Single, and Married
Welcome to heartbreak hotel. Actually, it's not completely fair to say that. There are possibly thousands of people the world over, categorized as the 'other woman'. When you're gay, you're just 'the other man'. Same role, different gender, possibly more dramatic.
Case 1: You see tall, dark and handsome specimen stalking the room, and you amble over to introduce yourself. A couple of drinks and some seductive comments later, you find yourself smitten. A couple of nights later, you realize that the plain gold band on his finger has a deeper, darker significance: Welcome to the family, honey!
Case 2: You know he's married. But, what the hell, he's gay! If you can do it with a guy who's in a 'relationship', you can very well do it with a guy who's married. So, you ignore the picture of the little woman at home, and just have a mindless screw. Surprise, surprise: he's actually pretty good at what he does! ;-)
Case 3: You fall in love. You tell yourself that's not the way it should go, but you decide to live dangerously, anyway. You decide: (a) you'll make him realize his inner 'gay' self, so that he'll leave the wife and live forever with you, or (b) you're quite comfortable being the 'main man' in his life, and you can share him with the wife. You're one big, happy family, and it doesn't really matter that that the third leg of the triangle (namely, the wife) doesn't know that you exist.
Of course, all of the above cases are valid, only if you actually let yourself get involved, sexually or otherwise, with a married guy. In India, that happens all the time, since a number of men get married very early and very frequently. An acquaintance of mine has been in a 'relationship' with a married guy for the last three years. Hubby visits Acquaintance three days in the week, he goes back to his wife for three other days in the week, and then Hubby spends the last day of the week with a new gay boy: Fuck-of-the-Month. How's that for romance? While some of us may be tempted to sigh in despair and urge Acquaintance to get out of this tangle, he himself is very satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him the 'stability' of a relationship, he says, and time for his own pursuits, recreational or otherwise.
There's the other extreme, of people who can't visualize even a wham-bam with a guy once they learn he's married. Take my friend the Decorator/Designer, for instance. Some weeks back, I'd met this 37-year old married guy (gorgeous!) with a five-year old kid, and while I had no qualms in making it a one-night thingy, Decorator/Designer found the whole affair quite scandalous. This is how the thing looked to me: 1) he's hot, 2) he's going to cheat around anyway, 3) this little one-night thingy is hardly going to break up a marriage, and 4) did I mention he's hot?
Of course, the thing that seems most ludicrous to me in all these cases of single/married men is how on earth their women (wives or girl friends, as the case may be) don't catch on, when (a) boy waxes body religiously, (b) boy is a drama queen straight out of Alice in Wonderland, (c) boy loves buying trinkets for his hands and various neckpieces from Colaba Causeway, (d) boy has too many out-of-town conferences on the weekends... I mean, how dumb can these women be, not catch on?!
Or, are they merely ignoring the 'single' part of the job description, while we gay lovers choose to ignore the 'married' part...?
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
In Black and White
In Black and White
I call them penguins. The birds, short and stumpy, cute and sweet, which like to live in the Antarctic, (but if Madagascar gets it right, they thrive in the tropics), can't fly and flip flop on the snow. Penguins. The nice, affable men you meet all the time when you're gay, with whom you get along fabulously with, have a great date or two, fantasize about a beautiful kiss or two with, and then they end up flip flopping on the... erm, snow, in front of you. Penguins. Nice guys, really, but you tell yourself that you can do without them. They just add to the muddled confusion in your head.
So let's count the penguins. There was Nature Boy, about whom enough has already been said, and since we're on good terms now, I shall refrain from being bitchy against (for some time at least!). There's my friend K, who recently found himself dumped by one more bird. Very lovable creature, fine plummage, great smile, and admirable intelligence factor. Two months later, however, the expected jitters came out. One fine morning my friend could hear the penguin squawks, and the writing was on the wall.
And then, of course, there's me. There was this tall, lissome bird I was seeing, and after around three weeks of dating, he turns around and says that he really didn't think we were 'seeing' each other: things had reached a very nice and comfortable 'platonic' stage for him, and he 'assumed' that things were the same at my end, too.
Penguin squawks.
I wonder if I'm being bitter. I wonder if it's a coincidence that the book I just finished reading was one which tries to describes why men leave women and women keep wanting more. Just substitute both 'women' and 'men' back there for 'gay men', and there you have it: the living proof of both why penguins thrive in subtropical Bombay, and how gay men are perpetual Old Cows looking to turn into New Cows.
But bitterness is frankly beyond me. Or perhaps, it empowers me. Isn't every gay man out there bitter to a certain extent? Every smart gay man? I know that my last penguin's a nice guy (heck, that's why he qualifies as a penguin in the first place, and not a jackal), and maybe I shouldn't really be so vocal about my disappointments, but hell, maybe that's just me - "bratty" and "childlike". Maybe I'm the stupid ass who needs his head cleaned of all the "intellectual blah" inside, because when one partner sees things all friendly, the other should certainly stop imagining the bedroom. Right?
Probably.
But then, I guess, I still let those damn penguins fool me.
I call them penguins. The birds, short and stumpy, cute and sweet, which like to live in the Antarctic, (but if Madagascar gets it right, they thrive in the tropics), can't fly and flip flop on the snow. Penguins. The nice, affable men you meet all the time when you're gay, with whom you get along fabulously with, have a great date or two, fantasize about a beautiful kiss or two with, and then they end up flip flopping on the... erm, snow, in front of you. Penguins. Nice guys, really, but you tell yourself that you can do without them. They just add to the muddled confusion in your head.
So let's count the penguins. There was Nature Boy, about whom enough has already been said, and since we're on good terms now, I shall refrain from being bitchy against (for some time at least!). There's my friend K, who recently found himself dumped by one more bird. Very lovable creature, fine plummage, great smile, and admirable intelligence factor. Two months later, however, the expected jitters came out. One fine morning my friend could hear the penguin squawks, and the writing was on the wall.
And then, of course, there's me. There was this tall, lissome bird I was seeing, and after around three weeks of dating, he turns around and says that he really didn't think we were 'seeing' each other: things had reached a very nice and comfortable 'platonic' stage for him, and he 'assumed' that things were the same at my end, too.
Penguin squawks.
I wonder if I'm being bitter. I wonder if it's a coincidence that the book I just finished reading was one which tries to describes why men leave women and women keep wanting more. Just substitute both 'women' and 'men' back there for 'gay men', and there you have it: the living proof of both why penguins thrive in subtropical Bombay, and how gay men are perpetual Old Cows looking to turn into New Cows.
But bitterness is frankly beyond me. Or perhaps, it empowers me. Isn't every gay man out there bitter to a certain extent? Every smart gay man? I know that my last penguin's a nice guy (heck, that's why he qualifies as a penguin in the first place, and not a jackal), and maybe I shouldn't really be so vocal about my disappointments, but hell, maybe that's just me - "bratty" and "childlike". Maybe I'm the stupid ass who needs his head cleaned of all the "intellectual blah" inside, because when one partner sees things all friendly, the other should certainly stop imagining the bedroom. Right?
Probably.
But then, I guess, I still let those damn penguins fool me.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
"That don't impress me much....!"
"That don't impress me much....!"
So, we're discussing impressions today. What do people make of you? Yesterday, someone I'm dating currently told me that I'm either 'childish' or 'childlike'. I had a lump in my throat then, and wondered to myself whether he was a nutcase or not, but then I relaxed when he smiled and said I was probably the latter.
So that's impression number one for me: childlike.
Then there was the SourApple who called me many moons ago, and told me that I should go easy on the sleeping around and one-night thingy, because (heaven forbid!) I might just go ahead and get myself a reputation!... and that might be tricky, if I planned on getting into a relationship anytime in the future. It was basically the 'loose character' tag that our grandmothers had to protect themselves from, when they were being wooed, courted and generally being married off.
Impression number two for me: slut.
(And of course, there was Bombay Godmother who once affectionately called me slutteshwari. Sigh...!)
When we broke up and all, Natureboy once said that he couldn't handle being in a relationship with me, because I would want to be in the know of his whereabouts, and would want to be the centre of his universe, yadayadayada, and all that jazz.
So, impression number three for me: Narcisisstic prick.
(Of course, everything is quite fine now with Natureboy, and I plan to break an earthen vessel on his head sometime soon because of the comment he made.)
Walk into a party with me, and I'll be dancing merrily to some stupid hiphop tune, then stand sedately with my drink in hand when they play Kuan mein doob jaungi, but then do the John Travolta moves when ABBA squeals Voulez Vouz, and then head bang if they play the scarce U2 number. And of course, nobody ever approaches me at any of these parties. A number of queries to a number of friends have yielded the same result...
Impression number four for me: Wallflower-cum-sex god-cum-Diva.
Hmmmmm....
And what about the sweet little boy inside? The sheep in wolf's clothing in sheep's clothing? What about the great guy with a sense of humour and a sense of ease to match? Mmm.....
I think I like 'childlike' best. ;-)
So, we're discussing impressions today. What do people make of you? Yesterday, someone I'm dating currently told me that I'm either 'childish' or 'childlike'. I had a lump in my throat then, and wondered to myself whether he was a nutcase or not, but then I relaxed when he smiled and said I was probably the latter.
So that's impression number one for me: childlike.
