Three fags and a hag
The agenda for the week is furniture hunting. And that's why a motley crew found its way cruising SV Road, Jogeshwari, looking for cheap pieces of cane and wood. An introduction is in order: I have recently changed my apartment to one much closer to my workplace, and I need the requisite pieces of wood/cane to hold my clothes, books, shoes, toiletries, yadayadayada.
Enter brilliant young gay interior decorator who is a self-professed freelancer at the moment. Brilliant young gay interior decorator is a friend, twice removed/connected, and I called in my contacts with him, so that he was to wait at SNDT College and await the excursion.
Enter designer-in-the-making, whom I'd met in the gay.com chatroom the night before. Lovely young boy, with a hawknose that could either chill you to tears or have you in splits of laughter, depending on where your tastes lie. It was supposed to be a coffee date, but on hearing that I was obsessed with furniture at this time, he resolved to go on a cane/wood date with me. I told him to stand at the ticket counter, and that I would recognize him by his nose. Of course I did - Hawknose boy was sitting perched on the balustrade next to the counter, and I promptly went over and said 'hi'.
Then there was my new flatmate: the fag hag, for whom meeting nice gay boys is quite the new thing, but she's handling it marvelously, I think - especially the part where I have a casual screw in the next room, while her nose is buried in Douglas Adams. She was suitably impressed by both brilliant young gay interior decorator and hawknose designer-in-the-making, and the four of us set off, in our little escapade. Cane/wood furniture is our prey.
Admittedly, I have miles to go as far as acquiring taste is concerned. That was amply demonstrated by both brilliant young gay interior decorator and hawknose designer-in-the-making, who scoffed and sneered at my suggestions. But the evening was fun. Piles of lovely old furniture with a smell and flavour that makes me think of myself as a wood-slut (if ever one existed), and cups of garma-garam chai in the middle of a rainy Bombay evening. The consensus: we never ended with one. But brilliant young gay interior decorator has been persuaded, nevertheless, to help with the decoration of the new apartment - in return for some Bong food when flatmate's mum comes visiting. Hawknose has begged out of the project, on the plea that it was just a first date, after all! (I'm inclined to be kind and let him go.)
The house warming party is set for August 15. Do drop by, if you're in town then!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
A Natural(?) End
A Natural(?) End
I planned on making this another Delhi post. I had all the lines written in my head. I would talk about the different parts of Delhi, the different boys found there, the different tactics to use in order to get them - your average Do-it-yourself guide to saddi gay dilli, if you please.
And then, the break-up happened.
All the old dialogue comes hurtling back at me. The understood and unspoken nuances. The hopes. The idea that, hey, Ross and Rachel did get back together in the end, right? And some such stuff... But it's over, and I'm not really sure why. Nature Boy said, he's not ready. And I'm not really sure why. O yes, I heard the explanations. But I can't understand them: they're like all those other nuances. Was I too forceful in wanting a relationship? I'm not sure. Perhaps. I can say 'perhaps' to a lot of things. Perhaps he was a coward. Perhaps he should have tried to sort things out, rather than thrusting his tail between his legs and running...
Perhaps, it's just the sour grapes talking.
This evening, a friend asked me whether I was in love with Nature Boy. I don't think so. Can a month or thereabouts be enough to fall in love with someone? I don't believe in love at first sight, though lust-at-first-sight is a perfectly plausible phenomenon. I don't think I was in love with Nature Boy - but I think, I could find myself being. And that's the hardest thing of all. To think that another potential is flushed down the toilet... and like every other tortured gay man on the planet, I inevitably look into the mirror and ask that same question: was it me?
And like every other gay man on the planet, I tell myself that it's his loss.
I planned on making this another Delhi post. I had all the lines written in my head. I would talk about the different parts of Delhi, the different boys found there, the different tactics to use in order to get them - your average Do-it-yourself guide to saddi gay dilli, if you please.
And then, the break-up happened.
All the old dialogue comes hurtling back at me. The understood and unspoken nuances. The hopes. The idea that, hey, Ross and Rachel did get back together in the end, right? And some such stuff... But it's over, and I'm not really sure why. Nature Boy said, he's not ready. And I'm not really sure why. O yes, I heard the explanations. But I can't understand them: they're like all those other nuances. Was I too forceful in wanting a relationship? I'm not sure. Perhaps. I can say 'perhaps' to a lot of things. Perhaps he was a coward. Perhaps he should have tried to sort things out, rather than thrusting his tail between his legs and running...
Perhaps, it's just the sour grapes talking.
This evening, a friend asked me whether I was in love with Nature Boy. I don't think so. Can a month or thereabouts be enough to fall in love with someone? I don't believe in love at first sight, though lust-at-first-sight is a perfectly plausible phenomenon. I don't think I was in love with Nature Boy - but I think, I could find myself being. And that's the hardest thing of all. To think that another potential is flushed down the toilet... and like every other tortured gay man on the planet, I inevitably look into the mirror and ask that same question: was it me?
And like every other gay man on the planet, I tell myself that it's his loss.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Saddi Gay Dilli
Saddi Gay Dilli
I'm in Delhi right now, and everybody seems to think I'm having a rollicking good time bedding all sorts of cute and hunky Punju dhikchiks. Well, I refuse to divulge whether or not I indeed am, but what's important to note here is the sheer readiness with which it is assumed that a gay guy has more fun in Delhi than anywhere else...
Sigh... in spite of my self proclaimed and widely acknowledged Delhimania, I have to differ on this point. This is definitely where amchi Mumbai scores over saddi Dilli!
Why? Well, there are a number of reasons.
(1) There's only Pegs and Pints and a very shoddy Wokorama in Dilli, where you can go for those weekly parties. As opposed to the Mumbai gay nightlife, which straddles places like Zouk, Velocity, Chat Masala, and Karma, while old-timers like Zinc, Razzberry Rhinoceros and Copa Cabana still serve as beacons of a glorious past of bonking and hooking.
(2) You get more value for money in Mumbai - four drinks for Rs 400, as opposed to a measly two for Rs 300 in Dilli.
