2nd anniversary Post

Thought I'd include some sexy snap of a semi-naked guy with a chocolate cake here, but couldn't find any as good as I imagined, and decided to go in for the barcode after all. Exactly two years ago, TalkingClosets made its debut. That's when I said that this would talk about "the emotional, ethical, sexual, spiritual, hilarious parts of being gay". Two years later, I hope to have remained true to that resolve.

What's happened in these two years? Friendships have got cemented. Relationships have been built, broken, built up again, broken down once more. Hope has been lost and regained. And the closet remains. To be sure, I have come 'out' to a whole lot more friends since I started this blog - and I'm thankful and ever-so grateful that they accepted and loved me, no matter what. But I'm still in the closet, like so many other Indian gay men are, to my family. Thankfully, I haven't been bugged by the Marriage Question, as so many other Indian gay men have, and to be honest, staying away from home has helped. It has helped build myself and my gay identity. I'm not quite the flaming queen that SnowWhite's Stepmother accuses me of, but I am a proud gay person. :)

And then there's the Anonymity question. Two years back, when I started this blog, only a handful of people knew who I was, really. This silly pseudonym, Closetalk, held the rest. A ditsy creature who went on and on about gay parties and lack of men and lack of love and the crazy things that gay men do/think/are... Closetalk stood in for all of that. And then, I made the silly mistake of giving in to my curiosity and my vanity, and I began to interact a bit more with some of the people who came here... and while that was gratifying, I also came to realize, this meant a kind of paradise lost. A lot of people knew who I was. And they knew Closetalk was a sham. Or, in the worst case scenario, they felt that Closetalk was all I was...!

I'd love to be like Rhett Butler and sneer, Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn...!



Anyhow, this afternoon, while chatting on the phone with SS, the conversation veered onto Shakespeare. We yakked on about how stupidly moribund Hamlet was, and how kinky Portia seemed with her 'pound of flesh' and Shylock fixation (even though I looove her 'mercy' solilquy), and how amazingly close to our gang the Three Witches of Macbeth were (bubble bubble, toil and rubble...), and then SS ended with his declaration of love for A Midsummer Night's Dream.

SS: I completely adore it. It's so utterly dreamy and ditsy...

CT: Gossamer fairy wings and organza skirts and slim legs...

SS: Ooo, yes, I adore fairy wings... and the lovely way in which they all fall asleep, and suddenly wake up with some one else, change partners...

CT: You know, that's quite like the GB party scene...

A makes a date to go with B to the party... but B is delayed, so A ropes in C instead, and walks into the disc with him... when C goes off to fetch a drink, A is whirling around in the music and bumps into D, who locks eyes/hands/crotches with A, and they begin dirty dancing on the floor, but just when D and A are about to leave... D gets lost in the crowd, and A comes face to face with E, who grins rakishly and asks him home... but then, while they are driving back and drinking some more on the way, E gets horribly drunk and inept, so his friend F who was driving them home, helps A carry D to his apartment... and A wakes up in the morning in bed with F.



I'm not saying it does happen.. I'm saying it could... *sigh*

Talking about Tarts...

Talking about Tarts...

Now and then, at lunchtime, Natureboy and I meet up for a tart or two at Piccolo's at Fort. And there, amid bites of chocolate, lemon, apple or pineapple cream tart, we talk about our flagging/raging love/sex lives and the general ire that pooor single gay men have to go through. (And even though Natureboy had accused me and SnowWhite's Stepmother ages ago of sitting around and discussing/dissecting the men we do and their techniques/dimensions, I find that I do far more of that with Natureboy these days, than with poor much-maligned SS ever.)



:)

So, on this occassion, Natureboy and I order a Dutch Truffle and a Chocolate Tart, and broach the subject of his recent on-hold relationship.

Closetalk: So, you're saying that you've broken up, but still do each other, when he's in your part of town or vice versa?

Natureboy, slicing a part of the Truffle: Yep. Because I don't see us getting back together in a relationship, but he says he wants to. So this is the middle way out - since I still have some feelings for him, but not strong enough to get back together. This way, I told him, we should both be free to do our own thing, and not get jealous.

CT: Hmmm.. and does it work?

Natureboy, grinning: Not sure. He says he still feels jealous.

CT: And you say you still have feelings? How is it 'mindless sex' if there are feelings involved here?

Natureboy: O, well, I just don't think I'm the sort who's cut out for a monogamous relationship. I mean, there are just too many expectations involved, and I don't want to feel guilty and all. So, this way, we both can have fun, and I don't have to feel responsible, because I've told him all this outright."

I know he gets very needled when the Wicked Witch of the West and I call him 'commitmentphobic', and when I do so now, he predictably argues he's not. "No, no," he says, waving his chocolate-coated spoon, "I don't have anything against a commitment. It's just that I don't think I'm very good as far as commitments go with him! There's a difference!"

So that's when I decide to go for broke, grin and declare "Gosh, you're a playa!"

Natureboy, shocked: I am not a playa!

Closetalk grins some more and doggedly goes ahead: O yes, you are. You're not the sort for a monogamous thing, but you like getting emotional with your men. So you'd like to have an emotional fling with a guy, move on when you're a bit tired or he's tired or whatever, and then find a new guy to have great emotional sex with. Ergo... you're a playa.

Natureboy blinks: You make me sound like this... this... horrible old schemer who plots in bed about who to corrupt next! That's... awful!



CT shrugs nonchalantly and finishes the chocolate tart: O well, if you stopped being all Drama Queen about it, you'd realize that that's exactly what you are, and it doesn't involve 'plotting' so much as just a simple series of unconscious manuevres.

***

So now, I'm wondering whether I'm a playa as well. And though I said very matter-of-factly to Natureboy that there really is nothing 'scheming' or 'plotting' about one, it's true that the word playa doesn't have very nice connotations.

So, look, let's examine Closetalk: he's a guy who can usually be found on the gay chatrooms every day or every other day. indulges in a fair bit of dirty online chat, exchanges some numbers for some dates that usually turn into sex-dates more often than coffee-dates, and has been resolutely single since mid-December. Is he monogamous? Not at all. Is he monogamous in a relationship? Ummmm.... let's not get on the witch-hunt here. :) Is he a playa? Oops. I wonder, now.