Then there was the SourApple who called me many moons ago, and told me that I should go easy on the sleeping around and one-night thingy, because (heaven forbid!) I might just go ahead and get myself a reputation!... and that might be tricky, if I planned on getting into a relationship anytime in the future. It was basically the 'loose character' tag that our grandmothers had to protect themselves from, when they were being wooed, courted and generally being married off.
Impression number two for me: slut.
(And of course, there was Bombay Godmother who once affectionately called me slutteshwari. Sigh...!)
When we broke up and all, Natureboy once said that he couldn't handle being in a relationship with me, because I would want to be in the know of his whereabouts, and would want to be the centre of his universe, yadayadayada, and all that jazz.
So, impression number three for me: Narcisisstic prick.
(Of course, everything is quite fine now with Natureboy, and I plan to break an earthen vessel on his head sometime soon because of the comment he made.)
Walk into a party with me, and I'll be dancing merrily to some stupid hiphop tune, then stand sedately with my drink in hand when they play Kuan mein doob jaungi, but then do the John Travolta moves when ABBA squeals Voulez Vouz, and then head bang if they play the scarce U2 number. And of course, nobody ever approaches me at any of these parties. A number of queries to a number of friends have yielded the same result...
Impression number four for me: Wallflower-cum-sex god-cum-Diva.
Hmmmmm....
And what about the sweet little boy inside? The sheep in wolf's clothing in sheep's clothing? What about the great guy with a sense of humour and a sense of ease to match? Mmm.....
I think I like 'childlike' best. ;-)
Friday, August 19, 2005
The Ex Factor
The Ex Factor
So when do you decide that you can be 'friends' again? After going through a phase of wishing away your ex-lover, when do you actually start looking at him like a nice guy again - and it really doesn't matter that he's not got the hots for you at all.... mmmm, excuse me while I lick my lips, before proceeding to jump into a lengthy expplanation.
The trigger for this post is a recent event: I'm meeting Natureboy again. Strictly on a platonic basis, however. I'm talking to him, meeting him for lunch, and even discussing the cute firangs who traipse about South Bombay with him. Of course, my close friends think it's ludicruous. As far as they're concerned, Natureboy is still persona non grata, or at least, should be, around me. I agreed with them... till about a month back.
What happened a month back? I'm not sure - I think, it happened when I decided I want to look for date-material again - and not just the one-night stand variety. I think that signified: if I can look again, I must be over him. And of course, it's a farce to not indulge. We both crack lousy jokes, we're both sluts (I still am, he seems to have turned asexual now, though! heheheh), we both follow porn movies avidly (he never stopped, I've restarted), and we both love fatty food desserts. Hell, there was always chemistry there - I guess it depends on where you take that chemistry to.
But... getting back to the WHEN???? question at hand, I wonder if my answer ("When you're ready to date again") works. I have five exes, including Natureboy. The first was an asshole, and I'm never going to forgive him because of something particularly venomous he did, though I would smile at him if I ever meet him and would probably go to bed with him if he begged me - both of which have happened, since we broke up. (I said I was a slut!)
The second is a ghost in Delhi, whom I smile at, and exchange mouldy jokes with, but would never consider being friends with or even sleeping with again.
The third is a great friend of mine - one of the very few gay friends I have, and though we always make plans to have sex when we meet up next, that never happens - perhaps that's why we're still going strong! ;-)
The fourth is an angel, but I'm not in active touch with him. He called to wish me on my birthday, and I felt glad. We still call each other friends, but there's... distance. Somehow. Very little chemistry in the first place, I think.
And the fourth is Natureboy.
Yes, I never had a point to prove, really. Just wanted to talk about my lovely exes. ;-)
flashpoint:
You can vote against Article 377 online here. Just doing my bit for Gay Rights. Ahem, ahem... ;-)
So when do you decide that you can be 'friends' again? After going through a phase of wishing away your ex-lover, when do you actually start looking at him like a nice guy again - and it really doesn't matter that he's not got the hots for you at all.... mmmm, excuse me while I lick my lips, before proceeding to jump into a lengthy expplanation.
The trigger for this post is a recent event: I'm meeting Natureboy again. Strictly on a platonic basis, however. I'm talking to him, meeting him for lunch, and even discussing the cute firangs who traipse about South Bombay with him. Of course, my close friends think it's ludicruous. As far as they're concerned, Natureboy is still persona non grata, or at least, should be, around me. I agreed with them... till about a month back.
What happened a month back? I'm not sure - I think, it happened when I decided I want to look for date-material again - and not just the one-night stand variety. I think that signified: if I can look again, I must be over him. And of course, it's a farce to not indulge. We both crack lousy jokes, we're both sluts (I still am, he seems to have turned asexual now, though! heheheh), we both follow porn movies avidly (he never stopped, I've restarted), and we both love fatty food desserts. Hell, there was always chemistry there - I guess it depends on where you take that chemistry to.
But... getting back to the WHEN???? question at hand, I wonder if my answer ("When you're ready to date again") works. I have five exes, including Natureboy. The first was an asshole, and I'm never going to forgive him because of something particularly venomous he did, though I would smile at him if I ever meet him and would probably go to bed with him if he begged me - both of which have happened, since we broke up. (I said I was a slut!)
The second is a ghost in Delhi, whom I smile at, and exchange mouldy jokes with, but would never consider being friends with or even sleeping with again.
The third is a great friend of mine - one of the very few gay friends I have, and though we always make plans to have sex when we meet up next, that never happens - perhaps that's why we're still going strong! ;-)
The fourth is an angel, but I'm not in active touch with him. He called to wish me on my birthday, and I felt glad. We still call each other friends, but there's... distance. Somehow. Very little chemistry in the first place, I think.
And the fourth is Natureboy.
Yes, I never had a point to prove, really. Just wanted to talk about my lovely exes. ;-)
flashpoint:
You can vote against Article 377 online here. Just doing my bit for Gay Rights. Ahem, ahem... ;-)
Monday, August 15, 2005
Independent closet?
Independent closet?
Ok, so this post was written on August 15, and I delayed in getting it out... Also, the words/ phrases in blue below are corrected mentions, after my goof-ups were reported to me. Sorry :-)
I feel like Bill Pullman of Independence Day saying: Today.... is our Independence Day! August 15, and hello to all of you. Get your tricolour jhandaas out, for this is the day that your country achieved independence.
I'm at pains here to find some gay angle here to Indian independence. If this were the didactic kind of a blog, I could talk about the irrelevance of Artiucle 377 that still disallows homosexuality and other 'sexual acts outside the order of nature'. If I go out and proclaim that I'm gay, chances are, I may be put away in jail. Archaic laws remain in use.
That reminds me: there's a rally tomorrow, organised by some leading LGBT groups, including India's most famous gay man, Ashok Kavi, at what is arguably Bombay's second-most famous landmark after the Gateway of India, Flora Fountain, to protest Article 377. According to sources, more than 200 people are expected. Perhaps, the number would have been greater, had they organised the protest march on a weekend, rather than on a Tuesday afternoon. Then again, perhaps, the impact would have been greater, had they organised it today.
Now, that would have made headlines!
Being a gay Indian in the 58th year of Indian independence... hmmm... perhaps that merits a long winded essay or two. A friend of mine is going down for that march at Flora tomorrow, and I asked him why: there might be cameras there, they might take your picture, I cautioned, the typical closet talk. My friend hesitated, then said, "Well, if I see that it's getting very public, I might just hang around at the sidelines, and not join in the actual march, but I want to be there, all the same. If we don't stand up for our rights, who on earth is going to help us get them?"
My frend, by the way, is hardly reknowned for activism. He's just an ordinary gay man in Bombay, from a "decent" family, quite well-off, and prone to partying every other night. I would call him a Page 3 person, were it not for the negative hues associated with the term. And he's going to lend his voice against Article 377.
I'm going to confess something here: I told my friend that I'm not going along with him, because I have a fixed-hours job that I can't circumvent for a rally of any sorts... I'm actually glad I have that excuse. I guess, I'm still not ready to leave my closet. Not even to stand up for my rights.
Ok, so this post was written on August 15, and I delayed in getting it out... Also, the words/ phrases in blue below are corrected mentions, after my goof-ups were reported to me. Sorry :-)
I feel like Bill Pullman of Independence Day saying: Today.... is our Independence Day! August 15, and hello to all of you. Get your tricolour jhandaas out, for this is the day that your country achieved independence.
I'm at pains here to find some gay angle here to Indian independence. If this were the didactic kind of a blog, I could talk about the irrelevance of Artiucle 377 that still disallows homosexuality and other 'sexual acts outside the order of nature'. If I go out and proclaim that I'm gay, chances are, I may be put away in jail. Archaic laws remain in use.
That reminds me: there's a rally tomorrow, organised by some leading LGBT groups, including India's most famous gay man, Ashok Kavi, at what is arguably Bombay's second-most famous landmark after the Gateway of India, Flora Fountain, to protest Article 377. According to sources, more than 200 people are expected. Perhaps, the number would have been greater, had they organised the protest march on a weekend, rather than on a Tuesday afternoon. Then again, perhaps, the impact would have been greater, had they organised it today.
Now, that would have made headlines!
Being a gay Indian in the 58th year of Indian independence... hmmm... perhaps that merits a long winded essay or two. A friend of mine is going down for that march at Flora tomorrow, and I asked him why: there might be cameras there, they might take your picture, I cautioned, the typical closet talk. My friend hesitated, then said, "Well, if I see that it's getting very public, I might just hang around at the sidelines, and not join in the actual march, but I want to be there, all the same. If we don't stand up for our rights, who on earth is going to help us get them?"