(3) The locations in Mumbai are much more easily approachable than the two in Delhi. (distance wise)
(4) You get a lot more variety in Mumbai, rather than the usual Punjabi, Jat, Bengali or South Indian fare in Dilli. Mumbai offers all these four, plus: Marathi, Coorgi, Kannnadiga, Goan, Kashmiri, Gujarati, apart from the regular foreigners at the consulates, and the ubiqititous Bombayites, who form a breed of their own! ;-)
(I'm pretty sure I'm missing many more Mumbai breeds, so feel free to add more if you can think of any!)
(5) Most important: Mumbai is subtler when it wants even a casual hook-up. The approach is: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? how about a coffee some time? i'll call you then, take care, till next we meet."
In Dilli, you have: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? ok then, let's fuck now at my place, you'll be able to leave for your home immediatelly after, i hope?"
Concise, yes... but not very profound.
A point of similarity I have to concede, though, is this: both cities have their share of Muscle Marys, Dirty Harrys and Old Unclejis, who purr at you: "hello, dear", as if they expect you to start performing fellatio with great enthusiasm in the very next instant.
Surprisingly, they actually find some takers. sigh.
I'm in Delhi right now, and everybody seems to think I'm having a rollicking good time bedding all sorts of cute and hunky Punju dhikchiks. Well, I refuse to divulge whether or not I indeed am, but what's important to note here is the sheer readiness with which it is assumed that a gay guy has more fun in Delhi than anywhere else...
Sigh... in spite of my self proclaimed and widely acknowledged Delhimania, I have to differ on this point. This is definitely where amchi Mumbai scores over saddi Dilli!
Why? Well, there are a number of reasons.
(1) There's only Pegs and Pints and a very shoddy Wokorama in Dilli, where you can go for those weekly parties. As opposed to the Mumbai gay nightlife, which straddles places like Zouk, Velocity, Chat Masala, and Karma, while old-timers like Zinc, Razzberry Rhinoceros and Copa Cabana still serve as beacons of a glorious past of bonking and hooking.
(2) You get more value for money in Mumbai - four drinks for Rs 400, as opposed to a measly two for Rs 300 in Dilli.
(3) The locations in Mumbai are much more easily approachable than the two in Delhi. (distance wise)
(4) You get a lot more variety in Mumbai, rather than the usual Punjabi, Jat, Bengali or South Indian fare in Dilli. Mumbai offers all these four, plus: Marathi, Coorgi, Kannnadiga, Goan, Kashmiri, Gujarati, apart from the regular foreigners at the consulates, and the ubiqititous Bombayites, who form a breed of their own! ;-)
(I'm pretty sure I'm missing many more Mumbai breeds, so feel free to add more if you can think of any!)
(5) Most important: Mumbai is subtler when it wants even a casual hook-up. The approach is: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? how about a coffee some time? i'll call you then, take care, till next we meet."
In Dilli, you have: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? ok then, let's fuck now at my place, you'll be able to leave for your home immediatelly after, i hope?"
Concise, yes... but not very profound.
A point of similarity I have to concede, though, is this: both cities have their share of Muscle Marys, Dirty Harrys and Old Unclejis, who purr at you: "hello, dear", as if they expect you to start performing fellatio with great enthusiasm in the very next instant.
Surprisingly, they actually find some takers. sigh.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
"It's called Exercise"
"It's called Exercise"
Last night, after the customary fortnightly GB party, the four of us sat splayed in a suburban living room, downing orange juice spiked liberally with vodka, and discussed a phenomenon called The Walk of Shame.
Practically every gay man alive has done the Walk, and the others are just big fat liars. So, what's the Walk all about? What's so absorbing and hateful about it, yet so tantalising and crucial, that no man can ever truly want to dissolve his ties with it? It has to do with the unmistakeable thrill of that other phenomenon called a Hook Up.
So, it's The Morning After. Party's over and done with. Hurried and garbled sex in the middle of the night is over and done with. Morning comes, rise and shine, - so yawn, and squint your eyes, and reach out to give your Hook Up a quick hug. But, of course, it is nothing more than a mere lustful coupling, a hook up, so that little hug cannot exceed a few seconds, and within five minutes, you're out of the door.
This is where all the defining characteristics of the Walk come into sharp focus:
1. There hasn't been time to brush your teeth or (probably) wash your face at the Hook Up's place, so you are walking in a decidedly sour mood, with a decidedly rancid feel in your mouth.
2. Inexplicably, there's always blinding sunlight whenever a Walk is on the cards, and since you have't bathed or anything since last night's frenetic coupling, you're feeling quite sticky and dirty.
3. Remember the wardrobe: last night, you were dressed in something suitably camp and glitzy, with perhaps shining and tight material. This morning, you realise, as you walk down the road to fetch the auto, that people are giving you the filthiest of looks. Not only are you stinking and sticky, you're also dressed like a cheap Gigolo Joe.
4. The voice is usually broken as well, from a night of partying and begging the DJ to play your favourite songs - so you've been singing on the dance floor and you've been moaning in bed after that - so that, by the time you're supposed to instruct the auto rickshaw guy where to take you in the morning, your voice makes a mouse squeak look like a baritone.
Does anyone remember that song called The Walk of Life now?
Last night, after the customary fortnightly GB party, the four of us sat splayed in a suburban living room, downing orange juice spiked liberally with vodka, and discussed a phenomenon called The Walk of Shame.
Practically every gay man alive has done the Walk, and the others are just big fat liars. So, what's the Walk all about? What's so absorbing and hateful about it, yet so tantalising and crucial, that no man can ever truly want to dissolve his ties with it? It has to do with the unmistakeable thrill of that other phenomenon called a Hook Up.
So, it's The Morning After. Party's over and done with. Hurried and garbled sex in the middle of the night is over and done with. Morning comes, rise and shine, - so yawn, and squint your eyes, and reach out to give your Hook Up a quick hug. But, of course, it is nothing more than a mere lustful coupling, a hook up, so that little hug cannot exceed a few seconds, and within five minutes, you're out of the door.
This is where all the defining characteristics of the Walk come into sharp focus:
1. There hasn't been time to brush your teeth or (probably) wash your face at the Hook Up's place, so you are walking in a decidedly sour mood, with a decidedly rancid feel in your mouth.