The thing is, and I was tellng this to an anonymous stranger on a chatroom just twenty minutes back, I have regular sex, because sex is easy. It's freely available. Like a movie to watch when you're bored. That's how I treat mindless sex. And even though sex is definitely better if it's with someone I'm interested in, I don't wait weeks/ months to meet the 'right guy' to have sex with. As far as sex is concerned, I'm more in search of Mr. Right Now. But I don't mix emotions with my one-night stands. And though I've been slightly worried at my great rapport with my Nice Sex Thing, I've also consciously made the effort to pull away and meet him just once a week or so, for some nice sex and a nice date. The point is: I can't manage to be emotional about someone I'm in bed with, and not think/hope of a possible relationship with him. If I'm going to get into bed with someone I'm interested in from a standpoint of other than just sex, but I know he's not very interested that way, that's when I put the brakes and tell myself it's Just Sex, do the dirty with him, and walk away without looking back. As simple (?) as that.



So there: the whole myth of Closetalk the Playa comes crashing down, to reveal Closetalk the Pansy. :)

OK, so I was never this bad, but....

OK, so I was never this bad, but....



o come on, wasn't this funny...?!

Rent Boy

Rent Boy

So my landlord looked at me and the Flatmate in turn, and pronounced in his slurred voice that there was no way on hell that he'd let us stay on in the apartment for the third consecutive term. Nada. And the great House Hunt has begun again.

Anyone who's ever come to live in good ole Bombay will know that this is one of the most vexing, irritating and (just simply) hateful aspects of the city. Getting a house to live in - a nice house to live in, as you think you deserve and need - is terribly hard to come by. You call up brokers and they inform you outright that you were a duncehead to ever think of being able to find a house for the price you're willing to pay. So, a bit nervous, you jack up that price by a couple of thousand or so... and then start the search. And that leads to phase 2 of the process, after phase 1, that was the Goosebump Stage.



In phase 2, the goosebumps disappear altogether, to give way to Humiliation.

That's when the wily broker takes you on a long and tiring search, showing you house after house, slum after slum, and you wonder why on earth you ever worked so hard day in and day out, if all you can afford in the city is a miserable little hovel. And the broker's false staccato laugh doesn't help any, either. House after house, failed hunt after failed hunt, you experience phase 3, Despondency.

Phase 4 is usually when you do come upon the house you eventually buy. That's called Compromise. And as the months go past, first two then three, you start thinking that maybe this is your dream house after all, and that's phase 5, False Hope. Till, soon enough, the eleven months of the contract run out, and you find yourself at the start of a new hunt, all over again.

And that's where I am, now.

The broker laughs at me and says there's no way I'll be able to get another apartment in my present locality for anything less than 15k. 1-bhks here are hard-put to come by cheap, he says, and I have to agree. What's the alternative? Bandra and South Bombay are equally pricey, if not more, so those are out. Kalina has absolutely nothing around - though Natureboy did suggest: "The Grand Hyatt! So much easier to get firang sex that way!" Aaa, but then I declined.

So, then there's Andheri. East is in the boondocks - nothing for miles but BPOs and dust roads. West is not bad - and here's where we encounter another problem. Andheri, the land famed for its gigantic multiplex movie halls and its popcorn-coke combos, seems to be too prudish for the Will-and-Grace combo.

So, this broker informs me very apologetically, that despite all his best intentions and the ample availability of flats, he will not be able to help me because we are an "unmarried couple", and the building society will throw a fit, and how it would be so much easier if we were a boy-boy or a girl-girl combo instead.



Wow, I think wryly to myself, what an unexpected benefit for same-sex couples - where they least expected it, probably!

So, there you go - I'm stll searching for a place: preferably for both me and the Flatmate, or if not, then just for myself but at a reasonable rate. Suggestions from my friends have involved the YMCA, or moving in with one of my other single (and straight) friends. And, of course, the venerable Natureboy suggested this afternoon over chocolate tart, that I end every GB party standing at the door when the lights come back on, with my best Lost Puppy-dog look on my face and a cardboard in my hand, assuring "WILL FCUK FOR ROOF".

And, no, though we had a good fit of the giggles imagining the subtleties of my outfit and expression during such a venture, I cannot say that the idea is particularly appealing.

:(

The Fox and the Material Girl

The Fox and the Material Girl

Hopped over to the Sports Bar this evening on a date with a cute guy whom I shall call NextDoorBoy, and they were playing amazing songs from the Retro Age. :) And that's when I thought about Samantha Fox.

NextDoorBoy: "I am so completely blown away by the fact that you remember Samantha Fox! I mean, my brother had a huge poster of her in his bedroom!"

Closetalk, grinning happily (this is beer no.2 and I get drunk fast, rememember?): "What's so strange about that now? I loooooooooooooved her Touch me song!"

NextDoorBoy patting CT's legs (was he hitting on me?): "Just that I haven't even met too many straight men who remember her - even though they may find her name familiar!"



Whereupon, I got up and proceeded to do a very ditsy Samantha Fox version in his ear, while he couldn't stop chuckling -

Somewhere in the city, and the night is young,
I was hungry for love, I was hungry for you...
... take my body like you wanted to....
This is tonight - touch me - touch me
I wanna feel your body - your body on me toniiiiiiggght!

But while NextDoorBoy thinks it's all pretty amazing that I remember Sam Fox, she was pretty much a life-sized idol for me, during my pre-teen years - kinda like Madonna. I remember that video of Sam's, where she wore this tight black swimming costume kinda thing, with black stockings and a jewelled belt and a black jacket, and did all these outrageous pelvic thrusts! Not even the fact that she did that gross Chicken Fry song with Bappi Lahiri for Bollywood could dim the awe in which I held her in. She was just - ethereally hot in those big, 36 D (ugh) boobs. :)



CT, in beer-induced academic frame of mind: "Sam was soooooooo much hotter than Madonna from the very beginning. I mean, don't get me wrong - I loooooove Madge. But whereas Sam pushed her sexy image from the very start with those nude photos and all, Madge came off as the rebellious gal in her early years!"

NextDoorBoy: "The Papa Don't Preach Gal, you mean."



CT nods, triumphant: "Exactly! And even later, when she got all glamorous and sexy, it was always like this good ole romantic sexy - not the trashy slutty thing that made Sam such a rage among all the straight guys!"