My frend, by the way, is hardly reknowned for activism. He's just an ordinary gay man in Bombay, from a "decent" family, quite well-off, and prone to partying every other night. I would call him a Page 3 person, were it not for the negative hues associated with the term. And he's going to lend his voice against Article 377.
I'm going to confess something here: I told my friend that I'm not going along with him, because I have a fixed-hours job that I can't circumvent for a rally of any sorts... I'm actually glad I have that excuse. I guess, I'm still not ready to leave my closet. Not even to stand up for my rights.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe
Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe
This one is actually going to be about gay blogging, and not just me spewing out crap about my erratic and erotic escapades (though some would say, that's what I do best.). Indian gay blogging, to be precise. I've always wanted to find out some guys in India who blog about their homosexuality, whether openly or from within a closet, and I found a couple of them, the other day.
My favourite is Kris', to which I've added a link on the right hand side. Kris is a gay doctor somewhere in Bombay, who saves lives by day and dreams of men by night. Wow - a hot Baywatch hunk gone gay? hehehe.. I wish! (which doesn't mean that he's not, of course.....!) The reason I like Kris' posts? They're amazingly easy: they're about a life, and the fact that he's gay is not the be-all and end-all. There's no sermonizing about gay people - and that's great. In the last few days, I've come across a couple of gay blogs which are full of activism - and it simply leaves me cold.
And that begs an explanation. The critics would slam me for being a 'bad' gay person: I stay behind the closet, I write trivialties about my gay sex (and otherwise) life, and I try to stay as noncerebral as possible. I love the feeling of being unattached. I love the feeling of being independent. I hate to stand up for (and this demands capital letters) Gay Rights. I'm an awful (awful!) person.
That's one way of looking at it. ;-)
But I love the idea of meeting up people who talk about their gay lives online. It's a thrill, perhaps. Something like being a voyeur. Something also like seeing a mirror reflection. A gay person in another situation, in another city perhaps, talking about.....
Balderdash!
I can't explain it. I just love it. Sheesh! This is the last time I try to be all profound. Will stick to the sensational stuff from now on! Harrrrrummmph!
This one is actually going to be about gay blogging, and not just me spewing out crap about my erratic and erotic escapades (though some would say, that's what I do best.). Indian gay blogging, to be precise. I've always wanted to find out some guys in India who blog about their homosexuality, whether openly or from within a closet, and I found a couple of them, the other day.
My favourite is Kris', to which I've added a link on the right hand side. Kris is a gay doctor somewhere in Bombay, who saves lives by day and dreams of men by night. Wow - a hot Baywatch hunk gone gay? hehehe.. I wish! (which doesn't mean that he's not, of course.....!) The reason I like Kris' posts? They're amazingly easy: they're about a life, and the fact that he's gay is not the be-all and end-all. There's no sermonizing about gay people - and that's great. In the last few days, I've come across a couple of gay blogs which are full of activism - and it simply leaves me cold.
And that begs an explanation. The critics would slam me for being a 'bad' gay person: I stay behind the closet, I write trivialties about my gay sex (and otherwise) life, and I try to stay as noncerebral as possible. I love the feeling of being unattached. I love the feeling of being independent. I hate to stand up for (and this demands capital letters) Gay Rights. I'm an awful (awful!) person.
That's one way of looking at it. ;-)
But I love the idea of meeting up people who talk about their gay lives online. It's a thrill, perhaps. Something like being a voyeur. Something also like seeing a mirror reflection. A gay person in another situation, in another city perhaps, talking about.....
Balderdash!
I can't explain it. I just love it. Sheesh! This is the last time I try to be all profound. Will stick to the sensational stuff from now on! Harrrrrummmph!
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
First Cut
First Cut
I'm in the mood for Irani these days. The other day, a colleague from work and I visited this Irani joint in the back alleys of Fort. Nestled there, close to the Bombay Stock Exchange, frequented by middle aged Patelbhais and fat Parsi ladies with striped skirts, sits this place called Cafe Military, which serves up the most divine kheema with egg. Picture a bowl full of horribly unhealthy oil-laced kheema fry, topped with a poached egg, and we have three rolls of bun-maska (bread-butter, in Mumbaiya Irani lingo) alongside. And, yes, two cups each of the strongest, sweetest tea. Irani ishtyle.
Irani Heaven.
I've always wanted to try food at one of these old-world Irani food joints, and especially after I read that much-hyped book The Boyfriend. While the book itself leaves a lot to be desired, its descriptions of the Irani cafes dotting South Bombay, with their unique marble topped tables, and their bearded servers in shalwar-kurtas tantalised me to no end. So, alright, Military has no shalwar-clad servers, but Cafe Olympia on Colaba Causeway does. In addition to an amazing kheema-omelette, Olympia whips up an utterly divine mango juice.
Irani heaven made sense again to me, later that day, when I bumped into A. He happens to be this particular young man I had indulged in some dirty dancing with ages ago, at one of the GB parties, and exchanged numbers as well. Three months later, after absolutely no correspondence from either side, we bump into each other again at last week's party, and exchange numbers for the second time. Finally, that evening, I get a buzz from Iranian A, and I meet him at a ticket counter at one of Western Railways' hyper-efficient stations. Picture 5'9'' tall, lovely tanned frame, biceps that make me salivate, strips of black hair that curl above the two top buttons of his shirt (which are undone, by the way), and a lovely bubble butt. Mmmm..... so.... we chatted, smiled, and walked back to my place. Shut the door, and let the fireworks begin.
Two hours later, after I closed the door behind him, and plopped down on my bed, I took another glug of the vodka bottle we'd uncapped, and smiled to myself.
Irani heaven!
I'm in the mood for Irani these days. The other day, a colleague from work and I visited this Irani joint in the back alleys of Fort. Nestled there, close to the Bombay Stock Exchange, frequented by middle aged Patelbhais and fat Parsi ladies with striped skirts, sits this place called Cafe Military, which serves up the most divine kheema with egg. Picture a bowl full of horribly unhealthy oil-laced kheema fry, topped with a poached egg, and we have three rolls of bun-maska (bread-butter, in Mumbaiya Irani lingo) alongside. And, yes, two cups each of the strongest, sweetest tea. Irani ishtyle.
Irani Heaven.
I've always wanted to try food at one of these old-world Irani food joints, and especially after I read that much-hyped book The Boyfriend. While the book itself leaves a lot to be desired, its descriptions of the Irani cafes dotting South Bombay, with their unique marble topped tables, and their bearded servers in shalwar-kurtas tantalised me to no end. So, alright, Military has no shalwar-clad servers, but Cafe Olympia on Colaba Causeway does. In addition to an amazing kheema-omelette, Olympia whips up an utterly divine mango juice.
Irani heaven made sense again to me, later that day, when I bumped into A. He happens to be this particular young man I had indulged in some dirty dancing with ages ago, at one of the GB parties, and exchanged numbers as well. Three months later, after absolutely no correspondence from either side, we bump into each other again at last week's party, and exchange numbers for the second time. Finally, that evening, I get a buzz from Iranian A, and I meet him at a ticket counter at one of Western Railways' hyper-efficient stations. Picture 5'9'' tall, lovely tanned frame, biceps that make me salivate, strips of black hair that curl above the two top buttons of his shirt (which are undone, by the way), and a lovely bubble butt. Mmmm..... so.... we chatted, smiled, and walked back to my place. Shut the door, and let the fireworks begin.
Two hours later, after I closed the door behind him, and plopped down on my bed, I took another glug of the vodka bottle we'd uncapped, and smiled to myself.
Irani heaven!
Friday, August 05, 2005
Medicine isn't bitter, all the time
Medicine isn't bitter, all the time
Ta-da! There's a gay party on tonight, and I'm going! Of course, there have been lots of parties between now and then, though I haven't blogged about them. Most of them were fun, actually. I've been meeting a lot of interesting people. Like, at the last one, I bumped into Cute Doc, whom I haven't seen for ages, and it was wild! Cute Doc and I get along like a house on fire, we go at it hammer and tongs in the clever repartee front, and we're fabulous in bed! He wasn't in town for the last few months, though, so he fell away in limbo... but, the other night was great: we swung like crazy on the dance floor and even did a couple of make-out sessions. I've considered telling Cute Doc that we should date... but... not too sure about that. We're both sluts and we have great fun, but I'm not sure how great it would be like, to be together together!
Anyhow, Cute Doc had his friend from Hyderabad, Cute Punjabi Doc with him, and I rocked with CPD last time.
;-)
Flashback over now.
The party's in less than two hours, and Cute Doc is over at my place. (Yes, he still kisses divinely! hehehe) He's watching some silly music show on Sony with my flatmate, while I'm typing. We're gonna talk about what to wear and we're gonna get in a cab together. Flatmate will get all misty eyed and parenty and tell us to have a great time.
I'm hoping they play Aajaa balliye on the dance floor! tonight.
Ta-da! There's a gay party on tonight, and I'm going! Of course, there have been lots of parties between now and then, though I haven't blogged about them. Most of them were fun, actually. I've been meeting a lot of interesting people. Like, at the last one, I bumped into Cute Doc, whom I haven't seen for ages, and it was wild! Cute Doc and I get along like a house on fire, we go at it hammer and tongs in the clever repartee front, and we're fabulous in bed! He wasn't in town for the last few months, though, so he fell away in limbo... but, the other night was great: we swung like crazy on the dance floor and even did a couple of make-out sessions. I've considered telling Cute Doc that we should date... but... not too sure about that. We're both sluts and we have great fun, but I'm not sure how great it would be like, to be together together!