2. Inexplicably, there's always blinding sunlight whenever a Walk is on the cards, and since you have't bathed or anything since last night's frenetic coupling, you're feeling quite sticky and dirty.
3. Remember the wardrobe: last night, you were dressed in something suitably camp and glitzy, with perhaps shining and tight material. This morning, you realise, as you walk down the road to fetch the auto, that people are giving you the filthiest of looks. Not only are you stinking and sticky, you're also dressed like a cheap Gigolo Joe.
4. The voice is usually broken as well, from a night of partying and begging the DJ to play your favourite songs - so you've been singing on the dance floor and you've been moaning in bed after that - so that, by the time you're supposed to instruct the auto rickshaw guy where to take you in the morning, your voice makes a mouse squeak look like a baritone.
Does anyone remember that song called The Walk of Life now?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
He feels... natural
He feels... natural
So, Nature Boy and I are on a break. It still feels strange to say so; to think so. This is the first time I'm talking about the break here, on this space, though it's been on for almost a week now. When we decided on the break, I asked him not to come by this space - as this was mine. My own very little backyard to vent. The other day, he asks me when he can come back: he says, he's used to the idea of watching me talk here, he's used to reading my sms' and hearing my voice on the phone, too.
What can I say to that?
I'm used to him, too.
So I told him, he can come back. I don't know whether he has, already. I don't know whether he's still staying away. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, and I told him that. I've already told him how I feel about him, and what I feel about us - and I doubt that I shall express anything extra in this space, that I already have not told him, face to face. What matters is this: the realisation that I am used to him, as well.
I wish it works out for us, at the end. Is this a Ross-Rachel break? I don't know. (Didn't those two end up, in the end, again?!) This is going to be difficult for me, because I was falling... into something that I thought could last. But if it doesn't... well, if it doesn't, I will move on. I know that. I'm strong that way. I may be cold that way. Does strength feel cold? I'm not very sure. But I'll get through it, either way.
Perhaps it's because I want him in my life. Perhaps, it's because, regardless of whether or not he can understand me and reconnect with me, I am used to him. I am used to his silly ways and his silly words. I am used to knowing that he is there for me, when I need him. I like him. I would like to fall in love with him, but if that doesn't work out - I would still like to keep him in my life. Hence the degree of coldness that I deem necessary.
Hence the need to avoid listening to Nat King Cole for some time.
;-)
So, Nature Boy and I are on a break. It still feels strange to say so; to think so. This is the first time I'm talking about the break here, on this space, though it's been on for almost a week now. When we decided on the break, I asked him not to come by this space - as this was mine. My own very little backyard to vent. The other day, he asks me when he can come back: he says, he's used to the idea of watching me talk here, he's used to reading my sms' and hearing my voice on the phone, too.
What can I say to that?
I'm used to him, too.
So I told him, he can come back. I don't know whether he has, already. I don't know whether he's still staying away. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, and I told him that. I've already told him how I feel about him, and what I feel about us - and I doubt that I shall express anything extra in this space, that I already have not told him, face to face. What matters is this: the realisation that I am used to him, as well.
I wish it works out for us, at the end. Is this a Ross-Rachel break? I don't know. (Didn't those two end up, in the end, again?!) This is going to be difficult for me, because I was falling... into something that I thought could last. But if it doesn't... well, if it doesn't, I will move on. I know that. I'm strong that way. I may be cold that way. Does strength feel cold? I'm not very sure. But I'll get through it, either way.
Perhaps it's because I want him in my life. Perhaps, it's because, regardless of whether or not he can understand me and reconnect with me, I am used to him. I am used to his silly ways and his silly words. I am used to knowing that he is there for me, when I need him. I like him. I would like to fall in love with him, but if that doesn't work out - I would still like to keep him in my life. Hence the degree of coldness that I deem necessary.
Hence the need to avoid listening to Nat King Cole for some time.
;-)
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Playing PING pong
Playing PING pong
Meeting some one new is like making a financial investment. There's the same amount of initial lift, the same amount of trepidation, the same amount of uncertainty when you're considering the various options, the same amount of "will I, or won't I?" that plagues you while your finger hovers around the choice, and the same amount of happy surprise (mingled with still-niggling second and third and fourth thoughts) when you realise that you probably chose to chat up the right person.
Welcome to the gay chat room, and yes, I'm a capitalist pig. Whatever gave me away, I wonder.
;-)
I've been a chatroom afficiando for a long time now. I don't subscribe to that by-now-famous picture of gay men circling and circling each other in deserted parks, till they finally lock eyes with the hot-bod of the night and take him home for a screw. Ever since I discovered the internet, and such things called chat rooms, my opening lines have been "asl?", and the intended (if he likes me) gives me his age, sex and location. True, the 'sex?' part is a bit inconsequential in a gay chat room, but that's just part of the baggage we gay men have to live with, in order to survive in a heterosexual world. I'm not complaining. That much.
But, despite the better quality men and the less hassle involved in finding a match via cyberland rather than circle-circle-park-situation, the trepidation/ nervousness/ intricacies never lose their shape. They're all there. Perhaps, reinforced, because in this situation, you're meeting a person online, so you really have no idea how he will behave, whether he walks funny, whether he talks funny and a host of other IMPORTANT items, till that coffee date or that sex hook-up actually turns up. And that's where you decide and say: "Yes, please, sir, two lumps of sugar for me" or "Ewww! Too bitter!"
Which probably makes the internet chat all the more important as a First Date (Of Sorts).
Next issue: What actually happens in an internet gay chat date? Don't miss it!
Meeting some one new is like making a financial investment. There's the same amount of initial lift, the same amount of trepidation, the same amount of uncertainty when you're considering the various options, the same amount of "will I, or won't I?" that plagues you while your finger hovers around the choice, and the same amount of happy surprise (mingled with still-niggling second and third and fourth thoughts) when you realise that you probably chose to chat up the right person.
Welcome to the gay chat room, and yes, I'm a capitalist pig. Whatever gave me away, I wonder.