And, actually, that's why I think why soooo many women and gay men love Madge even now - perhaps more than straight men do. Madge appealed to the romantic or the breakaway, and only rarely did she try to be outright sexy. When she did, in Erotica and all, she always came a controversial cropper, not a runaway success. It was always Material Girl and Like a Virgin and Frozen and Hung Up where she hit paydirt. And she's not really a slut in those - just the hot gal in yards and yards of fabric loosely wound around her, which threatens to unravel. :) Madonna is the gal in the Venetian gondola dancing with the guy in the lion-mask - something which all fags and hags sigh over. Madonna is the gorgeous gal in red, choosing among chocolates and diamonds, a la Marylin - and no, straight men aren't likely to find the prospect of a lighter wallet very sexual.

Noticeboard: Trip, Fling, Ex, Party

Noticeboard: Trip, Fling, Ex, Party

Nothing really to talk about, but it's just been ages (read: five days) since I last posted here, so the fake heartstrings called and I decided to come back and write some crap. In bullet form, one by one -

• G4M is getting terribly boring. I know I've said that a million times already and I find myself going back online every evening nevertheless, but here I'm saying it again. Forget guys to have relationships with, there aren't even cute guys to fcuk anymore in Bombay. SnowWhite's Stepmother is right: why on earth did I leave the Jat/ Punjabi boys in Delhi? *wails*
  
  
• Ok, so that was the usual whiny where-are-all-the-men moment. What else is happening to me? A) Am going to the motherland next week; B) Am having a sort-of-fling with an NRI here in Bombay; C) The ex sent me flowers on V-Day and is now quiet. One by one, then -
  
  
• Calcutta beckons. By next week, this time, I shall indeed be in the land of poor Bongs and uncouth Marus and all the other stereotypes people have about us. Yes, I hate rassagullas, and yes, I'm not very fond of ilish (hilsa) either, and no, I don't go about wearing a starched dhoti all the time. They say I speak with a funny accent, and I'm the most non-Bong Bengali you ever saw. Wat-eva. :) I'm going home for a week.
  
  
• The fling with the NRI. Began as a Sex Thing, like they all do. Chatted online, when he was still in NRI-land, and knew from beforehand that he has this boyfriend he's been with since Donkey's Ears, so it was clearly gonna just be a Sex Thing. Well then, what happened? - Oops. Not to mean, it's still not a Sex Thing, but it's a nice Sex Thing - with dates and laughs and great romantic sex and stayovers and coffees/ brunches the day after. Dangerous territory? I know it is. I told him the other night, "You're a Boyfriend Proxie for me", and he found it amusing, I think. I think he feels very tenderly towards me too, but like I said, he's got a boyfriend, and I'm not interested in being a LTR creature again. Definitely not a Boyfriend No. 2 in a LTR. So it remains a Sex Thing - a nice Sex Thing - for the five-odd months he's got in amchi Mumbai. That's the whole NRI story.
  
  
  
  
• And yes, the ex sent me flowers for Valentines Day. He has been messaging me a coupla tmes since we broke up, and I've been terse with those, but three days before V-day he sees me online and tells me that he's realized what he's been missing, and that he was a fool to let me go, so can we please Get Back Together? Confusion. So I tell him, dahling, I'm not a yoyo you own, and no I'm not going to 'come back', because frankly all the problems that we had earlier (familial, professional, long distance etc etc etc) are still very much there. So I said, maybe it's all just a "O, look, it's V-day tomorrow and I'm all alone" thing, so just get over it. But, floozy that I am, I succumbed when he asked if he could call me the next day and talk some more. He did, we talked, yadayada, and he told me that he didn't want to pressurize me (wateva!) but would like to be in touch. I said exactly that - wateva. :)
  
  Two days later, I get the flowers. Nice ones, really, but SnowWhite's Stepmother thinks they're hideous Gujju things and I should have thrown them out ten seconds after the delivery man left. But I didn't - cuz I'm a floozy who's never received flowers from anyone before. So I kept them. And I actually let myself wonder, after that mandatory "thanks for the flowers"sms-and-reply, why there hasn't been any word from him yet. Yes yes, I know I sound like Pathetic Relationship Rani, and I daresay I am, despite all the random fcuking. Fact of the matter is, it's quite obvious to me that I was right at the very beginning - that this is just that "O, look, it's V-day tomorrow and I'm all alone" thing and he did get over it. And while I'm glad I got the flowers (my first, yay!) I'm also glad that he's not smsing me anymore. The problems really are still there - and they're even harder now, because of the break-up. I don't know how to deal with this, even though I know I'll probably always remember the great times we had.
  
  
• OK, that was the PRR showcasing herself again, so we'll just take a break here.
  
  
• O, and I'm having a party this weekend. The OTTT party - Over The Top Tarts Party, if you must know. Nothing really out-of-the-box - basically a variation of my Slutty Bloggers Party last year. Promises to be fun, so watch out. :)
  

Thong Throng

Throng = To crowd, press into, gather around
Thong = Sexy little number
Think the similar sound is a coincidence?

I had a Samantha moment the other night with my friends, when I was recounting my experience at the g-string shop.

"G-STRING shop????!!!!" exclaimed the Penguin, whirling around so hard from the front passenger's seat, I was half-afraid he might get whiplash.

"Yes, yes, you heard him right," said SnowWhite's Stepmother in a bored voice, composed only because his jaw had already dropped open three hours back when I'd told him about my purchase then.

And suddenly, I felt like I was Samantha Jones. That one who always talks about blowjobs and advises random sex with no commitments to her friends and is well informed about what grade vibrator to buy and what kind of workout one should get during sex, and so on and so forth. A Samantha moment, because SS says I apparently shock him on a routine basis.



But as far as I'm concerned, a gstring/ thong is hardly that news breaking. I mean, sure, it's racy - but then, it's meant to be! It's meant to liven things up in the bedroom when you're bored of good ole cotton boxers between crisp ole cotton sheets. That's when you want to don that black mesh gstring that exposes your butt and you wanna buckle on a great big belt on your waist and slip into those boots. Sure, it's not PG, but then, isn't everyone an A over here?