Anyhow, Cute Doc had his friend from Hyderabad, Cute Punjabi Doc with him, and I rocked with CPD last time.
;-)
Flashback over now.
The party's in less than two hours, and Cute Doc is over at my place. (Yes, he still kisses divinely! hehehe) He's watching some silly music show on Sony with my flatmate, while I'm typing. We're gonna talk about what to wear and we're gonna get in a cab together. Flatmate will get all misty eyed and parenty and tell us to have a great time.
I'm hoping they play Aajaa balliye on the dance floor! tonight.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Closetalk goes to Gay Porn Land
CloseTalk goes to Gay Porn Land
I've been surfing the web, and talking to a lot of old friends. have been staying up late chatting in gay rooms and typically trying to hold on to the 'slut' tag. (Kidding!) But I did come across two very interesting blogs.
Warning: What you're about to see may just tantalise your tastebuds, so make sure you're well within your diet limit.
Also: There may be some nudity involved, so make sure your boss/ parents are far away when you're viweing this.
First on the list is Michael Lucas' blog. Lucas is one of those legendary gay porn stars with a killer smile and killer strokes to match. I have loads of pics of the guy in various states of undress/ copulation in my computer at home, and so it was a pleasant surprise to find out that he actually writes a blog. A well updated one, at that! What does he talk about? Well, obviously, porn (which is his profession!), but also almost everything under the sun. The man gets controversial at times, is opinionated always, but he puts his point across clearly. Hell, it's his blog, and he can do whatever he wants to on it! Love him, hate, love to hate him - whatever! - I think it's a cool place to wander by, if you want something fun and sexy.
Next up, is this other place called the Gay Porn Blog. Yes, it's about the gay porn industry. Everything about it you'd probably ever want to know, and a tad extra. Complete with all the spice and the gossip. Strictly for those into porn and the funnies associated with it. The gals who read this could find it hilarious, but I'm warning you guys that they have a lot of full frontal nudity posted on this place, so be careful to clear your history cache after you've gone to the site, if you're on a shared computer. But, generally, I think you should have fun with this one - the guys write very in a very pacy style, very bitchy sometimes, too. But hell, that's all part of being gay, right?
For the record, I've provided links to both blogs, under the right hand corner of this page.
I've been surfing the web, and talking to a lot of old friends. have been staying up late chatting in gay rooms and typically trying to hold on to the 'slut' tag. (Kidding!) But I did come across two very interesting blogs.
Warning: What you're about to see may just tantalise your tastebuds, so make sure you're well within your diet limit.
Also: There may be some nudity involved, so make sure your boss/ parents are far away when you're viweing this.
First on the list is Michael Lucas' blog. Lucas is one of those legendary gay porn stars with a killer smile and killer strokes to match. I have loads of pics of the guy in various states of undress/ copulation in my computer at home, and so it was a pleasant surprise to find out that he actually writes a blog. A well updated one, at that! What does he talk about? Well, obviously, porn (which is his profession!), but also almost everything under the sun. The man gets controversial at times, is opinionated always, but he puts his point across clearly. Hell, it's his blog, and he can do whatever he wants to on it! Love him, hate, love to hate him - whatever! - I think it's a cool place to wander by, if you want something fun and sexy.
Next up, is this other place called the Gay Porn Blog. Yes, it's about the gay porn industry. Everything about it you'd probably ever want to know, and a tad extra. Complete with all the spice and the gossip. Strictly for those into porn and the funnies associated with it. The gals who read this could find it hilarious, but I'm warning you guys that they have a lot of full frontal nudity posted on this place, so be careful to clear your history cache after you've gone to the site, if you're on a shared computer. But, generally, I think you should have fun with this one - the guys write very in a very pacy style, very bitchy sometimes, too. But hell, that's all part of being gay, right?
For the record, I've provided links to both blogs, under the right hand corner of this page.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Slut in my soul
Slut in my soul
A friend of mine is turning slutboy, and I'm wondering whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Being a slut appeals to me; in part, a lot because of the steady diet of porn I've been watching through my formative college years. I've got a very simple logic: like every other sensitive young man out there, I'm looking for the Love Of My Life (tall, dark, handsome, yadayadayada...), but till such time I actually bump into Mr Right, and both of us take the time off to understand and accept each other, I'd be an asexual dolt to refuse the free sex that comes my way. Strangely enough, that eminently principled logic serves to categorise me as 'slut', according to some people I knew.
All very well and good, since I really don't care a fig.
But... a friend of mine is turning slut. A friend of mine has decided that till such time in the unforeseeable future that he finds the Love Of His Life (he can't be tall, dark, handsome too, or else, the two of us would be at loggerheads!), he will go out there and look for the free sex that's always available in the Meat Market of Bombay. By all accounts, he's getting to be a pretty successful slut too - even by my high standards - and that's what sets me thinking. Perhaps, even something as drastic as soul-searching.
I don't want him to be a slut. It's as simple as that. Why? I'm not exactly sure. Something just... stings. I want him to be happy, and I don't think that slutting around is the best way to be happy. I want him to wait this one out, at least for some time, and be a teenyweeny bit patient. But I can't help thinking that I'm being hypocritical here: why on earth what's good for the goose not be equally fine for the gander? What on earth can I say to that? Does that old adage about people knowing how to live their pals' lives well enough, but not their own, hold good here? Will I be able to escape scrutiny with that line of argument?
Knowing my pigheaded friend, it's not bloody likely.
So, that's it then. This is my venting space. My space to sigh and hope that it all turns out good for him, hope that he doesn't take me in the wrong sense, and realize that I only want the very best for him - while he sluts around.
In the meantime, I have competition! ;-)
A friend of mine is turning slutboy, and I'm wondering whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Being a slut appeals to me; in part, a lot because of the steady diet of porn I've been watching through my formative college years. I've got a very simple logic: like every other sensitive young man out there, I'm looking for the Love Of My Life (tall, dark, handsome, yadayadayada...), but till such time I actually bump into Mr Right, and both of us take the time off to understand and accept each other, I'd be an asexual dolt to refuse the free sex that comes my way. Strangely enough, that eminently principled logic serves to categorise me as 'slut', according to some people I knew.
All very well and good, since I really don't care a fig.
But... a friend of mine is turning slut. A friend of mine has decided that till such time in the unforeseeable future that he finds the Love Of His Life (he can't be tall, dark, handsome too, or else, the two of us would be at loggerheads!), he will go out there and look for the free sex that's always available in the Meat Market of Bombay. By all accounts, he's getting to be a pretty successful slut too - even by my high standards - and that's what sets me thinking. Perhaps, even something as drastic as soul-searching.
I don't want him to be a slut. It's as simple as that. Why? I'm not exactly sure. Something just... stings. I want him to be happy, and I don't think that slutting around is the best way to be happy. I want him to wait this one out, at least for some time, and be a teenyweeny bit patient. But I can't help thinking that I'm being hypocritical here: why on earth what's good for the goose not be equally fine for the gander? What on earth can I say to that? Does that old adage about people knowing how to live their pals' lives well enough, but not their own, hold good here? Will I be able to escape scrutiny with that line of argument?
Knowing my pigheaded friend, it's not bloody likely.
So, that's it then. This is my venting space. My space to sigh and hope that it all turns out good for him, hope that he doesn't take me in the wrong sense, and realize that I only want the very best for him - while he sluts around.
In the meantime, I have competition! ;-)
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Bedtime story for the day: Townie and the Rains
Bedtime story for the day: Townie and the Rains
The city's still stuck, 48 hours after what the newspapers call Bombay's worst ever deluge in a single day. That means, sluts like me are left wishing for the existance of creatures called Mermen.
:-)
Strange fantasy. Straight captain (regular men-o-wars!) kept on hoping for gorgeous women with big boobs and long hair and collagen lips and fish tails. I wonder if their wenches on board (women-o-war?) ever harboured similar fantasies about hot hunks who'd look great in Speedos, but who can't wear them cuz their fish tales don't fit through... But then, those are the times when gay practicality sinks through, and you realize that you probably wouldn't want a gorgeous merman, however much he resembles Eric Bana, since the fishy appendage thing would rule out the existance of another... um... appendage.
Huh!
In reality terms, what happened is this: North Bombay was (and is) completely cut off from South Bombay, and that means there was (and is) no way for a cute suburban boy to come down south of Dadar. Damn! Especially since, Bandra Boys are considered quite a tasty treat. Of course, that also ruled out a cute twenty-something from Napean Sea Road to travel all the way up to Juhu, but hell, Townies don't like to travel anyhow, so that really didn't affect anyone's sex drive much. Townies like suburbites to come/cum to them - and rarely the other way around.
So, what we had, therefore, was a case of Townie discovering his gay neighbour - "O, you're gay too! I never would have guessed! Now, I can explain away your leopard print pants - I thought it was just due to the fact that you're Punjabi!" And that resulted in a host of gay Townie boys hitting a whole lot of straight Townie bars and discs across South Bombay and Colaba. Legs splayed or crossed, ears pricked, drinks clinked, cigars puffed, and hands probing below tables Gay life comes to town.
Whatever GB could not manage, despite the rocking parties, Mother Rain did.