;-)
I've been a chatroom afficiando for a long time now. I don't subscribe to that by-now-famous picture of gay men circling and circling each other in deserted parks, till they finally lock eyes with the hot-bod of the night and take him home for a screw. Ever since I discovered the internet, and such things called chat rooms, my opening lines have been "asl?", and the intended (if he likes me) gives me his age, sex and location. True, the 'sex?' part is a bit inconsequential in a gay chat room, but that's just part of the baggage we gay men have to live with, in order to survive in a heterosexual world. I'm not complaining. That much.
But, despite the better quality men and the less hassle involved in finding a match via cyberland rather than circle-circle-park-situation, the trepidation/ nervousness/ intricacies never lose their shape. They're all there. Perhaps, reinforced, because in this situation, you're meeting a person online, so you really have no idea how he will behave, whether he walks funny, whether he talks funny and a host of other IMPORTANT items, till that coffee date or that sex hook-up actually turns up. And that's where you decide and say: "Yes, please, sir, two lumps of sugar for me" or "Ewww! Too bitter!"
Which probably makes the internet chat all the more important as a First Date (Of Sorts).
Next issue: What actually happens in an internet gay chat date? Don't miss it!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Venting Ire
Venting Ire
I'm bored. Nature Boy has been elusive for quite some time. Work does that to you. So, yes, I'm venting here. I'm venting like the typical love-sick moony ass you read about in Shakespeare and the Dancing Dimwits. I'm venting. I'm sighing. I would love to be doing a whole lot of other stuff. But I'm not. I'm going to have biryani at Noorani's in a short while with some friends, but I would rather be sitting on Marine Drive locking fingers with Nature Boy.
Damn. Never thought I'd be in this situation. Scary to think he should ever come in here and see this post and get the jitters because I'm going gaga over him. But I'm going to risk that. Because I'm me. Wow. And, I'm bored. And I'm moony.
Excellent flow of logic. Would flunk the simplest flow chart examination.
I want the royal treatment. I want the seat by Marine Drive. I want the wind through my hair. I want the twinkling lights in the distance. I want the music magically drifting in from somewhere, singing words that mean the universe. I want the lingering kiss. I want the subtle wink, shy and embarassed at what we're feeling. I want the idea that so many things are, at the end, possible.
I want to sound flippant about it all, and seeing that I'm not managing that at all, I want to control myself.
I'm bored. Nature Boy has been elusive for quite some time. Work does that to you. So, yes, I'm venting here. I'm venting like the typical love-sick moony ass you read about in Shakespeare and the Dancing Dimwits. I'm venting. I'm sighing. I would love to be doing a whole lot of other stuff. But I'm not. I'm going to have biryani at Noorani's in a short while with some friends, but I would rather be sitting on Marine Drive locking fingers with Nature Boy.
Damn. Never thought I'd be in this situation. Scary to think he should ever come in here and see this post and get the jitters because I'm going gaga over him. But I'm going to risk that. Because I'm me. Wow. And, I'm bored. And I'm moony.
Excellent flow of logic. Would flunk the simplest flow chart examination.
I want the royal treatment. I want the seat by Marine Drive. I want the wind through my hair. I want the twinkling lights in the distance. I want the music magically drifting in from somewhere, singing words that mean the universe. I want the lingering kiss. I want the subtle wink, shy and embarassed at what we're feeling. I want the idea that so many things are, at the end, possible.
I want to sound flippant about it all, and seeing that I'm not managing that at all, I want to control myself.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Chug-a-long
Chug-a-long
I had an interesting converation with an interesting duo yesterday, on a local train that sped its way at a moderate pace from Bandra to Charni Road. It was about people and being shallow and being drama queens and even whiners. So, as the theory goes:
Character 1: Deep down, all of us are shallow.
Me: Hear, hear!
Character 2: Shallow, I tell you!
Character 2: Hear, hear!
Me: But I thought, deep down, we're all drama queens.
Character 1: No, no. That's a layer below 'shallow'. Deep down we're all shallow, and then we're all DQs.
Character 2, scratching head: So, that's 'deeper down'?
Me: D-uh!
Character 2: O, I get that theory. That's a smart theory.
Character 1, pleased as punch: I must patent it.
Me, maniacal gleam in eye: We'll all be rich!
Me, slightly confused: Hold on -
Me, confusion levels mounting: But, what about being whiners? Do you whine? I whine.
Me, proud now: I whine a lot!
Character 1 and Character 2 look bug-eyed at me.
Character 2: That could also be a layer.
Character 1: Between 'shallow' and 'DQ'.
Me: Scratch the surface?
Character 2: Yes, yes. First, there's 'shallow'; then there's "OMG!!! Why am I shallow???!!!" That's the 'whiner'...
Character 1, triumphant: And then there's "OMG!!! This always happens to ME!!!" That's DQ.
Me, confusion replaced by maniacal gleam again: We really must patent this now!
Train lumbers on.
I had an interesting converation with an interesting duo yesterday, on a local train that sped its way at a moderate pace from Bandra to Charni Road. It was about people and being shallow and being drama queens and even whiners. So, as the theory goes:
Character 1: Deep down, all of us are shallow.
Me: Hear, hear!
Character 2: Shallow, I tell you!
Character 2: Hear, hear!
Me: But I thought, deep down, we're all drama queens.
Character 1: No, no. That's a layer below 'shallow'. Deep down we're all shallow, and then we're all DQs.
Character 2, scratching head: So, that's 'deeper down'?
Me: D-uh!
Character 2: O, I get that theory. That's a smart theory.
Character 1, pleased as punch: I must patent it.
Me, maniacal gleam in eye: We'll all be rich!
Me, slightly confused: Hold on -
Me, confusion levels mounting: But, what about being whiners? Do you whine? I whine.
Me, proud now: I whine a lot!
Character 1 and Character 2 look bug-eyed at me.
Character 2: That could also be a layer.
Character 1: Between 'shallow' and 'DQ'.
Me: Scratch the surface?
Character 2: Yes, yes. First, there's 'shallow'; then there's "OMG!!! Why am I shallow???!!!" That's the 'whiner'...
Character 1, triumphant: And then there's "OMG!!! This always happens to ME!!!" That's DQ.
Me, confusion replaced by maniacal gleam again: We really must patent this now!