My first time in an 'exotic underwear shop' was in Calcutta, at the tender age of 17. I had seen an ad of this shop in a magazine, traced it down, and decided to pay it a visit. There was a mousy looking Gujarati man behind the counter, and I walked up and down in front of the store, but wasn't brave enough to actually go in. Finally, the next day, I summoned up my courage and walked in to buy something. And there, next to the mousy Gujju guy, was this complete hunk who was o-so totally droolworthy. I go over and ask him to show me some 'fancy underwear' - I need it for a party, I say - and the mousy fellow gives me a wink and takes a catalogue out. He probably thinks I'm a stripper who's going to perform or something, but I don't really care - I'm too lost in that brochure he's showing me - picture after picture of hot European/ American men in the tiniest and kinkiest of underwear, and I actually asked the mouse whether I could purchase the catalogue, as I had 'lots of friends who also want somethings for the party'.



The things I come up with!

Anyhow, so I buy two pieces from the mouse and his hunky assistant (probably a brother or brother-in-law), and leave. Over the next two years, I use my two purchases (1. black mesh, and 2. leopard print - yes, corny, I know) to my utmost advantage. When you have it, you thong it, dah-ling! :)

***

Coming back to the recent past, there I was, in this shop at Bandra, face to face with some more Gujaratis selling gstrings. (What is it with Gujjus and g-strings now? :) The G-connection...!) The old lady asks me whether I want the 'regular' or the 'fancy' stuff, and when I erm...erm, she shows me Chromozome. That's when I stop being shy and ask for something a bit more 'exotic', and then the old man pipes up, flashes me a big grin with 28 teeth and 4 cavities, and says that what I need definitely is the 'fancy' stuff! So out come the reds, blues, blacks and yellows in nylon, mesh, knit and leather, and I'm sorting through them.

Nicely cheap, at Rs 200, and I'm happy. So is the old man, when he sees my final choice, and he compliments me on my kinky taste and offers me his business card - "Give it to your friends. Spread the word."

From the Penguin and SS' reaction, though, I'm guessing that my friends would prefer I keep the word - and thongs - to myself!

A little bit of Tiffany's in the closet

A little bit of Tiffany's in the closet

So the other night was spent alone, owing to a freakish asexual mood, and the romantic 'mean reds' took hold of me. After a conversation with Sin, in I popped the VCD of Breakfast At Tiffany's, and immersed myself in Audrey's amazing Holly rendition.



And even though the movie-ending deviates from the book's, to embrace a totally soppy a la Bollywood happy ending, I'm so glad it does. I couldn't bear to see that yummy George Peppard losing out on the love of his life, and I couldn't bear to not see Audrey finally save herself. All said and done, the movie is terribly sweet, in a way that the book is perhaps sore, so I took the liberty of jotting down my favourite lines from the script.These are the funny lines, the gruesome lines, the quirky lines, the Holly lines. And some of them, are even the Closetalk lines.

:)

Sid Arbuck: Come on baby, you like me.
Holly: I worship you, Mr. Arbuck. Goodnight, Mr. Arbuck.

Holly: Listen. You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul: The 'mean reds'? You mean, like the blues?
Holly: The blues are because you're getting fat. Or it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Don't you ever get that feeling?
Paul: Sure.
Holly: When I get it, what does any good is to jump into a car and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness. The proud look. Nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then... I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name.



Holly: A girl can't go to Sing Sing with a green face.
Paul: Sing Sing?
Holly: I always thought it was a ridiculous name for a prison, Sing Sing, I mean. Sounds more like an opera house!

Holly: You could always tell what kind of a person a man thinks you are by the earrings he gives you... (tries them on and looks in the mirrr, and the blanches)... I must say, the mind reels!

Holly: I told him, "Look darling, you've got the wrong Holly Golightly." I do as well on trips to the powder room. Any gentleman will give a girl $ 50 for the powder room. And cab fare - that's another $ 50.

Holly: 300. She's very generous. Is that by the week, the hour, or what?
Paul: The Party's over. Out.
Holly: O red, darling Fred, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I was just letting you know I understand. I understand completely.



Holly: I suppose you think I'm very brazen. Or tres fou or something.
Paul: You're no fou-er than anybody else.
Holly: Yes, you do. Everybody does. And I don't mind. It's useful being Top Banana in the shock department.

Paul: Too dirty? Yea, I... suppose they're dirty, too. But only incidentally. Mainly, they're angry, sensitive... intensely felt, and that dirtiest of all dirty words - promising!

Holly: Do you mind if I just get in with you for a minute? It's all right, really, it is. We're friends, that's all.

O J Berman: Come in! It's a party - lot of characters come who aren't expected.

Holly: O J's a great agent. He knows a lot of phone numbers.

O J Berman: Answer the question - is she or isn't she?
Paul: What?
O J Berman: A phony.
Paul: I don't know. I don't think so.
O J Berman: You don't, huh? Well, you're wrong. She is. But on the other hand, you're right, because she's a real phony. She honestly believes all this phony junk.



O J Berman: Know how long it took me to smooth that accent? One year. Know how? We gave her French lessons. Figured, once she could imitate French, she could imitate English.

Paul: He's all right - if you like dark, handsome, rich-looking men with passionate natures and too many teeth.

Holly: Rusty Trawler! He happens to be the ninth richest man in America under 50.
Paul: Now, that, indeed, is a remarkable piece of information to have at your fingertips.
Holly: I keep track of these things.

Holly: It's a mistake you always made, trying to love a wild thing. You were always lugging home wild things - a hawk with a broken wing, a full-grown wildcat with a broken leg, remember? There's something - you mustn't give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to fly into a tree, then to higher trees, then to the sky.

Holly: You know the terrible thing, Fred, darling? I am still Lula Mae - 14 years old, stealing turkey eggs and running through a briar patch. except now I call it having the mean reds.



Holly: Do you think she's talented? Deeply and importantly talented?
Paul: No. Amusing and superficially talented, yes.

Holly: Anyway, every Tom, Dick and Sid sinks-thinks, if he takes a girl out to dinner, she'll just curl up in a litle furry ball at his feet, right? I have, by actual count, been taken to dinner by 26 different rats in the last 2 months. 27, if you count Benny Shacklett, who's in many ways, a Super Rat.

Holly: It should take you exactly four seconds to cross from here to that door. I'll give you two.

Holly: Just a minute. Do I have my nightgown on? No, I don't. Would you turn around for a second? Never mind. That's corny anyway. I'll turn around myself.

Holly: It turns out, he owes $ 700,000. Can you imagine anyone owing $ 700,000? Anyway, that's why he decided to marry the queen of the pig people.

Holly: Well, I've got a wonderful idea. We'll spend the day doing things we've never done before.