The city's still stuck, 48 hours after what the newspapers call Bombay's worst ever deluge in a single day. That means, sluts like me are left wishing for the existance of creatures called Mermen.
:-)
Strange fantasy. Straight captain (regular men-o-wars!) kept on hoping for gorgeous women with big boobs and long hair and collagen lips and fish tails. I wonder if their wenches on board (women-o-war?) ever harboured similar fantasies about hot hunks who'd look great in Speedos, but who can't wear them cuz their fish tales don't fit through... But then, those are the times when gay practicality sinks through, and you realize that you probably wouldn't want a gorgeous merman, however much he resembles Eric Bana, since the fishy appendage thing would rule out the existance of another... um... appendage.
Huh!
In reality terms, what happened is this: North Bombay was (and is) completely cut off from South Bombay, and that means there was (and is) no way for a cute suburban boy to come down south of Dadar. Damn! Especially since, Bandra Boys are considered quite a tasty treat. Of course, that also ruled out a cute twenty-something from Napean Sea Road to travel all the way up to Juhu, but hell, Townies don't like to travel anyhow, so that really didn't affect anyone's sex drive much. Townies like suburbites to come/cum to them - and rarely the other way around.
So, what we had, therefore, was a case of Townie discovering his gay neighbour - "O, you're gay too! I never would have guessed! Now, I can explain away your leopard print pants - I thought it was just due to the fact that you're Punjabi!" And that resulted in a host of gay Townie boys hitting a whole lot of straight Townie bars and discs across South Bombay and Colaba. Legs splayed or crossed, ears pricked, drinks clinked, cigars puffed, and hands probing below tables Gay life comes to town.
Whatever GB could not manage, despite the rocking parties, Mother Rain did.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I spy with my li'l eye...
I spy with my li'l eye...
Let's get back to the gay lexicon, and one particularly brilliant word. To all the uninitiated yearlings, gaydar is a clver enough combination of two words gay + radar = gaydar. Talk about homo ingenuity. It's a term meant to signify how good (or bad) your sixth sense is, regarding any odd man on the street being gay or straight. There are some members of the Family who are keen bloodhounds, with a nose and gaydar so strong that they can sniff the gay soul through the straightest and drabbest of grey clothes. And then, of course, there's me.
:-)
Me of the flabbergasted expressions and woeful sighs, who can never decide or decipher a man's gaze. Of course, I could excuse myself by saying that it's all the more harder these days because straight men tend to act and dress very gay these days - but that argument pales fast, against the track record of the greatest gay bloodhounds of Bombay. In my case, I bumble about, and if I actually ever bump into someone on the street who is gay, it's a blue moon in China.
So, there was Martini the other day, who was reading a book on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire in a neat little bookshop in Kemps Corner. At which time, a certain tall and strapping young man saunters over and casually asks him whether he might pass him a magazine. Martini and Strapping Young Man start chatting, and laughing, and of course, because both their gaydars are attuned to a high pitch, they walk out of the bookshop with each other's numbers in their cell phones and a dinner date the forthcoming Friday. I've been to that bloody shop umpteen times, and never has any Strapping/Unstrapping Young/Old man ever come sauntering up to me, though.
Then, there's this department shop in Bandra, six stories of retail therapy, which is supposed to be frequented by Family members. Whenever I visit the place, I try my utmost to look ultra chic and casual, taking my time in the trousers and casual shirts sections, lingering over the innerwear floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of, or perhaps interlock fingers with, a faceless young man with oodles of charisma. Never happens. But I always hear tales later of how so-and-so bumped into such-and-such on the damn third floor, while I was busy canoodling on the fourth.
Anyone know of a cheap place which overhauls antennae?
Let's get back to the gay lexicon, and one particularly brilliant word. To all the uninitiated yearlings, gaydar is a clver enough combination of two words gay + radar = gaydar. Talk about homo ingenuity. It's a term meant to signify how good (or bad) your sixth sense is, regarding any odd man on the street being gay or straight. There are some members of the Family who are keen bloodhounds, with a nose and gaydar so strong that they can sniff the gay soul through the straightest and drabbest of grey clothes. And then, of course, there's me.
:-)
Me of the flabbergasted expressions and woeful sighs, who can never decide or decipher a man's gaze. Of course, I could excuse myself by saying that it's all the more harder these days because straight men tend to act and dress very gay these days - but that argument pales fast, against the track record of the greatest gay bloodhounds of Bombay. In my case, I bumble about, and if I actually ever bump into someone on the street who is gay, it's a blue moon in China.
So, there was Martini the other day, who was reading a book on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire in a neat little bookshop in Kemps Corner. At which time, a certain tall and strapping young man saunters over and casually asks him whether he might pass him a magazine. Martini and Strapping Young Man start chatting, and laughing, and of course, because both their gaydars are attuned to a high pitch, they walk out of the bookshop with each other's numbers in their cell phones and a dinner date the forthcoming Friday. I've been to that bloody shop umpteen times, and never has any Strapping/Unstrapping Young/Old man ever come sauntering up to me, though.
Then, there's this department shop in Bandra, six stories of retail therapy, which is supposed to be frequented by Family members. Whenever I visit the place, I try my utmost to look ultra chic and casual, taking my time in the trousers and casual shirts sections, lingering over the innerwear floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of, or perhaps interlock fingers with, a faceless young man with oodles of charisma. Never happens. But I always hear tales later of how so-and-so bumped into such-and-such on the damn third floor, while I was busy canoodling on the fourth.
Anyone know of a cheap place which overhauls antennae?
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Money for nothing, and [BEEP] for free...
Money for nothing, and [BEEP] for free...
This is funny, so pay attention now, children. There is a certain young (well, not so young any more) man on the net with a gaydar id and pictures that would shock the mildest mannered and titillate the craziest guy out there. Let's call him Savage. So, I meet Savage on the net and am titillated (quite naturally!) and ask to meet up sometime. He says, he'll call me.
The other day, I get a message.
(Yes, this one is in dialogue form again. All spellings below are as typed out originally.)
Savage: Hi, I'll come over to your place. I also do aromatherapy, by the way, for which I charge.
CT: Ummm.. okies. I don't want the aromatherapy, thanks. Just the sex will do. :-)
Savage: Tell me when you need both.
CT (slightly outraged): Sorry dude, I don't pay for sex. If you wanna have a great time, then that's cool - if you want money for it, then I'm sorry.
Savage: The charge is for the aromatherapy, not for the sex.
CT: I don't want the aromatherapy. I only want the sex. Does that mean you'll only come over if I want both?
Savage: Tell me when you want both.
CT (amused now): So how much is the charge?
Savage: Rs 1000 for the aromatherapy.
CT (wicked smile on face, delicious game in mind): I'm sorry, I can only spare Rs 200.
(after a gap of five minutes) Savage: Ok, for you, I'll charge Rs 400.
CT (wicked smile widening): Sorry, I can't do that. Rs 200 is the max I can spare.
(after two minutes) Savage: OK, then, Rs 300 it is.
CT (giggling maliciously now): Hey dude, I think uve got me confused with some of the rich guys out there who pay for sex. a) I don't do that. b) I don't have the cash for that. So, sorry for everything and bbye.
Savage: Not a question of being rich. Don't think me as prostitit. I need money for my computer course.
CT (rolling on floor in hysteria now): I'm sorry for you. But, I can't do better than that. Rs 200.
(after five minutes) Savage: OK, for you Rs 200. Cuz I like you.
***
Yes, yes, yes, yes - I'm evil. But it's just sooooo much fun!
This is funny, so pay attention now, children. There is a certain young (well, not so young any more) man on the net with a gaydar id and pictures that would shock the mildest mannered and titillate the craziest guy out there. Let's call him Savage. So, I meet Savage on the net and am titillated (quite naturally!) and ask to meet up sometime. He says, he'll call me.
The other day, I get a message.
(Yes, this one is in dialogue form again. All spellings below are as typed out originally.)
Savage: Hi, I'll come over to your place. I also do aromatherapy, by the way, for which I charge.
CT: Ummm.. okies. I don't want the aromatherapy, thanks. Just the sex will do. :-)
Savage: Tell me when you need both.
CT (slightly outraged): Sorry dude, I don't pay for sex. If you wanna have a great time, then that's cool - if you want money for it, then I'm sorry.
Savage: The charge is for the aromatherapy, not for the sex.
CT: I don't want the aromatherapy. I only want the sex. Does that mean you'll only come over if I want both?
Savage: Tell me when you want both.
CT (amused now): So how much is the charge?
Savage: Rs 1000 for the aromatherapy.
CT (wicked smile on face, delicious game in mind): I'm sorry, I can only spare Rs 200.
(after a gap of five minutes) Savage: Ok, for you, I'll charge Rs 400.
CT (wicked smile widening): Sorry, I can't do that. Rs 200 is the max I can spare.
(after two minutes) Savage: OK, then, Rs 300 it is.
CT (giggling maliciously now): Hey dude, I think uve got me confused with some of the rich guys out there who pay for sex. a) I don't do that. b) I don't have the cash for that. So, sorry for everything and bbye.
Savage: Not a question of being rich. Don't think me as prostitit. I need money for my computer course.
CT (rolling on floor in hysteria now): I'm sorry for you. But, I can't do better than that. Rs 200.
(after five minutes) Savage: OK, for you Rs 200. Cuz I like you.
***
Yes, yes, yes, yes - I'm evil. But it's just sooooo much fun!
Sunday, July 17, 2005
On Your marks, Get Set,... Go!