Train lumbers on.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
The story of Optimism
The story of Optimism
Walking down a road and wondering what the time is. Is it time for him to arrive? Or am I the one who's so spaced out of my wits that I got here early? I can think of a zillion things to say or do, but none to occupy myself. So I stop: beside a book shop, peering through the glass, or at a coffee shop, and contemplate a mocha, or just lean against the wall of a grey building and watch the traffic lights change.
I hate waiting, and I keep wondering whether I got here too early, or whether he's late.
I'm done with cracking jokes. I'm done with playing the fool. I do that, day in and day out. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And think of all the things I could be doing now. With him. Without him. I can't make sense now. Waiting does that to you. Waiting makes you ramble, and doubt. That's the hard part.
The easy part is imagining. Imagining that he's next to you. The silent conversations, the laughs, the held hands, the fingers connecting, the hair twirling. I'm in love. Or could I be? Doubt never leaves you by. But I'm still living high.
Walking down a road and wondering what the time is. Is it time for him to arrive? Or am I the one who's so spaced out of my wits that I got here early? I can think of a zillion things to say or do, but none to occupy myself. So I stop: beside a book shop, peering through the glass, or at a coffee shop, and contemplate a mocha, or just lean against the wall of a grey building and watch the traffic lights change.
I hate waiting, and I keep wondering whether I got here too early, or whether he's late.
I'm done with cracking jokes. I'm done with playing the fool. I do that, day in and day out. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And think of all the things I could be doing now. With him. Without him. I can't make sense now. Waiting does that to you. Waiting makes you ramble, and doubt. That's the hard part.
The easy part is imagining. Imagining that he's next to you. The silent conversations, the laughs, the held hands, the fingers connecting, the hair twirling. I'm in love. Or could I be? Doubt never leaves you by. But I'm still living high.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Raindrops and roses
Raindrops and roses
Let's get bitchy. It's time to list five of the most ludicrous/ dumbass/ psycho/ loseARR people I've slept with. But I'll be kind and use pseudonyms.
1. Tall gawk factor boy: with voice cracked and a penchant for womens' jeans, working in a Gurgawa call centre - sigh, how typical! He hemmed and hawed his way to me, and finally ended up seducing me one night, when I was drunk and quite... happy. Sigh, thank god, I never saw him again after that.
2. Muscle boy with shy lisp: kept on muttering "I'm soooooo attracted to you", and when we finally got into bed, he was "Oooo, how can I do this to my boyfriend? What do I dooooo?" I have little patience with such irritating dawdlers, but you can hardly accuse me of date rape. I mean: the guy led me on, officer! And, besides, he left my flat with a very happy grin on his face.
3. Another shy and closeted queen: who kept on looking back over his shoulder while walking on the road, and muttering in a sinister voice, "I hope I can trust you enough to bring you here, [closetalk], everyone here knows me very well." Well, somehow or the other, no one managed to recognise Michael Jackson and his bonk-for-the-day (me) and when it was over, I ran... fast. I have no desire to be a witness at another high-profile trial.
4. Older man with fat belly: almost all gay men have had this specimen. He's like an institution: the kind of bonk-mate every gay guy starts off with, when he's unsure about himself and just where he stands on the 'oomph' scale. So he goes and succumbs to the fat, older, married man, just because he's desperate to have somebody touch him. sigh...
5. Balding bear with tight abs, who kept on muttering 'yeah' in a horrible imitation of porno stars while we did it: was stand-offish at first, and then suddenly leapt on me, when I had my back turned. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, and the whole room is echoing with YEEAAA!!! YEAAAAA!!! Only for a one-night stand, and only if you're desperate for a bonk.
Shit - are five over already?
Let's get bitchy. It's time to list five of the most ludicrous/ dumbass/ psycho/ loseARR people I've slept with. But I'll be kind and use pseudonyms.
1. Tall gawk factor boy: with voice cracked and a penchant for womens' jeans, working in a Gurgawa call centre - sigh, how typical! He hemmed and hawed his way to me, and finally ended up seducing me one night, when I was drunk and quite... happy. Sigh, thank god, I never saw him again after that.
2. Muscle boy with shy lisp: kept on muttering "I'm soooooo attracted to you", and when we finally got into bed, he was "Oooo, how can I do this to my boyfriend? What do I dooooo?" I have little patience with such irritating dawdlers, but you can hardly accuse me of date rape. I mean: the guy led me on, officer! And, besides, he left my flat with a very happy grin on his face.
3. Another shy and closeted queen: who kept on looking back over his shoulder while walking on the road, and muttering in a sinister voice, "I hope I can trust you enough to bring you here, [closetalk], everyone here knows me very well." Well, somehow or the other, no one managed to recognise Michael Jackson and his bonk-for-the-day (me) and when it was over, I ran... fast. I have no desire to be a witness at another high-profile trial.
4. Older man with fat belly: almost all gay men have had this specimen. He's like an institution: the kind of bonk-mate every gay guy starts off with, when he's unsure about himself and just where he stands on the 'oomph' scale. So he goes and succumbs to the fat, older, married man, just because he's desperate to have somebody touch him. sigh...
5. Balding bear with tight abs, who kept on muttering 'yeah' in a horrible imitation of porno stars while we did it: was stand-offish at first, and then suddenly leapt on me, when I had my back turned. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, and the whole room is echoing with YEEAAA!!! YEAAAAA!!! Only for a one-night stand, and only if you're desperate for a bonk.
Shit - are five over already?
Monday, May 23, 2005
frEEEEAAAAK
The Apple factor
A lot of people have asked me about the image on this site: the screwed apple. Some have found it 'screwy', and some have found it 'nervous', while others say it's just plain 'terrifying'! Of course, I'm not exactly sure how you could find an apple, of all things, terrifying...!
Yes, I wanted to get a half-open closet as the image, at first. But I couldn't find the right picture, or one of the right size, and I gave up. Then, I found this cool template in blogskins, when I typed a search under 'screw' (or something of the kind). I like the apple. I think it's perfect for this blog. I think it sends a message about what being gay is all about. It's about being a guy who sees what's happening in the world around you and within you, the perfect observer who's very much a part of the crowd. You're an ordinary bloke, the guy with whom everyone is chummy with.
