: Love Is Great.

And gay parties? Well, they may not be Great (capital letters), but they're Fun (capital letters again).

How many of us gay men/women have taken our straight pals out with us to share a slice of Gay Abandon (I have a thing for capital letters when I'm explaining concepts, you see)... Well, most of us old hags. In so many cases, our straight friends are our companions when we've been around the block too many times without hitting jackpot, and we don't want to go for a party alone. I still remember the time I asked my first flatmate - a very straight and very liberal Punjabi young man who has since then moved to another city - to come with me to a gay party. He shrugged, grinned, and said in his characteristic Punju drawl, Why not?

As easy as that.

And no, he didn't move to the other city because of the traumatic experience thereafter at the party. Actually, he had no experience noteworthy to speak of. He came, hung around at the bar with his beer, got introduced to my gay friends (with the stern warning that he was straight and not Fair Game, capital letters), and then after five beers, did the bhangra to a vastly amused gay crowd of onlookers. The next day, all sober and squeaky clean, he announced that he had had a 'fun' time.

What did I say about Fun?

Then, there was the time I took along this whole group of friends to one party. My best friend (female), and two others (one male, one female) and I. First observation: female friend 2 squealed in glee: "Ooo, they're so pretty!" Second observation: best friend nodding: "They dance so well!" All this, while I nodded in modest glee: yes, we're... umm.... pretty, and yes, we dance great. Not good, great!

Parting shots from that particular event? Loads more glee. Best friend got hit on by her very first lesbian, and couldn't stop gloating about it for a week. And male friend, who didn't have any first or second or third observations, got asked for a light by a Muscle Mary with shiny muscles and a taffetta scarf.


PS: Regulars at the closet are now expected to bombard DNA with responses, saying that they read the article, loved it, and want to know when the author will be invited to write a weekly/fortnightly column for the newspaper. *wistful expression*

High Chancellor Closetalk

High Chancellor Closetalk

So the other day, Flatmate and I were watching TV, and she balked at this cute guy onscreen wearing pink jeans. I balked as well, but quickly covered it up, when she groaned and declared that it was a horrendous case of Metrosexuality Mania.

CT, huffing: "So what's wrong with being metrosexual?"

FM, pulling her hair out in frustration: "Are you kidding me?! It's awful! All these guys are acting so horribly gay!"

CT, cold voice: "So, what's wrong in being gay?"

FM, calming down: "Sweety, nothing's wrong in being gay if you are gay, but why act gay when you're straight?! It just turns the women off!"

CT, with maniacal gleam in eye: "We should just get rid of all the women on the planet...!"

*Darth Vader background score*

I suppose some of the Frankensteinian zeal from the post before last still remained within me, because in that instant, I had this beautiful vision of the world before me. A carefree, Gay World, like nothing that has ever existed before. And with FM there to parry and thrust with, I worked out the details...

GayWorld will only have men. Gay men. All straight men will be subjected to homosexual experiences repeatedly, unless they finally turn gay (of their own free will), and lust at the sight of Facial Hair. The deviants who refuse to be converted will be made into slaves - scantily clad of course - and subjected to rigorous gymming so that they have Greek God like bodies for our daily pleasure.

The women, we don't need. So, they can be all shipped away to the moon.

FT, Voice of Reason incarnate: "Yea, and then all you gay men will die out within a generation!"

Ummm... ok, so we'll subject the women to homosexual encounters repeatedly also, so that we make lesbians out of most of them. The deviants who refuse to be converted witll be shipped to the moon and locked away in Reproduction Tanks. Measured artificial insemination will be used on them, and also on the lesbian volunteers, to create subsequent generations. The Star Children will obviously be those borne to a gay father and a lesbian mother, and by promoting artificial insemination of Star lesbians with Star gay men, the aim of society will be to isolate, harness and propagate the Gay Gene.

MUHHAHAHAHA!!!!

FT, amused now: "But what about your fag hags? How will you gay men exist without them?"

Ummm... ok. True. Not all the best fag hags are lesbians. Actually, very few lesbians are fag hags, and vice versa. So, the aim of artificial insemination will also be to create a line of straight Fag Hags. They will be rewarded for their puppy dog like friendliness with the choicest of the Straight Male Slaves that we will use for our pleasure.