On Your marks, Get Set,... Go!
Apologies are due, first and foremost. Applemartini had mailed me the other day, complaining that my attitude towards speed-dating and those who take part in it seemed condescending and hypocritical. While I responded with several protests and disclaimers, it is also true that I still continued to regard speed dating as one of those strange phenomena that one indulges in, when one hits a mid/quarter life crisis.
That's where the apologies are due. To all of the people who have ever participated in it, and all those who plan to. Speed dating is fun. Exhausting, yes - but, undeniably, fun.
;-)
Welcome to this quaint little lounge bar in Andheri, where fifty-odd gay men are gathered. There's music playing in the air, and most of the guys are hanging around in their groups, yakking and eyeing other gay men in other groups. Enter CloseTalk and Kunal, who take their glasses of sherbet and stand at one corner, keeping to themselves. CT spies Cute Marwari With Goatee and they hug; then there's Dilli Bong. Ex-Ex Boyfriend is also there, and CT does the hugging and apologizes for missing XX's birthday, earlier this month. And, there's also Bangalore Doctor, whom CT had forgotten to call back on an earlier occassion. Outrageous flirting follows, in the downright wicked style that only Blore Doc is capable of, and CT promises to call back next time, when they meet for a rollicking hook up session. Air kissing is done. It's time to meet the 'acquaintances' now, and finally, CT summons up the courage to go over to the counter and register his name for the speed-dating exercise.
Gujju Man: "O, CT, how are you doing?"
CT: "Hey, Gujju Man, how's life? I haven't seen you around for ages! How's your Gujju Marriage Bureau for Gay Gujju Boys going?"
Gujju Man: "Just perfect! We have a wedding set up ahead for the [CT's birthday]."
CT: "Really? That's my birthday, you know!"
Gujju Man: "OMG! That's amazing!"
CT: "So, erm, erm.... I was wondering... how does this speed dating thingy work, Gujju Man?"
CT : "I mean - I was wondering about it and all, and you know that I can get plenty of guys anyhow, but I was still wondering, and Cute Marwari With Goatee was telling me about this thing and telling me to come, and though I find the whole idea very stupid - because there's no way I need to do something silly like speed dating! - I was curious - plus, I also wanted to help GB, and wondered whether there was anything to do, so I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could come by, I'm not serious about it of course or anything, it's all for fun and games, and so I thought I'd do it, but then it's silly, but then, do you have a form or something?"
So, I was embarassed. But then, you wouldn't have thought that, to listen to me talk to the boys/men/old men arranged before me. I was eloquency personified. One of the sexaholics touched his crotch when I sunnily asked him "What's up?", but then I rolled my eyes up at his gesture, and he got the point after that. By and large, it was decent, the guys were ok-types, and I was quite glad to see, when the results were declared, that seven of them had 'hit' on me, that is, wanted to know my phone number. Of them, there was one that I had wanted to get to know better as well, so according to the rules of the game, the two of us got each other's numbers. Cute smile, strong grip while shaking hands, nice voice, and wisps of chest hair curling at his throat.
*Slurp*
Apologies are due, first and foremost. Applemartini had mailed me the other day, complaining that my attitude towards speed-dating and those who take part in it seemed condescending and hypocritical. While I responded with several protests and disclaimers, it is also true that I still continued to regard speed dating as one of those strange phenomena that one indulges in, when one hits a mid/quarter life crisis.
That's where the apologies are due. To all of the people who have ever participated in it, and all those who plan to. Speed dating is fun. Exhausting, yes - but, undeniably, fun.
;-)
Welcome to this quaint little lounge bar in Andheri, where fifty-odd gay men are gathered. There's music playing in the air, and most of the guys are hanging around in their groups, yakking and eyeing other gay men in other groups. Enter CloseTalk and Kunal, who take their glasses of sherbet and stand at one corner, keeping to themselves. CT spies Cute Marwari With Goatee and they hug; then there's Dilli Bong. Ex-Ex Boyfriend is also there, and CT does the hugging and apologizes for missing XX's birthday, earlier this month. And, there's also Bangalore Doctor, whom CT had forgotten to call back on an earlier occassion. Outrageous flirting follows, in the downright wicked style that only Blore Doc is capable of, and CT promises to call back next time, when they meet for a rollicking hook up session. Air kissing is done. It's time to meet the 'acquaintances' now, and finally, CT summons up the courage to go over to the counter and register his name for the speed-dating exercise.
Gujju Man: "O, CT, how are you doing?"
Gujju Man: "Just perfect! We have a wedding set up ahead for the [CT's birthday]."
CT: "Really? That's my birthday, you know!"
Gujju Man: "OMG! That's amazing!"
*Slurp*
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Fast and furious!
Fast and furious!
This is an entry that depends on the feedback I get from my discerning readers/voyeurs, and it will influence a decision that I may/ may not make. I've been asked to do something, by a friend, that I've always thought of as very silly, quite desperate, and very deserving of the LOSAH tag on a forehead.
But now... I'm actually considering it.
There are reasons for this:
1) My friend will also be doing it.
2) My friend says, don't go with any expectations - just do it for the fun and the experience!
3) My friend says, I'll meet a lot of nice (hopefully) people, who may simply be there for the experience - like me - and they'll be at their most natural self, in the morning.
4) There's a supposedly fabulous lunch buffet at Rs 250 per head.
And now, we come to what the decision is:
On Sunday, GB is organising a Speed-date thingy, the third such event it has had in Bombay. What happens is this: twenty guys face each other, and have three minutes with each other to ask questions etc... at the end of the full time, if any of them have expressed mutual interest, GB gives their numbers to each other. Simple. Precise.
And then, there are the cons:
a) It sounds soooooo desparate. Heaven forbid should any of Nature Boy's friends see it!
b) Are all the guys going to come up and ask, "have place? have sex?" Yuck!
And I have to wonder: why the fuck am I doing this? For a fling, I tell myself. And for fun. So far, I'm actually 75% in favour of it... mainly due to the fact that I'll have another bakra friend in the ring.
So, now... the circus ring is open: tell me your suggestions. Help CT win the game.
This is an entry that depends on the feedback I get from my discerning readers/voyeurs, and it will influence a decision that I may/ may not make. I've been asked to do something, by a friend, that I've always thought of as very silly, quite desperate, and very deserving of the LOSAH tag on a forehead.
But now... I'm actually considering it.
There are reasons for this:
1) My friend will also be doing it.
2) My friend says, don't go with any expectations - just do it for the fun and the experience!
3) My friend says, I'll meet a lot of nice (hopefully) people, who may simply be there for the experience - like me - and they'll be at their most natural self, in the morning.
4) There's a supposedly fabulous lunch buffet at Rs 250 per head.
And now, we come to what the decision is:
On Sunday, GB is organising a Speed-date thingy, the third such event it has had in Bombay. What happens is this: twenty guys face each other, and have three minutes with each other to ask questions etc... at the end of the full time, if any of them have expressed mutual interest, GB gives their numbers to each other. Simple. Precise.
And then, there are the cons:
a) It sounds soooooo desparate. Heaven forbid should any of Nature Boy's friends see it!
b) Are all the guys going to come up and ask, "have place? have sex?" Yuck!
And I have to wonder: why the fuck am I doing this? For a fling, I tell myself. And for fun. So far, I'm actually 75% in favour of it... mainly due to the fact that I'll have another bakra friend in the ring.
So, now... the circus ring is open: tell me your suggestions. Help CT win the game.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Fling me a lifeline
Fling me a lifeline
I need a fling. A mindless fling to get over someone, once and for all. A time-pass thing. Something to be happy about, for a couple of weeks, and then to discard in the basket labeled Happy Memories. One night stands are okay, but they're not good enough. I need a no-strings-attached, no-nonsense fling, that leaves neither of us in doubt as to what we have here.
I'm in the hate-you phase. Not hate. Not hate. Hate is too strong a word. But the phase where any sight of him gets me thinking about us, and gets me seething at him. I think he was a coward. I'm angry, yes. Not hate. Just pissed off. I'm sorry, I can't be a friend. I thought I could. I promised him I could. But I can't. It's still too hard, and sometimes I wonder why. It was only a month or so: why on earth should I feel like this? Someone told me, it was because of the potential - because I felt the potential there. If we prolonged it, and then it didn't work out, I would have beeen okay - I wouldn't have thought so badly off him. What gets me is his refusal to try. And now, I can't be his friend. Not now. Someone told me, I have to hate him first, in order to be his friend. I'm not sure about that. I can't be in contact with him now. I can't see him. I can't hear him. If I do, I despise both of us.
So, I need a fling.
This wasn't the way this post was supposed to turn out. This post was supposed to be something light and breezy about me needing a casual fling with a casual guy... I wasn't supposed to talk about Nature Boy. I suppose I could delete this, but I won't. He may see this, but no, I won't. This is my space. It always has been. I invited him here, and even when things started unravelling, I told him that I may vent, that he should understand it. I think he does. And that's what makes things more irritating - the fact that he's a nice guy and I (kinda) like him. 'Kinda', because I'm in that phase now.
I need a fling. A mindless fling to get over someone, once and for all. A time-pass thing. Something to be happy about, for a couple of weeks, and then to discard in the basket labeled Happy Memories. One night stands are okay, but they're not good enough. I need a no-strings-attached, no-nonsense fling, that leaves neither of us in doubt as to what we have here.