And then, you're also the gay guy. The one that they write documentaries about. Gay rights: the ones that you still do not enjoy in the country you live in. The stigma and the fear that prevents you from coming out to your parents - at least, until you gain a substantial amount of confidence in yourself. The idea that you cannot hold hands in public, kiss your boyfriend in public, and must keep your eyes averted if you find yourself in a crowded public loo. That's what the screws are all about.
It's about the good and the bad. Let's be honest: I like being gay. I like the men that I am attracted to, the men that I have fallen in love with. I wouldn't change that for the world. Would I give this all up to be straight? No. I made that choice a long time back, and I'm happy to be the way I am. I love my family, but if pleasing them means giving all this up, I wouldn't do it.
The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself.
frEEEEAAAAK:
OK, Nature Boy - quizzes LIE!!!! ;-)
...But I'm a 'sucker' for them, anyway...!
I love big dick, and am not afraid to let the world know it.
I constantly impress my friends by sniffing out big cocks in the most unlikely places.
"Size doesn't matter" is SO not a phrase in my vocabulary.
A lot of people have asked me about the image on this site: the screwed apple. Some have found it 'screwy', and some have found it 'nervous', while others say it's just plain 'terrifying'! Of course, I'm not exactly sure how you could find an apple, of all things, terrifying...!
Yes, I wanted to get a half-open closet as the image, at first. But I couldn't find the right picture, or one of the right size, and I gave up. Then, I found this cool template in blogskins, when I typed a search under 'screw' (or something of the kind). I like the apple. I think it's perfect for this blog. I think it sends a message about what being gay is all about. It's about being a guy who sees what's happening in the world around you and within you, the perfect observer who's very much a part of the crowd. You're an ordinary bloke, the guy with whom everyone is chummy with.
And then, you're also the gay guy. The one that they write documentaries about. Gay rights: the ones that you still do not enjoy in the country you live in. The stigma and the fear that prevents you from coming out to your parents - at least, until you gain a substantial amount of confidence in yourself. The idea that you cannot hold hands in public, kiss your boyfriend in public, and must keep your eyes averted if you find yourself in a crowded public loo. That's what the screws are all about.
It's about the good and the bad. Let's be honest: I like being gay. I like the men that I am attracted to, the men that I have fallen in love with. I wouldn't change that for the world. Would I give this all up to be straight? No. I made that choice a long time back, and I'm happy to be the way I am. I love my family, but if pleasing them means giving all this up, I wouldn't do it.
The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself.
frEEEEAAAAK:
OK, Nature Boy - quizzes LIE!!!! ;-)
...But I'm a 'sucker' for them, anyway...!
I love big dick, and am not afraid to let the world know it.
I constantly impress my friends by sniffing out big cocks in the most unlikely places.
"Size doesn't matter" is SO not a phrase in my vocabulary.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Paranoid pansy
Paranoid pansy
How much is too much? Where on earth do you draw the line between being gay and being too gay, so that you would refuse to acknowledge a person.
The other day, someone I met told me about this other young man he came across: beautiful, smart, trendy, and otherwise very attractive indeed - but with a tone of voice that screamed out loud his tendency to bare his bottom for hunky men with huge pricks. And that's what drove this person I met to run for cover. Because, (as the logic goes), though everybody may know that I'm camp, I don't want everybody to know that I sashay my hips when I walk, and say lines that resemble Queenie Dodhy's, and spread my legs out wide like Maureen Wadia's. Being a bitch is otherwise quite fine.
Sigh.
This morning, I was on a family excursion, so to speak, in Juhu, when this not-so pretty, not-so young thing traipses by. Red, cream and brown striped shirt that clung tightly to his body, striped trousers, and a jute bag that was held precariously locked by an elbow. As soon as I spied him, I knew he was a queen. An obvious one.
Not a Muscle Mary, like the ones in the gym who go huffing and puffing on iron barbells and protein shakes but long to get fucked nice and hard with their asses up in the air (did I mention earlier this blog is rated PG?) - but the more extroverted queen. The sort of queen that is every narrow-minded heterosexual's picture of a homosexual: with all the lisps in speech, and hand gestures, and awful taste in clothes and hair, and the trademark promiscuity second only to fictional rabbits...! He was one of those... and I balked.
Damn. So much for being an enlightened gay person, huh? So much for thinking, that every one has a right to self expression. Shit: when it comes to the crunch, I fear I may be like one of those narrow-minded hetero assholes who snigger at the passing pansy.
And that is scary.
How much is too much? Where on earth do you draw the line between being gay and being too gay, so that you would refuse to acknowledge a person.
The other day, someone I met told me about this other young man he came across: beautiful, smart, trendy, and otherwise very attractive indeed - but with a tone of voice that screamed out loud his tendency to bare his bottom for hunky men with huge pricks. And that's what drove this person I met to run for cover. Because, (as the logic goes), though everybody may know that I'm camp, I don't want everybody to know that I sashay my hips when I walk, and say lines that resemble Queenie Dodhy's, and spread my legs out wide like Maureen Wadia's. Being a bitch is otherwise quite fine.
Sigh.
This morning, I was on a family excursion, so to speak, in Juhu, when this not-so pretty, not-so young thing traipses by. Red, cream and brown striped shirt that clung tightly to his body, striped trousers, and a jute bag that was held precariously locked by an elbow. As soon as I spied him, I knew he was a queen. An obvious one.
Not a Muscle Mary, like the ones in the gym who go huffing and puffing on iron barbells and protein shakes but long to get fucked nice and hard with their asses up in the air (did I mention earlier this blog is rated PG?) - but the more extroverted queen. The sort of queen that is every narrow-minded heterosexual's picture of a homosexual: with all the lisps in speech, and hand gestures, and awful taste in clothes and hair, and the trademark promiscuity second only to fictional rabbits...! He was one of those... and I balked.
Damn. So much for being an enlightened gay person, huh? So much for thinking, that every one has a right to self expression. Shit: when it comes to the crunch, I fear I may be like one of those narrow-minded hetero assholes who snigger at the passing pansy.