Look at the advantages. The world is united under the Rainbow banner. With the sexuality issue out of the way, we will be free to pursue interstellar exploration and commerce. We can slave trade with other civilizations, with the excess Straight Deviants. There will be no separate country, so that you can have sex with someone from any ethnicity, and that will only bring all our gay brothers and sisters and lovers together. Yay! Never since Hitler has such a philanthropist like me been born.

FM, in awe: "You're a NUT!"

Happy Birthday, Talking Closets

Happy Birthday, Talking Closets



It's been a swell ride so far!

(No puns intended)

;-)

Closetalk plays Frankenstein

Closetalk plays Frankenstein

Never thought of myself as a mentor of sorts (though I will be applying for a graduate assistant position at an American university later this year) until the other day. The other day was intended to catch up with li'l Veed, of whom I have admittedly not seen much lately. So, after a lot of drama queen ishtyle moaning and groaning about how far his house is from mine and how I need to go to work the next day, I succumb and pack an overnight bag. The agenda for the night is Pizza and Spice Girls.

Veed's house is amazingly large. His computer desktop has a huge blow-up of himself with Emma Bunton, and when I enquired whether he had anything of Geri Halliwell ('It's Raining Men!') I got a scowl and a comment that he wasn't interested the least in Geri Whore-i-well.

*snigger*

Getting back to the task of mentoring. It was discovered that poor li'l Veed, who rarely goes to GB parties, and rarely meets suitable young gay men of a screwable age, didn't have an ID on that answer (and simultaneously, source) to all problems of young gay men of screwable age: Gay.com. It was his lucky day that I decided to play Fairy Godfather, and with his mouse doubling up as my wand, did the needful.

(By the way, there was absolutely no dirty joke implied in that last bit about mouses and wands. I just realised, upon re-reading this post, that it sounds funny. )



First, the hunt for a suitable name for our suitable boy. Thrown in the ring, were such hopefuls like 'Spice Boy', "Posh&Pecs", "Doc Veed", and finally we chose this slightly longer name that doesn't sound like a gay young man of screwable age at all. And no, we never even considered 'beautifullyintended'. ;-)

Fill up the form: Top/Btm? Ht? Wt? Wst? Eyes? Hair? Friendship/Fraandsip/Sex/Open Relationship/Closed relationship? Twink/Muscleman? Mumbai? Permutations and combinations, till we fnally reached the part that possibly is as far as most prospective profile watchers come to: the all-important Photo.

Choice 1 is the 'nanga' pic that li'l Veed is hyper about. Choice 2 is a tousle-haired bed-head look that took him 30 whole minutes to perfect. Choice 3 is the suited and spiked look. Choice 4 is something which is All Teeth. Veed is adamant that 'nanga' pic occupy pride of place as default pic, but the gay.com server didn't agree and refused to accept it. We stuck with the perfected bed-head look, instead.

Litmus test: hit the chatroom. Bated breath.

Sometime back, Veed and I had hit the chatroom under my user name, and I had shown the lad three different ways of chat in three different chat windows. 1. With the cute guy who lived in LA, try 'cute and sexy, flirty' chat. You want to keep him hooked. Veed was happy. 2. With guy no 2, who asked where you were in Bombay and whether you wanted to meet, try the 'out-and-out' sex chat, discuss fave positions and styles, and bedroom orientations and exchange numbers purely for game reasons. Veed was slightly horrified, but still fascinated. 3. Finally, with guys 3, 4 and 5, I used the 'go to hell' approach: no, you're ugly, and I don't wanna screw you, I don't wanna talk to you, so just jump in the well. Veed was "shocked and appalled".

He usually is. ;-)

But it was time now for the litmus test. This time, it wasn't me who would do the chatting. It wouldn't be my name or my pic. It would be the latest entrant in the India Countrywide chatroom of gay.com: Veed, with his ID and his not-so 'nanga' pic. Tension.

Later that day, when I told Boy over the phone how overwhelmed with parental pride I was when Veed got his first 'hits', he called me a psycho. I dare say, I am, at times. ;-) The boy got 5 hits in under 20 seconds. Five fucking hits. And imagine his drama-queen cheek, after chatting with them for eternity, he moans and groans that nobody liked him because he didn't have his 'nanga' pic.

I hugged my protege after that comment.

;-)

Update: The 'nanga' pic is up now, and li'l Veed has reportedly had loads more hits after uploading it. Gay.com has a new monster on the loose, and I feel like Dr Frankenstein now.

Sand in my swimsuit!