Holly: Personally, I think it would be tacky to wear diamonds before I'm 40.

Tiffany's Server: Do they still really have prizes in cracker jack boxes?
Paul: O, yes.
Tiffany's Server: That's nice to know. It gives one a feeling of solidarity, almost of continuity, with the past. That sort of thing.

Paul: Tooley, you're a very stylish girl. can't we end this stylishly?

Paul: Is that what you really think? That I'm no different from all your other rats and super rats? Wait a minute. If that's it... If that's what you really think... there's something I want to give you -
Holly: What's that?
Paul: $ 50 for the powder room.



Holly (out of jail at 10 am): Quel night!

Holly: Hand me my purse, will you, darling? A girl can't read that sort of thing without her lipstick.

Holly: I'm not hotfooting it after Jose, if that's what you think. O no, as far as I'm concerned, he;s the future president of nowhere. Only, why should I waste a good plane ticket?

Paul: You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken. You got no guts. You're afraid to say, "OK, life's a fact." People do fall in love. People do belong to each other. Because that's the only chance any body's got for real happiness. You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing. You're terrified somebody's going to stick you in a cage. Well, baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded by Tulip, Texas, or Somaliland. It's wherever you go because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.



Moon River, wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style some day.
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,
wherever you're going I'm going your way.
Two drifters off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end--
waiting 'round the bend,
my huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.

- music by Henry Mancini, lyrics by Johnny Mercer

The Date-A-Base

The Date-A-Base

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Closetalk preens in front of the poll-mirror again...

Closetalk preens in front of the poll-mirror again...

So, after my last online poll revealed me to be 60-some-odd per cent histrionic, I got on the poll-wagon again, after hittin on some quirky ones on a friend's blog. So there, you go - candid answers to some hilarious questions which revealed some (ahem ahem) interesting insights...

Your Porn Star Name Is...

Jack in the Box

What's Your Porn Star Name?

You Are 82% Sexy

Your Sex Appeal Is: Off the Charts! Let's face it... you're one of the sexiest people around. And you don't let anyone forget it. You're crazy hot, and you deliver on what you promise. You are definitely one wild ride.

How Much Sex Appeal Do You Have?

Your Love Type: ESFP

The Performer In love, you relish every moment and tend to get caught up in passion. For you, sex is how you get in touch with all your senses. Overall, you are creative, popular, and flexible. However, you tend to dislike criticism and avoid any conflict. Best matches: ISTJ or ISFJ

What's Your Love Type?

Some Sane Advice

Some Sane Advice



After being subjected to yet another bout of moaning and groaning about how beautiful love is, SnowWhite's Stepmother bursts out: "O, all you silly gay boys do all this whining for something totally useless - don't you know, the one thing worth living and dying for is a gorgeous Louis Vuitton bag???"

Who's hosting the chat show here?

Who's hosting the chat show here?

Many moons ago, when Allygatorlover had asked me how often I blogged, I replied confidently enough that it was at least two to three times a week. He'd seemed impressed back then. This evening, however, over a late-night coffee conversation with SnowWhite's Stepmother and the Penguin over the online chat phenomenon, I realized, that was hardly the case anymore. The fact is: my blogging activities have been taken over slowly but surely by the rather more lurid promises held out by the Late Night Chat.

I've always looked at online chat as the best form of cruising. No more the roundabout-walkathons of my sallow youth in Minto Park in Calcutta or CP in Delhi. Bombay has been a coming-of-age for me on more counts than one - and Cruising Methods also falls in this category. Listing user profiles, uploading pictures, writing some (hopefully) fun and witty introductory remarks, and then the usual shit about body type, sexual preferences, yadayadayada... The idea of screening who you meet before you meet them was so much more appealing that walking round and round the proverbial mulberry bush, making furtive eye contact, and then probably finding out that the guy you fixed your glare on doesn't know a word of English.



But the thing is, the damn thing is addictive. The thrill of logging in to the website and seeing that popup window scream out NEW MESSAGE is racy, to say the least. That prompts SS to log in regularly from home, even when his assistants are working in the very next room. That prompts me to regularly sign on and chat till late into the night. I've become so regular on a certain chatroom, I can pretty much predict who I'm going to see there, and who I'm not. That place now holds only one novelty for me - chatting with the foreigners who drop by from time to time, looking to chat with an Indian guy, because as I've told SS, I've somehow come to the conclusion that most of the Indian men in Bombay who're online are thoroughly boring or not my type or both. Somehow, it's the foreign guys I prefer to chat with - not just in the hope they're coming to Bombay soon on a little trip that might mean some great sex, but there's also that fantastic thrill that comes from flirting even when they're not coming anywhere close to the subcontinent...



Am I the new Gay Jane Goody?

The Penguin asked us this evening, whether we didn't find the entire situation a tad boring. He had profiles of his own on all three or four major sites, but has deleted them lately, citing 'boredom'. (Boredom, by the way, is a common phenomenon with the Penguin. *grin*) But both SS and I replied that we were anything but bored, really.

"You can leave it, if you make up your mind, after a point, that you've had enough of it, and don't want anymore of the whole stuff," said SS, "But no, I don't think there's a situation boredom sets in. It's like CT said - addictive. Quite addictive."

The addiction in my case, of course, goes an extra step than it does for SS. He doesn't find himself awake at 3 am, chatting with NYC-HotBoi (or whatever they're called), a smart, hot 27 year old doctor from New York City, laughing about the lack of edible Bombay boys, and trying to convince him to come over for his next vacation. I do. And he doesn't have a list of five men who've made tentative plans to have sex with him over the weekend. I do. And he doesn't suddenly bump into an ex online in the dead of night. I do.

This morning, after my sex-date left, and the flatmate was finally free to come out of her room, she asked, very matter-of-factly, while pouring out some water for herself, "So, how was it?"

And I thought - Is this routine? Do the flatmates of all gay men ask them this when a sexual encounter has ended?

Or is it because of my apparent addiction?

Diplomatic Immunity

Diplomatic Immunity

On my way to town Saturday morning, and I'm on the phone with the Penguin. As the train courses its way along the Western Line, he and I end up talking about, well, men. I tell him about the extraordinarily hot Australian guy who I'd met the night before (and who's legacy - chapped and sore lips - are still with me, even as I write this), and the Penguin was guffawing as I described why I like Australians... and it's not just because of their terribly cute accents and the fact that they love kangaroos.