And that is scary.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Meet the Gal-friend
Meet the Gal-friend
I adore Ben Stiller. I actually find him sexy. He has a great smile, and a killer bod, complete with a six-pack to match. So, I don't mind that he acts mildly (read: very) goofy in most of his films. I love the fact that he's caught on the backfoot in Meet The Parents. I was in his position today. And I would like to think, though I mumbled and I bumbled, I was at least half as sexy as Stiller always strikes me as being.
I'm not sure what the gay version of Meet The parents should be. Meet The Aged Queen Who Has Now Taken Me Under Her Wing? Meet The Pile Of Six Friends With Whom I Do Everything (Except Have Sex, Because That's What You And I Do)? Meet The Actual Parents (Who Seem Supportive Enough About My Gay Lifestyle, But Cry Themselves To Sleep Every Night For A Dutiful Daughter-in-law, And Who Are Hoping That You Drop Dead As Soon As You Leave The House)?
Or, Meet The Girl Friend With Whom I Share Talks About Men, Styles, Divas And Other Intricate Matters Of The Soul? Throw in a boyfriend for the girlfriend, and there you have me, the desi version of Ben Stiller, minus the six-pack, wondering what kind of coffee I should have in front of the Momma and the Poppa.
California Dreaming...
On the whole, it wasn't so bad. Momma turned out to be a lot of fun, with a penchant for running her hand through my closely cropped hair. Infinitely better than a gang of six friends who would laugh at their own jokes and gawk at their own queeniness, while I would roll my eyes skyward and ask God why on earth my man had to know these imbeciles 0 and yes, I've been through that hell, so I know what I'm talking about! There was no six-pile of dumb friends; there was a sweet and intelligent Momma and Poppa, who were very cool with Nature Boy and me snogging in the loo.
We wouldn't have minded, if Stiller had joined in, actually.
I adore Ben Stiller. I actually find him sexy. He has a great smile, and a killer bod, complete with a six-pack to match. So, I don't mind that he acts mildly (read: very) goofy in most of his films. I love the fact that he's caught on the backfoot in Meet The Parents. I was in his position today. And I would like to think, though I mumbled and I bumbled, I was at least half as sexy as Stiller always strikes me as being.
I'm not sure what the gay version of Meet The parents should be. Meet The Aged Queen Who Has Now Taken Me Under Her Wing? Meet The Pile Of Six Friends With Whom I Do Everything (Except Have Sex, Because That's What You And I Do)? Meet The Actual Parents (Who Seem Supportive Enough About My Gay Lifestyle, But Cry Themselves To Sleep Every Night For A Dutiful Daughter-in-law, And Who Are Hoping That You Drop Dead As Soon As You Leave The House)?
Or, Meet The Girl Friend With Whom I Share Talks About Men, Styles, Divas And Other Intricate Matters Of The Soul? Throw in a boyfriend for the girlfriend, and there you have me, the desi version of Ben Stiller, minus the six-pack, wondering what kind of coffee I should have in front of the Momma and the Poppa.
California Dreaming...
On the whole, it wasn't so bad. Momma turned out to be a lot of fun, with a penchant for running her hand through my closely cropped hair. Infinitely better than a gang of six friends who would laugh at their own jokes and gawk at their own queeniness, while I would roll my eyes skyward and ask God why on earth my man had to know these imbeciles 0 and yes, I've been through that hell, so I know what I'm talking about! There was no six-pile of dumb friends; there was a sweet and intelligent Momma and Poppa, who were very cool with Nature Boy and me snogging in the loo.
We wouldn't have minded, if Stiller had joined in, actually.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Close to Nature
Close to Nature
There was this lovely old house, built by an old Parsi who's long dead now, but who's name still remains on the shining brass plate at the gate. Lovely old house, tall ceilings that make me want to become Spiderman, gardens that make me want to roll in them, a swimming pool that shimmers, a portico where I spent afternoons, a swing that gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I spent my time in Lonavla reading on the portico, swaying on the swing, and dreaming of Nature Boy.
We had made a pact not to interact for those two days: no messages, no phone calls. I'm smiling right now, as I think of the imperious message he sent shortly: Ok, pact's over. Missing ya. Call NOW! I would have loved to: only, my damn balance was down, and I had -Rs 15.65 on my phone. Talk about being precise. Awful.
So there I was, reading a chapter, then looking at the pool, and wishing I was splashing about with Nature Boy. Wishing he was there on the other swing, both of us reading books, looking up now and then to smile at each other, strolling around the Khandala backwoods, and doing a myriad other things, except stare profoundly at my cell phone and wish that I could sms him back.
And yes, I kept imagining those Endless Nights of Passion (Richard Marx).
There was this lovely old house, built by an old Parsi who's long dead now, but who's name still remains on the shining brass plate at the gate. Lovely old house, tall ceilings that make me want to become Spiderman, gardens that make me want to roll in them, a swimming pool that shimmers, a portico where I spent afternoons, a swing that gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I spent my time in Lonavla reading on the portico, swaying on the swing, and dreaming of Nature Boy.
We had made a pact not to interact for those two days: no messages, no phone calls. I'm smiling right now, as I think of the imperious message he sent shortly: Ok, pact's over. Missing ya. Call NOW! I would have loved to: only, my damn balance was down, and I had -Rs 15.65 on my phone. Talk about being precise. Awful.
So there I was, reading a chapter, then looking at the pool, and wishing I was splashing about with Nature Boy. Wishing he was there on the other swing, both of us reading books, looking up now and then to smile at each other, strolling around the Khandala backwoods, and doing a myriad other things, except stare profoundly at my cell phone and wish that I could sms him back.
And yes, I kept imagining those Endless Nights of Passion (Richard Marx).
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Sing a song of six-pence
Sing a song of six-pence
One of my favourite songs is Nature Boy. The first time I heard it, was in Moulen Rouge: and after that, I tracked the song down to its original version by Nat King Cole. There was something about it that attracted me. Something that spoke about a beautiful boy with cherry-red lips that I would want to kiss, and soft curly hair I would run my hands through. No, it's not a gay song, not in the sense that so many other songs have suddenly become enshrined as 'anthems' for the gay community - it is a sensuous song.