Sand in my swimsuit!

This is in response to the excitement of the question in the earlier post.

This is not an answer, however, because the answer still eludes me. Don't get me wrong: Goa is simply full of good looking, able bodied young men; unfortunately, they either happen to be followed (or led by) equally good looking able bodied young women, or roam in packs of some other not-so good looking, not-so able-bodied young men. For someone like me, who is clearly out of the Race, the entire situation was stimulating, but still frustrating.

Travelling with a straight man has its funny moments. The two of us were lounging on Anjuna Beach, gawking at the succession of hot bodies basking under the hot sun, and while his eyes were glazing over with lust at the ample display of breasts (strictly female for him!), he also found the time to encourage me to hit on good looking firang strangers walking by ahead of us or swimming in the waters nearby.



Straight Travelmate: "O, look, look... he's hot, he's hot. Go hit on him!"

CT, sheepish: "How? How? I don't know how to hit on people any more."

ST: "Just go up to him and say hi, and ask him whether he wants to have sex with you!"

CT, looking incredulous: "You remind me of the cheapos in a gay chatroom with that dialogue."

ST: "Don't be silly. He's hot, he's hot. You'll miss your chance now!"

CT: "Should I swim close by and flash him a stare?"

ST, agitated and excited as a topless woman floats past a metre from us: "Flash him, period!"

CT, turning red: "OMG!"

ST, excitement mercury rising higher: "O, look, look, that sexy bandana chick looked at me. I think she's coming here. Go away, go away, hit on someone, anyone!"

That wasn't the last of it, of course. Walking on Fort Aguado and he points out pot bellied man sunbathing in printed electric blue swimsuit, and tells me that the guy is from his home town, is very VERY gay, and I should go and have sex with him. I looked at ST incredulously, and say, "I don't sleep with anything with a dick, you know!"

To which, ST looks happily at me, and says, "Of course you do, you're a slut!"

CT: "And you're beyond help!"

The only time I ventured alone on the beach was at Baga. I sat there, on a deck chair, reading, when out of nowhere this slimy guy comes up and starts touching my ankles.

Slimy Guy: "Massage sir? I give you good massage?"

CT, stunned: "No, no, NO!"

SG, groping some more: "I very good with hands... I give good massage, you like what I do!"

CT, almost hysteric: "NO! NO! NO!"

SG, looking hurt but hands still roving, despite CT's thrashing about, "You sure? I very good...!"



I finally managed to convince him I had no use for his 'good' hands, and he left. The sad part was that Baga Beach, where I lay down, marvellously stripped down to my bare essentials, was entirely populated by fat grannies and gramps, but no sooner had I put my clothes back on and walked up the lane to the hotel, I see a succession of hot guys on hot bikes whizzing past. As usual, I have bad luck.

But, hey, actually, I have very good luck. I have a boyfriend who loves me very much.

(Repeat chant twice more and feel better.)

In Goa

Ok, I'm in Goa.

Now WHERE ARE ALL THE HOT FIRANG GAY MEN???

;-)

Worli

Worli

I remember sitting out on Worli Sea Face with Boy one night. Back from a movie and dinner and suddenly he gets the urge to drink something 'cold' (always something cold) and since I don't have a fridge at home, the only two options are 5 star hotel or Worli Sea Face: already did 5 star hotel the night before, so my miserly brain urges the case for Worli.

One of our happiest times together. ;-)



Sitting and counting the silly rats scampering about below the sea facing balustrade. Boy refused to sit there and we found a bench for ourself. Holding hands. Singing songs. He loves this one in particular: Piya tose naina laage re, and I sit, listening, spellbound, as he sings to me. He makes me feel special. He always does. I've downloaded the song onto my computer system now, to listen to, when he's not here. And I kiss his photograph on my shelf. I wonder what I'll say to bro if he ever comes visiting and sees that photograph atop the shelf: Boy and I hugging, in front of the door.

And then there was the paanipuris. Even that late in the night. Boy is crazy about them, and now, whenever I see a paanipuri wallah, I feel tempted to eat some - and then I decide to wait till he comes back. I told him about this urge I get the other night on the phone, and he laughed. I love the sound of his laughter. He says I giggle. Damn. I was hoping I have a chuckle. (Old joke.)