Penguin: "You know, you could become a Gay Cultural Ambassador or something for us, CT..."



CT, grinning modestly while the train chugs along: "Well, if you think that I can help good ole gay folks in any way..." *giggles*

Penguin: "So, is there any country you haven't done? Do tell!"

CT, exercising weak memory cells: "Well, of course there are loads of countries I haven't seen, you know....

I mean, I was glad I did the Pakistani at the Sheraton the other week because that was really really fun and good for neighbourly affection and all that - plus, cuz he was a Punjabi Tiger (if ever they exist!) in the sack - but I haven't really done a Bangladeshi. In our immediate circle of influence, I've also done a Sri Lankan - during the Chennai years, you know - but not up north. No Nepali or Bhutanese...

Never thought I'd be attracted to Chinese men, but then there was that hot guy from Hong Kong who was here on an exchange programme in Andheri West, and he was a pretty vigorous top. Then there was the American of Chinese descent who was a completely great bottom, very smooth, very energetic, very... yummy. And I'm sure it doesn't really count, but then this Aussie fellow lives in Jakarta, so maybe that covers a bit of South East Asia, though not as much as I'd like to...

Americans are the easiest of them all, of course. I mean, they travel to India (and especially Bombay) like anything. Spiritual Upliftment or whatever upliftment - *giggle* LA boys are cute and hot, hot rugged men from the north are very sexy, NYC guys are bindaas like Bombay Boys, and hell, one meets tonnes of Canadians online also - so, am sure I'll do one of those pretty soon.

London's like the S&M capital of the world, you know. It's quite overtaken Amsterdam and all. I mean, I did have this beefy German flight attendant who liked a fair degree of BDSM, but I looove the Brit boys for their sheer versatility - they love it hard and fast, and they also like a good amount of vanilla. The French are pretty sweet and gentle - this one I went out on a date was like the most generous ever - and no, I'm not a hooker... yet! There was the cute Spanish guy in Delhi - very adorable accent, and a powerhouse between the sheets (as if either of us covered up during our encounter - hah!) And the Italian that time in the Hyatt was also damn sweet - and very long lasting too! *shy grin* Had this Swede once, living in Australia, and yes, they are right about colder climates and longer appendages, you know.

O, and did I forget the cute guy from Dubai who was down here from London? The word is Y-U-M-M-Y. :)..."



Penguin, chortling now: "I repeat my question: Is there any country you haven't done?"

CT, ponders: "O, well, of course I haven't done anyone out of Africa, you know. Never had the opportunity to try 'Once you go Black, you never go back', so I don't know about that. And like I said, I want to expand my South East Asian horizons. Russians - now, that's a breed I'd like to examine in detail - Russians and East Europeans. I mean, let's try some Bel Ami for real now! and o, yes, South America... Any country would do. Peru or Brazil. I think Cuba would be nice too."

Penguin agrees: "Cuba would be nice!"

CT sighs: "A nice long puff on a smouldering Cuban cigar... oops, was I profane now?" *grin*

Anyhow, so later that evening, I meet the Family for dinner at Lokhandwalla, and the first thing I do on seeing the Penguin is grin and amble over to him. "You remember that list we discussed this morning? Well, you can scratch Africa and South America off that list, da-ling!"

Penguin looks speculatively at me, a bit afraid of what to expect, but delightedly thrilled as well.

Closetalk, grinning broader now: "African descent from Venezuella! Two birds with one stone!"

'Slap Him, He's French!'

'Slap Him, He's French!'

Natureboy is standing opposite the Lion Gate at Kaala Ghoda, and I'm panting as I reach him. Of course I'm late.

Closetalk: "Terribly sorry. Had to stop off at the Taj for some work. Shall we walk it then? Not too far away."

Natureboy, absentmindedly: "Aaa, it's ok. Was standing and cruising a very cute specimen here while waiting for you."

CT, whirling around, but we're already quite some distance away from where we met: "Where, where?"

Natureboy, chuckling: "O, he's gone now, I think. Very cute. I was looking at him while chatting on the phone with you, and then he looked back, and when I walked ahead and turned around, he'd turned too."

CT, sighing: "Bad luck he cruised on ya now - anyway, maybe he'll be there at the concert. He may like French."



Natureboy shrugs. We're on our way to the latest installement of the Kaala Ghoda Arts Festival, and a French rock band named Merzhin will be performing at the *cue to laugh* Horniman Circle. Twenty minutes later, Natureboy and I are in the thick of a noisy concert, surrounded by a mix of corporate executives and runty collegians, all head banging away to glory.

Natureboy, shaking head: "Ummm.. did you know it was going to be this... loud?"

CT, shrugging: "Well, it is a rock concert. But... no. I didn't. Are we just getting older, or are other people getting younger?"

Natureboy screws up his face now, and makes me promise to leave after the next song. The next song starts and finishes, and just when I think we should be heading back, Natureboy brightens when the guitars and the pipes start again, and says, "O, this sounds much better now. Let's stay for this song."

So the song is actually quite fun, and then I spy this paan-vendor type some way ahead going wild at the group with his hands in the air and all, and I nudge Natureboy: "Think he knows French?"



But my companion screws up his face again, and pronounces a "O dear" when a college kid a little way off screams bloodcurdlingly. While he gazes at the girl in wonder, I groan and say, "I would never act this demented for anyone - except maybe Madonna and Kylie. But only those two. "

The cute frizzy haired frontman for the band announces that they're gonna do a loo-oove song, and the crowd goes crazy again. On cue, a relic from the 70s whips out a lighter, which lasts about ten seconds before it goes off. I'm sniggering, but also enjoying the song. Strange.

Meanwhilel, Natureboy is gazing at a gang of French teenagers who're going wild at the songs, and he's quite intent on the three boys in the group. I follow his line of vision, and wonder aloud, "Do you think they're gay?" as they start dancing with each other. Natureboy sighs, and says, "Naaa, they're French."

Closetalk giggles, but assents.

Seems like I'm in a Musical Mood lately...

Seems like I'm in a Musical Mood lately...

Have highlighted in bold my favourite lines...

You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are...

You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard Saint-Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do...

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do...

I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does...

When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pins
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan on your back and on your legs...

And when the snow falls you're found in Saint Moritz
With the others of the jet-set
And you sip your Napoleon brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't...

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do...

Your name, it is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh, a-ha-ha-ha...