I'm in the hate-you phase. Not hate. Not hate. Hate is too strong a word. But the phase where any sight of him gets me thinking about us, and gets me seething at him. I think he was a coward. I'm angry, yes. Not hate. Just pissed off. I'm sorry, I can't be a friend. I thought I could. I promised him I could. But I can't. It's still too hard, and sometimes I wonder why. It was only a month or so: why on earth should I feel like this? Someone told me, it was because of the potential - because I felt the potential there. If we prolonged it, and then it didn't work out, I would have beeen okay - I wouldn't have thought so badly off him. What gets me is his refusal to try. And now, I can't be his friend. Not now. Someone told me, I have to hate him first, in order to be his friend. I'm not sure about that. I can't be in contact with him now. I can't see him. I can't hear him. If I do, I despise both of us.
So, I need a fling.
This wasn't the way this post was supposed to turn out. This post was supposed to be something light and breezy about me needing a casual fling with a casual guy... I wasn't supposed to talk about Nature Boy. I suppose I could delete this, but I won't. He may see this, but no, I won't. This is my space. It always has been. I invited him here, and even when things started unravelling, I told him that I may vent, that he should understand it. I think he does. And that's what makes things more irritating - the fact that he's a nice guy and I (kinda) like him. 'Kinda', because I'm in that phase now.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Dus (actually, four) bahaane for AB Baby
Dus (actually, four) bahaane for AB Baby
So it's official: Akshay Kumar has been rather unceremoniously dumped from the Gay Bollywood Icon's pedestal, in favour of the One and Only, the Junior with the Killer Smile, the Baby from AB,... (drumrolls)... Abhishek Bacchan.
About time, too!
I, for one, could never understand the strange fascination India's gay populace had for Akki, especially, since there were guys in the ring with both better attitude (SRK) and better beefcake (Hrithik). They said, surmised and conjectured, that it was all about the Great Bear Theory - so, it should have been inevitable that the 'charm' would begin to fade, as soon as Akki decided to get 'trendy' and wax off his chest hair. (Personally, though, I actually prefer the new look! hehehe ) And, just when it seemed that the new contenders for the slot would be the Old Actors' Brigade (probably one of the Khans), in came romping AB Baby with his dus bahaane!
And the world was never the same again.
Suddenly, women across the country were swooning over him, and trade pundits were predicting a meteoric rise in blockbuster terms. So, why on earth should any of this mean AB's climb to the top of the Gay Charts - given the stringent Family Standards? Well, let me attempt to give you a basic look-see:
1. Amazing Body. Ummm... That glimpse of toned tummy in the Nach le song of Bunty-Bubbly had me panting for more!
2. Amazing Smile. 400 watts. The nearest competitition I've ever had! ;-)
3. Amazing Moves. The man dances like the devil. A very, very, very sexy devil.
4. Amazing Eyes. Well, yes, this one is the classic lie that men have been fooling women with over the centuries ("Your eyes are like the deepest pools I could drown in...", followed by Gone with Wind score!), but I actually go for them. AB has the most intense pair, like smouldering cigarette butts. Ouch.
Yesterday, (or the day before, I'm not sure), a TOI suppliment carried a piece on AB's rising star. Among other reasons, it mentions his daddy's name, but honestly, that doesn't mean a thing to me - the Big B is quite ancient, and any mention of a Big B in conjunction with AB Baby makes me think of totally different things!
*cat-who-licked-the-cream's smile*
Akki who?
So it's official: Akshay Kumar has been rather unceremoniously dumped from the Gay Bollywood Icon's pedestal, in favour of the One and Only, the Junior with the Killer Smile, the Baby from AB,... (drumrolls)... Abhishek Bacchan.
About time, too!
I, for one, could never understand the strange fascination India's gay populace had for Akki, especially, since there were guys in the ring with both better attitude (SRK) and better beefcake (Hrithik). They said, surmised and conjectured, that it was all about the Great Bear Theory - so, it should have been inevitable that the 'charm' would begin to fade, as soon as Akki decided to get 'trendy' and wax off his chest hair. (Personally, though, I actually prefer the new look! hehehe ) And, just when it seemed that the new contenders for the slot would be the Old Actors' Brigade (probably one of the Khans), in came romping AB Baby with his dus bahaane!
And the world was never the same again.
Suddenly, women across the country were swooning over him, and trade pundits were predicting a meteoric rise in blockbuster terms. So, why on earth should any of this mean AB's climb to the top of the Gay Charts - given the stringent Family Standards? Well, let me attempt to give you a basic look-see:
1. Amazing Body. Ummm... That glimpse of toned tummy in the Nach le song of Bunty-Bubbly had me panting for more!
2. Amazing Smile. 400 watts. The nearest competitition I've ever had! ;-)
3. Amazing Moves. The man dances like the devil. A very, very, very sexy devil.
4. Amazing Eyes. Well, yes, this one is the classic lie that men have been fooling women with over the centuries ("Your eyes are like the deepest pools I could drown in...", followed by Gone with Wind score!), but I actually go for them. AB has the most intense pair, like smouldering cigarette butts. Ouch.
Yesterday, (or the day before, I'm not sure), a TOI suppliment carried a piece on AB's rising star. Among other reasons, it mentions his daddy's name, but honestly, that doesn't mean a thing to me - the Big B is quite ancient, and any mention of a Big B in conjunction with AB Baby makes me think of totally different things!
*cat-who-licked-the-cream's smile*
Akki who?
Friday, July 08, 2005
Jean-luc Gay
Jean-luc Gay
Men, in general, have a thing for jeans. Gay men take that a step further. Recently, at Mondy's, while the girls were drooling over a hunk in tight black tees and jeans, a certain pragmatic but brilliant young gay interior decorator/designer sitting next to me, observed with a nonchalant face, "O, he's got to be gay. Have you ever seen any self-respecting straight guy wear jeans that low?"
The point was valid, and the girls stopped drooling, ordering another pitcher of beer instead.
I know of another extreme case: I met this one particular specimen (a hook-up, naturally!) who's quite a great guy otherwise, working in an ad agency, but he just prefers to wear womens' jeans. When I inquired why, he replied, just as pragmatically as the decorator/ designer, "It just enhances my bulge."
Perfectly natural. (Why do you think they call us queer, anyway?)
I used to think this was absurd, though, till I told this tale to a close friend of mine, while visiting Delhi. This friend, who happens to be a talented architect and also moonlights as a fiesty salsa dancer, shrugged and says, "O, well, that happens a lot here in Delhi. Some people just aren't as equipped as we are, babes." Okay, so I made that last line up, but that just goes to show that saddi dilli is miles ahead!
Carrying on the jeans tale, I seem to have a penchant for going out jeans shopping with gay men. There have been so far, three occasions, the last being only Monday, when I was asked to do so. One has been a hook-up, one a fuck-buddy, and the last was Natureboy, who thought it would be good to meet up. In all three occasions, I followed the boys around, while they hemmed and hawed over styles, colours, textures and fits, and tried on 5-6 pairs each.
And of course, I peeked. I mean: how could you possibly expect me not to? It's ridiculous, especially for a hotblooded young man like me, who has no need to wear womens' jeans to show off his bulge(!!!). Changing rooms have the most convenient mirrors, if you're the peeping tom kind, and that's exactly what I did, catching a glimpse of sometimes a back, or a hairy chest, or a pair of strong legs, or a brief-encased butt, or even the telltale bulge!
I'm a jean-ie in a bottle: so come, come, let me be free! ;-)
Men, in general, have a thing for jeans. Gay men take that a step further. Recently, at Mondy's, while the girls were drooling over a hunk in tight black tees and jeans, a certain pragmatic but brilliant young gay interior decorator/designer sitting next to me, observed with a nonchalant face, "O, he's got to be gay. Have you ever seen any self-respecting straight guy wear jeans that low?"
The point was valid, and the girls stopped drooling, ordering another pitcher of beer instead.
I know of another extreme case: I met this one particular specimen (a hook-up, naturally!) who's quite a great guy otherwise, working in an ad agency, but he just prefers to wear womens' jeans. When I inquired why, he replied, just as pragmatically as the decorator/ designer, "It just enhances my bulge."
Perfectly natural. (Why do you think they call us queer, anyway?)
I used to think this was absurd, though, till I told this tale to a close friend of mine, while visiting Delhi. This friend, who happens to be a talented architect and also moonlights as a fiesty salsa dancer, shrugged and says, "O, well, that happens a lot here in Delhi. Some people just aren't as equipped as we are, babes." Okay, so I made that last line up, but that just goes to show that saddi dilli is miles ahead!
Carrying on the jeans tale, I seem to have a penchant for going out jeans shopping with gay men. There have been so far, three occasions, the last being only Monday, when I was asked to do so. One has been a hook-up, one a fuck-buddy, and the last was Natureboy, who thought it would be good to meet up. In all three occasions, I followed the boys around, while they hemmed and hawed over styles, colours, textures and fits, and tried on 5-6 pairs each.
And of course, I peeked. I mean: how could you possibly expect me not to? It's ridiculous, especially for a hotblooded young man like me, who has no need to wear womens' jeans to show off his bulge(!!!). Changing rooms have the most convenient mirrors, if you're the peeping tom kind, and that's exactly what I did, catching a glimpse of sometimes a back, or a hairy chest, or a pair of strong legs, or a brief-encased butt, or even the telltale bulge!
I'm a jean-ie in a bottle: so come, come, let me be free! ;-)
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Live free?