And the vendor girl, too. There was this young girl who kept on walking up and down the path. We had come to Worli Seaface earlier in the evening as well, and she was there, and when we came back late at night, it was the same. Boy was interested and we motioned her over, and bought his 'cold' drinks from her. We chatted about her job and her life. How she had given a Rs 100 note to a guy by mistake, when she had had to give him Rs 10, and how her mum would scold her because of that. We felt very sorry and offered her our condolences, and she grinned and walked away. We saw her again twice more, and then walking away to cross the road to a woman on the other side. Must be her mum, Boy whispered, holding my hand.

Straight-laced?!

Straight-laced?!

Every gay man alive will tell you about that strange phenomenon that is a cross between a straight man and a gay man... that epitome of brilliance that is (at times) lauded to the skies and every gay man aspires to be, and (at others) is condemned as the lowest form of hypocrisy a homosexual can be capable of. On his own part, however, that Subject of Much Debate thinks not in the least that he is anything spectacular or unnatural - merely that he is what he is, and he tries to make the best of an unfortunately embarrassing situation - the ubiquitous Straight Acting Gay Man.

Take a case in point. Online chat happening between Strapping Young Hunk With Muscles And A Call Centre Job - let's call him Man A, as it's much easier than referring to him continuously as SYHWMAACCJ - and Younger Hunk With Not Too Many Muscles And Just Passed Out Of College, who can be Man B. Man A feels that he's quite God's gift to gay men and so he flirts his virtual muscles online with much elan, to the delight of an enamoured Man B on the other end:

A: So... I'm hot. I hope you're hot too. I work out regularly.

B: Really? You work out? That's great. I love well built guys. Wanna have hot fun?

A: I dunno. What do you do in bed?

B rattles of a number of interesting activities that would make a biker bear blush!

A, slightly interested now: OK.

B: So? You wanna hook up and have fun?

A, now getting ready for the kill: Maybe. Are you feminine?

B, a bit confused now, as to what would make A think he was (gasp!) feminine: No. why?

A, sticking his virtual nose up in the air: I don't go for feminine guys, ok. I'm very straight acting.

B is, at this line, completely bowled over. He must have A in bed with him this very night, or his life till now has been a complete waste, so he hurriedly proceeds to tell A that he is as straight acting as straight men can possibly get, and no one would even guess that he was gay (if he didn't give it all away by opening his mouth and talking in his sing-song drawl). A match is made, and the happy couple has (presumably) good sex.

Actually, let's not jump the gun here: the Straight Acting Gay Man is not completely shallow, nor completely obsessed with Muscles (capitals, please!), nor even ashamed of his homosexuality. He just doesn't find it necessary to act gay even if he is gay,... and we all know that being gay isn't just about what gender you're humping against the wall. But in most cases, the Straight Acting Gay Man takes his act a tad too far: while even the most straightlaced (no pun intended) of us Gay Acting Gay Men would make a concession for not acting overtly gay in a predominantly heterosexual work/personal environment, sometimes it smarts when you come across someone in the gay environ who simply refuses to acknowledge his gay-ness as anything other than his sexual orientation.



The question is: why does it smart? Why do I snicker when I come across a person on the chatroom who asks around whether his chat partner is 'straight acting'? Why, on earth, do I find the term so ludicrous? Is it because that I happen to be one of them who tried acting Straight and just gave up, (I mean: cricket???!!!), deciding instead to just be myself? If that's the case, then why do I also snicker when I see the Decidedly Pansy Gay Man at my office flounce past in his coloured scarf and tight t-shirt?

I would be one of those dainty people sitting on the fence, advocating moderation: not the Bobby Darling way, and not the Gruff Man Who Refuses to Be Gay way, either. But then, that's my point of view. No Straight Acting Gay Man I know of has a blog to argue out his case.

Pity.

Roundup

Roundup

So, I was googling randomly this morning, and decided to see what the Great God Google (News) says about 'gay'. Here, in a nutshell, is what's been sparking across the globe in the last 24 hours...

Church walkout on gay marriage issue
In Toledo, Ohio, US, the local chapter of the Cleveland-based United Church of Christ voted to break ties with the parent organisation. Last July, the UCC endorsed same sex marriage and this prompted several local chapters to review their ties. Since then, 43 congregations have left the UCC, while others are still reviewing the situation, and have stopped sending in funds.

Leprechauns allowed, but no gay men please
St Patrick's Day parade in The Big Apple, and the chairman of the parade reportedly said that allowing gay groups to march in it would be like inviting the Nazis to a Jewish parade. The NYC mayor has apparently asked the parade organisers to lift the ban on gay groups. Not much hope of it, though.