They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn...

Where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do...

I remember the back streets of Naples
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly-born tags, so they try...

So look into my face Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear the scar, deep inside, yes you do...

I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
'Cause I can look inside your head...

(na na-na-na na na-na-na na-na na na na na)
(na na-na-na na na-na-na na-na na na na na)

- Where Do You Go To My Lovely, Peter Sarstedt (1969)

One of the songs I love the most - simply adore the tune, and after listening to it over and over again, the lyrics as well. Apparently, some say it's based on Sophia Loren, and that just adds to the overall colour of the song. Marie-Claire can by anyone, really. Maybe it's because I've just finished reading Breakfast At Tiffany's, and I'm still in the Holly Golightly mode, that the entire idea of this song is so... appealing. I would love to drink wine and not get my lips wet; to keep a racehorse just for laughs, and do millions of other mad, extravagant things that don't seem so mad or extravagant at all, really. :)

One Night In..

One Night In..

One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster...
The bars are temples but the pearls ain't free.
You'll find a God in every golden cloister...
A little flesh, a little history...
I can feel an angel sliding up to me



One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble...
Not much between despair and ecstasy.
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble...
Can't be too careful with your company!
I can feel the devil walking next to me...

- Head Murray, 1984

Now just put Bombay in there, instead of Bangkok.

:)

On the Closet TONIGHT...

On the Closet TONIGHT...

*background music: drum rolls, which give way to jazzy tune composed of loud trumpet and electronica version of I Will Survive, while graphics play scenes of Closetalk's life*

Hello and Welcome to the Tonight Show with Closetalk.

Our Top Story tonight...

*graphics swipe*



India celebrated 51 years of being a republic today, on the 26th of January, 2007. What's that got to do with the Closet? Well, while the Indian PM and the Russian President oversaw the lavish Republic Day parade in New Delhi, homosexuality continues to be a taboo word in India. Other than the sadly-it-seems-it's-here-to-stay Section 377 that outlaws homosexuality in the country and the fact that even Princes become Paupers when they admit they're gay, back home in Bombay, the Beer Man serial killer has been dubbed a gay antisocial by the police and the media. It reminds Closetalk about all the brouhaha in Delhi some years back at the height of the Pushkin Chandra murder case - which ultimately turned out to be a case of egg on the Delhi police's face. Meanwhile, on the social activism front, many gay men in the city ask whether Gay Bombay has failed them: the Mumbai Marathon was concluded last week, but where was the much-expected Pink Contingent??? Questions are bound to be asked at the GB Republic Day party on Saturday, so watch this space for more details.

*graphics swipe*



In the UK, the Roman Catholic Church is expecting the government's decision on whether it will be excempted from having to consider gay couples as prospective parents for its child adoption agencies. While Protestant leaders and the Muslim association have sided with the Catholic body, saying that the law may be well meaning but should not infringe on the 'Right To Conscience', Tony Blair's government is showing some balls and saying it's just plain discrimination against gay couples. A final decision is expected next week.

*graphics swipe*

Last week, there was much furore over a study that allegedly tries to turn gay sheep straight - this week though, it's time for the counter-argument: Oregon Health and Science University researcher Charles Roselli stormed back, saying that his study was to investigate sheep sexuality - and has no links whatsoever with sexual eugenics or trying to turn gay humans straight. For anyone who's interested, 8% of all rams are supposed to be gay - something which has irritated the bejesus of most redneck country farmers in the US. At the time of compiling this report, it was not clear whether the Global Organisation for Homosexual and Other Motivated Organisms (GO-HOMO) would finally take a decision on adding an icon of the ram in the middle of the World Rainbow Flag.

*graphics swipe*



And on the entertainment front, the place for you to head after saturday night's GB party is West Hollywood, USA, - because that's from where the world's largest and newest cruise liner, the Freedom of the Seas, will set off for its all-gay Caribbean cruise on January 28th. On board are going to be more than 20 entertainers, including some of the world's top DJs, comedians, singers and performers, though the company will draw the line at having live sex shows on the high seas. While ports of call for the cruise will be Jamaica, Cayman Islands, and Mexico, the Closet is sincerely hoping that Bombay also finds its way on the wishlist.

That's it for tonight, people. See you again soon for another edition of the Tonight Show with Closetalk. Adios, sayonara, al vida, and do take condoms with you to the GB party just in case you get lucky. :)

Queen of the Dessert

Queen of the Dessert

It's physical
Only logical
You must try to ignore
That it means more than that

That's what good ole Tina says, while crooning what's love got to do with it, and when you think about it, it really is the truth. About sex, I mean, and about rampant sex in particular. In the last few weeks, I've basically been really getting around, if you know what I mean, and while that may cause several of my friends to drop their jaws and treat me like Priscilla Queen of the Dessert, pun intended, it also has seen reactions like: don't overdo it.



The other night, I was chatting online with Sin, and while he was cluing me in on the strange subterfuge of aloofness he has had to adopt to get a certain boy into his life, I was regaling him with stories about the men I'd done on my Delhi holiday and after coming back to amchi Mumbai. I told him about my lust affair with the American, and how I was quiite disappointed that he didn't have sex with me despite acknowledging my (ahem) charms, and Sin chortled, "O my god, you're real easy!"

And the truth is: I am. I am easy. In bed, at any rate.

I'm the kind of guy who grins and smiles and charms, and gets charmed by the other person's grins and smiles and charms as well. And I get charmed very easily. There's only so much I can blame it on my sun sign for - and despite all the "careful, I'm a leo: flattery will get you everywhere" dialogue that I give on the chatrooms sometimes, I know that my swollen head and easy capitulation has got less to do with my sun sign and more to do with the way I am.



... which brings me back to Tina's song. Because, for all the eagerness I display to get in bed with a random stranger, that has zero impact on how I fall in love. I'm one of those strange creatures that can very successfuly divide the left side of the brain from the right, have loads of great sex with a hot guy but not fall headlong in love with him if I don't feel the spark. I can pine in lust, as much as I can pine in love. So when I come back and complain to SnowWhite's Stepmother that the American refused to have sex with me, he gets all alarmed and exclaims: "O, don't tell me you're falling in love with another foreigner, I'll smack you!", while I wonder what the big deal is about. Of course I'm not in love with anybody - but can't a guy just wish that he'd been laid when he wanted it so bad? Is that so difficult to understand? *food for thought*

That explains my utter lack of relationship chemistry with the Cute Doc, whom I went out with on a date a couple of weeks back and spent (by all accounts) a very enjoyable coffee and conversation, minus the sex. But we never met up again, and though we bumped into each other online later many a time, neither of us broached the topic of a second date. The verdict is clear: we share great sexual chemistry, sizzle the dance floor together as if it's all just an elaborate bedroom set for us performing pornstars, but as far as the dating thing goes... we had better find other people.