Live free?
Living in the big bad city has its problems. Especially if you're one of the rainbow crowd. What's the ideal? I'm still not sure. So let me jot down a couple of experiences and a couple of complaints.
Case 1: Boy lives with family. Horrible situation (a) if you have a boyfriend, and (b) worse, if you're single and ready to mingle. That means you have all the drive, but no space in the car whatsoever. Tonnes of Bombay boys are waiting in the wings to move out of daddy's pad.
Variation of Case 1: Boy lives with extended family. So, while there's no momma and poppa in close proximity to dictate timings and people brought home, there's still someone who may leak back word, and there's still no hope of walking around the flat in your birthday suit. You call that freedom?
Case 2: Boy lives with straight room-mate. That essentially means a curb on things. The motto is: I must act butch at all times. I must drink beer at all times. I must make sure hook-ups are gone by the time roomie gets back home. I must make sure to have sex twice in a blue moon. (Just once is simply inhuman!)
Variation of Case 2: Boy lives in hostel. This is simply a stricter form of Case 2. There's a warden here as well, who, if gay fantasies are to be believed, is probably waiting to bed you as well! Scary thought.
Case 3: The Will and Grace scenario. Excellent, if TV is to be believed. But it gets awkward. Apart from the normal fact that gay guys get more sex than their straight female flatmates do (which may also lead to a fair share of jealousy!), there is the added complication that two sets of closeted parents are probably not at ease with the relationship, which is sometimes hidden from them. So, when Grace's parents come visiting from Jhumritalayya, Will may have to spend a week at an odd friend's house. Ghastly. There's also the strangeness in bonking, while knowing that Grace is probably chewing gum staring at the door, in the room next door.
Variation of Case 3: Some count this worse. Grace is now Gabriel, but Gabriel, the straight guy flatmate, knows Will is gay. That seems great for friendship and all that jazz, and perhaps is, with no sudden moving out required when Gabriel's parents come visiting, - but having sex with Gabriel in the next room is definitely weird. Plus, there's the worse scenario if Gabriel happens to be a real cutie, which means that Will may have a teeny-weeny (read: HUGE) crush on his flatmate. Soap opera begins.
Case 4: Will is living in with Jack. Two drama queens in place of one? That sounds like a recipe for madness, and it usually is. It helps, if Will and Jack have totally different tastes in men, but are completely in agreement about everything else, like crockery, curtains and condom types. It may get very strange for Will to introduce Jack to his conservative parents, though, if Jack is the flouncy type. Also, a formula for havoc, if Will and Jack fall in love together.
So, I've done my homework. So, I've overshot my target from "a couple of experiences" to four cases with three subcases. So, there's also the additional case of living in with your boyfriend. But, admittedly, I have to do more research on that front, before getting back to you.
Living in the big bad city has its problems. Especially if you're one of the rainbow crowd. What's the ideal? I'm still not sure. So let me jot down a couple of experiences and a couple of complaints.
Case 1: Boy lives with family. Horrible situation (a) if you have a boyfriend, and (b) worse, if you're single and ready to mingle. That means you have all the drive, but no space in the car whatsoever. Tonnes of Bombay boys are waiting in the wings to move out of daddy's pad.
Variation of Case 1: Boy lives with extended family. So, while there's no momma and poppa in close proximity to dictate timings and people brought home, there's still someone who may leak back word, and there's still no hope of walking around the flat in your birthday suit. You call that freedom?
Case 2: Boy lives with straight room-mate. That essentially means a curb on things. The motto is: I must act butch at all times. I must drink beer at all times. I must make sure hook-ups are gone by the time roomie gets back home. I must make sure to have sex twice in a blue moon. (Just once is simply inhuman!)
Variation of Case 2: Boy lives in hostel. This is simply a stricter form of Case 2. There's a warden here as well, who, if gay fantasies are to be believed, is probably waiting to bed you as well! Scary thought.
Case 3: The Will and Grace scenario. Excellent, if TV is to be believed. But it gets awkward. Apart from the normal fact that gay guys get more sex than their straight female flatmates do (which may also lead to a fair share of jealousy!), there is the added complication that two sets of closeted parents are probably not at ease with the relationship, which is sometimes hidden from them. So, when Grace's parents come visiting from Jhumritalayya, Will may have to spend a week at an odd friend's house. Ghastly. There's also the strangeness in bonking, while knowing that Grace is probably chewing gum staring at the door, in the room next door.
Variation of Case 3: Some count this worse. Grace is now Gabriel, but Gabriel, the straight guy flatmate, knows Will is gay. That seems great for friendship and all that jazz, and perhaps is, with no sudden moving out required when Gabriel's parents come visiting, - but having sex with Gabriel in the next room is definitely weird. Plus, there's the worse scenario if Gabriel happens to be a real cutie, which means that Will may have a teeny-weeny (read: HUGE) crush on his flatmate. Soap opera begins.
Case 4: Will is living in with Jack. Two drama queens in place of one? That sounds like a recipe for madness, and it usually is. It helps, if Will and Jack have totally different tastes in men, but are completely in agreement about everything else, like crockery, curtains and condom types. It may get very strange for Will to introduce Jack to his conservative parents, though, if Jack is the flouncy type. Also, a formula for havoc, if Will and Jack fall in love together.
So, I've done my homework. So, I've overshot my target from "a couple of experiences" to four cases with three subcases. So, there's also the additional case of living in with your boyfriend. But, admittedly, I have to do more research on that front, before getting back to you.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Cinequeens
Cinequeens
There's a movie festival organised by GB on Sunday, and I plan to go for this one. I've only been to one other festival like this in Bombay, and from what I've seen, it promises to be good. The reason why I've only been to one other movie do, though I profess to have been impressed by it? Well, blame it on my completely helter-skelter Page 3 life-ishtyle.
(I'm trying to crack a joke here, but my sense of humour has fallen quite flat. Even I, with my inflated head, didn't find that funny.)
But I was trying to make a point here, and I shall go back to trying now. The point was on the difference in demeanor of the crowd that attends these dos, the same crowd that also parties like crazy at the GB Saturday night extravaganzas. There's a difference: a very palpable difference: it's the idea of divas who suddenly feel they must transform themselves into enigmatic Sophia Lorens in the mornings.
Not that they succeed, entirely. A flashy gay man/ queen will remain a flashy gay man/ queen, come what may: flood, pestilence, disease or even worse: calories. The clothes remain flouncy, by and large, or ache to be kitschy, as my esteemed brilliant young gay interior decorator (sorry, designer!) will tell you. (He has an amazing yellow shirt with roses all over it, which he wears with these little Ramayan style chappals!) But it's in the air.... the air!
The air forbids interference. The air speaks: This is my air, this is the air of the cronies around me, and don't you dare breathe it! As long as you're with a gang of your own, you're safe. It's a very quaint syetem where inter-group hellos and how-do-you-do's are exchanged - something which reminds you of Ascot, complete with (in the most extreme cases) the bizzare hats! But, it's hell if you're alone there. You could probably get away with going to a party alone: hitting back a couple of drinks, and getting a hook-up for the night, - but that does not work at the movie festival. Because, by day, our divas are stony-faced, stiff-lipped, upper class empresses. All of which dissolves quite suddenly, when there's a tender moment in one of the brilliant films onscreen, and there's a collective gasp of ooohs and aaahs, like children watching Beauty finally kiss the Beast.
;-)
Yes, yes, of course I exaggerate: it's my prerogative to do so, dah-ling!
There's a movie festival organised by GB on Sunday, and I plan to go for this one. I've only been to one other festival like this in Bombay, and from what I've seen, it promises to be good. The reason why I've only been to one other movie do, though I profess to have been impressed by it? Well, blame it on my completely helter-skelter Page 3 life-ishtyle.
(I'm trying to crack a joke here, but my sense of humour has fallen quite flat. Even I, with my inflated head, didn't find that funny.)
But I was trying to make a point here, and I shall go back to trying now. The point was on the difference in demeanor of the crowd that attends these dos, the same crowd that also parties like crazy at the GB Saturday night extravaganzas. There's a difference: a very palpable difference: it's the idea of divas who suddenly feel they must transform themselves into enigmatic Sophia Lorens in the mornings.
Not that they succeed, entirely. A flashy gay man/ queen will remain a flashy gay man/ queen, come what may: flood, pestilence, disease or even worse: calories. The clothes remain flouncy, by and large, or ache to be kitschy, as my esteemed brilliant young gay interior decorator (sorry, designer!) will tell you. (He has an amazing yellow shirt with roses all over it, which he wears with these little Ramayan style chappals!) But it's in the air.... the air!
The air forbids interference. The air speaks: This is my air, this is the air of the cronies around me, and don't you dare breathe it! As long as you're with a gang of your own, you're safe. It's a very quaint syetem where inter-group hellos and how-do-you-do's are exchanged - something which reminds you of Ascot, complete with (in the most extreme cases) the bizzare hats! But, it's hell if you're alone there. You could probably get away with going to a party alone: hitting back a couple of drinks, and getting a hook-up for the night, - but that does not work at the movie festival. Because, by day, our divas are stony-faced, stiff-lipped, upper class empresses. All of which dissolves quite suddenly, when there's a tender moment in one of the brilliant films onscreen, and there's a collective gasp of ooohs and aaahs, like children watching Beauty finally kiss the Beast.
;-)
Yes, yes, of course I exaggerate: it's my prerogative to do so, dah-ling!
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