HSBC says NO! to gay traders
HSBC is in the news, and the London courts are due to give a ruling on whether the bank is in the wrong for firing its former global head of equity trading, Peter Lewis. A coworker of Lewis says, he tried to 'come on' to him, but Lewis says, the allegations are a case of pure homophobia. The trial has been going on for the last 2 weeks now.

What is it about gay men and sailors?!
Also from London, the Royal Navy may go in for special classes to sensitise its personnel even more towards their gay colleagues. In 2000, the British armed forces lifted a ban on allowing gay men/women in, and since then, gay rights pressure group Stonewall says that the Navy ranks 75th in tems of gay-friendly employers! Happy change of affairs?!

Will and Grace?
In South Africa, the Pretoria courts will deliver judgement on a case where a gay man has challenged that he should be allowed to inherit the estate of his dead lover. The two men lived together since 2003, built the house together, and after the death of one of them, his parents have moved in and removed items from the house.

Homophobic riots vs Football
Football is hoped to ease some tensions between gay and Muslim groups, according to a Dutch multicultural group. Am sure we all know the colours of the home team!

I, Audience

I, Audience

The funny thing is, my straight older brother saw Brokeback Mountain before I did. He called me on the phone to kill time while waiting for his colleagues from work to come by, and informed me that he had sold off some extra tickets to "some very gay looking chaps". I smiled on the other end of the phone while he said so, and the really hilarious part was that, on Saturday, when The Gang and I went to see the same movie, this utterly delectable boy comes over to us and asks o-so-confidently, "Hey guys, you're going to see Brokeback, right? Would you have an extra ticket?"

Flabbergasted, but the situation was wildly funny. Guppie kept nudging me and asking "Why? Why? Why is he asking us?" Emily giggled and snickered, Penguin chortled and it was left to ex-d/d to grin back and say, "No, we want another one, actually", following which Utterly Delectable Boy smiled sheepishly and went back to join his (male) friend waiting for him on a bike.

CT: "Who did you want the extra ticket for?"

Ex-d/d, preening: "For him - to join us, of course!"

Anyhow, how was the movie? Not bad , actually. But no, not the great monument it was billed to be. Not what all the hoopla and hype promised. Some have praised its simplicity, saying that it's all a Simple Love Story, which incidentally happens to be about two men. But then, if you take away the 'two men' thingy, what exactly is so great about the movie? I'm not exactly sure on that score.



I mean: yes, the movie has all these great inputs from gay life. Like the fact that "a couple of high altitude fucks aren't enough", or having sex with a hooker in Mexico, or not being sure about living together and what it entails, or even Coming Out... All great stuff, but as a gay person watching the film, I wouldn't think of any of it as really huge stuff which is inspiring... just something which I've been through, and which so many other gay men have lived through.

But then, an afterthought: maybe the really inspiring part is the fact that Jack and Ennis sustain their relationship (in whatever form) for twenty years. Now, how many gay men can boast that?
Suddenly, I do feel inspired.

***

And then, the weekend also saw me finishing the debut novel by gay author Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi, The Last Song of Dusk. Both Emily and ex-d/d went ga-ga over the book, and so I picked it up at the Strand Book Fair. While I found the beginning of the book quite Mills-and-Boon-ish, I've eaten my words since then, because it ends on a beautiful note. It progresses on a beautiful note as well. Poetic? Yes. Lyrical? Yes. But perhaps the most endearing fact of all: eccenteric.



Of course, I can't deny that I found myself giggling every time Shanghvi describes a male character in the book. The best description was of course the first:

As he ran the white cloth around the bend of his muscled calves, the limp leg hair rose again. Then he daubed the delicious dimples of his buttocks, the incline of his back, the coltish nape of his neck, and with every movement over his lovely form, bath water found itself slowly exiled to the lobes of his ears. The mirror revealed a fine specimen: a tall, muscular specimen with broad shoulders and a gallant puff of chest, a jaggery-brown skin, and a member between his legs that was lonely and strong willed and uttery gorgeous inside its own confusion. (pg 10)

I mean: now, really! ;-) But the man is brilliant also in his conclusions of life:

We'll probably never save our souls - but hell, at least we'll get our hair sorted. (pg 247)

And, o yes, the man is cute.