And then there's the other case: TinselTown Man. Not really the type I'm physically attracted to, but so much fun to talk to. So much fun to drink coffee with for hours. Yet, when I received a weekend invitation to a seaside resort, I turned it down. I know he'll ask me again sometime soon, and the strange part is: I don't know whether I'll say yes this time or not. Am I that desperate for romantic companionship that I'll get into bed with a man I'm not very attracted to, but who makes great flambe? Uncomfortable question.

But who am I fooling? I know myself, and I know sex is a very important part of my life. I may overdo it a bit, compared to most other guys in the city/planet, but I can't get into anything in which the sex is bad.

...As Tina says, it's only logical.

Closetalk Conquers Delhi

Closetalk Conquers Delhi

After all the sobbing about misplaced anniversaries , I decided I needed a break. So I packed my bags, convinced my boss there was urgent work required at our Delhi office and I was the only superhero who could handle it, and left for the capitol.

There were days of preparations prior to the trip: most tourists scour the travel websites for places to visit, while I, having lived in saddi dilli and well versed with its lanes and by-lanes, decided to embark on tourism of another kind. So there was Closetalk in the chatrooms of gay.com, gaydar, guys4men and all the rest, buzzing the Delhi boys, informing them of an impending cyclone and a torrid lust affair with Bombay that was soon to hit them. I compiled a list of 11 hopefuls.



The idea was to go about my conquest of Delhi in an orderly fashion. That was how the Rajputs conquered Delhi. That was how the Aibaks and the ud-Dins conquered Delhi. That was how the Mughals conquered Delhi. That was how the Brits conquered Delhi. And that was how Closetalk was going to conquer Delhi.

So I started at Central Delhi, called up my old friend/lover, the Ponytail Boy and got to work. We had an excellent date at this quiet restaurant in Connaught Place, got suitably high on red wine and knee-rubs against the table, and then drove over to his place. As the cold biting wind cut through the open window I muttered how Delhiites ever get the urge to procreate in the cold - to which Ponytail Boy came up with the simple truth: never heard of body heat?

Ooo, he showed me enough of body heat, though, as we copulated all night. The fact that we left the next day for some utterly sweet pancakes with dollops of maple syrup on top for a late brunch just made the episode more memorable.

I bumped into Ponytail Boy again a couple days later when my friends and I hit Pegs 'N' Pints, Delhi's answer to GB parties, and of course we did loads of grinding on the dance floor. But I had my eyes fixed on the American that night, so I didn't go back home with Ponytail Boy again. And though I got busy with work/socializing/regular sightseeing for the next few days, I decided to resume my exploration of Delhi with quaint little Hauz Khas and a sturdy as-burly-as-you-can-get Punjabi Doc.



Punjabi Doc comes from a rich merchant family who own shops in Hauz Khas, and after the infamous Delhi sealing drive, they were forced to let these premises lie unused. Well, not exactly unused, since they now constituted Punjabi Doc's love nest. So, while I was supposed to meet Lil Mizfit later that night at South Extension, I decided to make a stopover at the Punjabi Doc's love nest.

The thrill was quite exhibitionist really: picture a basement shopping space below a very busy complex on top, and we climb down, where the windows are quite apart, with only glass panes, so that if anyone walking on the road overhead knelt down and peered through, they would be able to see the two of us panting and groaning. Body heat came to the rescue again, as Punjabi Doc unrolled some bedding onto the cold floor, and before long the doctor was giving me some much-needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After a couple of hours, flushed and happy with a great after-sex glow, I meet the Mizfit for coffee and soon we're discussing the lesbian ways of entrapment. Fascinating discussion...

Round three in Delhi, and I sms my first love: hey, strange to think I'm living in your neighbourhood here for awhile. Don't really know what I was thinking, when I messaged him, but he replied back and said he was out with pals, but would like to meet up for a walk later that night. So, while a party was in full swing at the Chimneypot's place, I took a short hop to the park where he was waiting for me.

Surprise surprise, he was actually looking damn cute since the last time I saw him, and we started walking over and over and over around the block. Walked through the park, got chased by stray dogs, kissed in the shadows passionately while hiding from the lurking neighbourhood watchmen, till he finally got the bright idea to take me to his building. It's 3 am at night now, and the two of us climb up the stairs to his landing and go ballistic. This is Exhibitionist Thrill in capitol letters, as we got buck naked on the landing and were soon hot and heavy at it. Fond memories of making love to each other for hours at a stretch earlier, but then those kind of memories don't really have much of a place when you're that aroused and excited, so we took our own sweet time, careful not to grunt or moan too much, highly excited at the thought of discovery and scared too, and I finally make my way back to the Chimneypot's place in the wee hours of the morning, my legs still rubbery. He said, I was the first one he ever loved, and while it all felt good to hear that, I'm not walking down that path again.



Finally, my last day in Delhi came knocking, and I had a brunch date with a cute Spanish guy from Manila at Costa Coffee. Coffee was excellent, and it was better because I knew things were soon going to get steamy...! Thrashed around in the Spanish guy's hotel room for what seemed like ages, till we were both satisfied and then we were out sightseeing - time to watch another great erection: the Qutub Minar. Maybe it was the subject or maybe it was the company, but by the end of of our sightseeing trip, I was up for a second round, and we hightailed it back to his hotel for a quickie before I caught my flight. And while we hurried it up this time, an hour later I was left ruing why we did, because my flight was declared two hours late at the airport.

Waiting at the airport, I sms NatureBoy the woes of my life: only four different guys from a list of 11! The dear boy told me I mustn't be too hard on myself and my standards tend to be much too high for normal mortals like him to follow suit and well, that made me feel marginally better. And like a good little boy who's completely innocent, I decided I must come back and prop up this poor little neglected blog of mine.

Lest anyone think from the whiny post earlier, as was told by a blog reader to a close friends that The Closet is "bottomish and ditsy". (Private joke revealed)