The greatest thing you can ever learn is to love and be loved in return...
I'm not sure if I got the lyrics right, but there it is.
Strange how a song can make you remember things and think of things. This picture that I just drew of this beautiful Nature Boy will forever be associated with this person I'm seeing currently. (Complete with cherry lips and Medusa curls, and corny one-liners.) Then there was this other song, from a Hindi movie, which was suddenly the rage in all the discs around town - but for me it's linked to a boy in Delhi - whom I was sharing SMS' with, while driving back from Noida, rain crashing down on the car windows, road lit up with head lamps, music blaring through the radio, and I was messaging him - telling him how much I would love to kiss him in the rain.
Then there was the Jazz creature. I wanted to get him a going-away gift, when I was leaving Delhi, and so I entered this shop in downtown Patel Nagar - not the most fashionable district at all, and teeming with Punjabis of all shapes and sizes. I asked for a Jazz collection - and was promptly shown a CD of Jazzy B's latest bhangra numbers. I gawked, said "I'm sorry, I don't think you have what I need", as politely as I could, and scooted out as fast as I could before dissolving into maniacal, snooty gay laughter. I got my CD after that, and I got a special evening in my boy's flat, complete with music, tall candles, and rich chocolate cake. I remember Louis Armstrong from that night.
No - they're not quite a 'I want to break free' or a 'I will survive' - but they stand for some of the most melodious moments of my gay life.
One of my favourite songs is Nature Boy. The first time I heard it, was in Moulen Rouge: and after that, I tracked the song down to its original version by Nat King Cole. There was something about it that attracted me. Something that spoke about a beautiful boy with cherry-red lips that I would want to kiss, and soft curly hair I would run my hands through. No, it's not a gay song, not in the sense that so many other songs have suddenly become enshrined as 'anthems' for the gay community - it is a sensuous song.
The greatest thing you can ever learn is to love and be loved in return...
I'm not sure if I got the lyrics right, but there it is.
Strange how a song can make you remember things and think of things. This picture that I just drew of this beautiful Nature Boy will forever be associated with this person I'm seeing currently. (Complete with cherry lips and Medusa curls, and corny one-liners.) Then there was this other song, from a Hindi movie, which was suddenly the rage in all the discs around town - but for me it's linked to a boy in Delhi - whom I was sharing SMS' with, while driving back from Noida, rain crashing down on the car windows, road lit up with head lamps, music blaring through the radio, and I was messaging him - telling him how much I would love to kiss him in the rain.
Then there was the Jazz creature. I wanted to get him a going-away gift, when I was leaving Delhi, and so I entered this shop in downtown Patel Nagar - not the most fashionable district at all, and teeming with Punjabis of all shapes and sizes. I asked for a Jazz collection - and was promptly shown a CD of Jazzy B's latest bhangra numbers. I gawked, said "I'm sorry, I don't think you have what I need", as politely as I could, and scooted out as fast as I could before dissolving into maniacal, snooty gay laughter. I got my CD after that, and I got a special evening in my boy's flat, complete with music, tall candles, and rich chocolate cake. I remember Louis Armstrong from that night.
No - they're not quite a 'I want to break free' or a 'I will survive' - but they stand for some of the most melodious moments of my gay life.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Surprise, Surprise (yawn)
Surprise, Surprise (yawn)
So I took another quiz, out of sheer boredom.
What's funniest is the rank offered for the last category in the list! hehehehehehahahahohohohohummmmmmmmm.
;-)
So I took another quiz, out of sheer boredom.
 | You scored as Penis. You are attracted to the: penis. You are a penis man/woman.
What body part are YOU attracted to? |
What's funniest is the rank offered for the last category in the list! hehehehehehahahahohohohohummmmmmmmm.
;-)
Friday, May 13, 2005
Hunting
Hunting*
There's the MacDonald's in Connaught Place, New Delhi, where Tarun and I used to hang out a lot. Sundays, because that was when that stretch of tarmac would come alive with Gay Delhi.
It's an engaging sight. My first time there was with this other guy I was seeing, and we sat around on the railings that separated the pavement from the rest of the circle, and my guy was greeting these other guys he knew. Some of them looked through me, some of them grinned at me, some of them stroked their fingers on the insides of my palm suggestively as we shook hands,... and I lusted after most of them. This was Delhi's gay life out in the open - out on CP, in broad view of everyone who was around.
And yes, there were people aound - loads of them. Families. Hetero couples. Normal friends' gangs. And in the middle of all that, a varied gathering of the city's gay community - cruising, chilling, laughing, and even, like Tarun and I, eating.
The two of us would sit at a window seat at MacD's, so that we would face the tarmac and be able to see the circus that paraded up and down, outside. We would get our burgers, and play songs on the juke box. Superstar was my favourite. There was a lot of Kylie as well - that was the time that she released Chocolate, which Tarun found terribly sexy. So we would sit, he and I, eat burgers, talk about our lives and our loves, and ogle at the men passing by.
Sometimes, some of them walked in and sat at a table inside MacD's too, and then we would exchange glances. It was nothing serious. Neither Tarun nor I would go to bed with any of them, but we would grin and twirl, and walk up towards the juke box, to try to get a better view and see if any tell-tale eyes followed us.
In economics, that's called Game Theory.
*In Delhi gay slang, hunting = cruising
There's the MacDonald's in Connaught Place, New Delhi, where Tarun and I used to hang out a lot. Sundays, because that was when that stretch of tarmac would come alive with Gay Delhi.
It's an engaging sight. My first time there was with this other guy I was seeing, and we sat around on the railings that separated the pavement from the rest of the circle, and my guy was greeting these other guys he knew. Some of them looked through me, some of them grinned at me, some of them stroked their fingers on the insides of my palm suggestively as we shook hands,... and I lusted after most of them. This was Delhi's gay life out in the open - out on CP, in broad view of everyone who was around.
And yes, there were people aound - loads of them. Families. Hetero couples. Normal friends' gangs. And in the middle of all that, a varied gathering of the city's gay community - cruising, chilling, laughing, and even, like Tarun and I, eating.
The two of us would sit at a window seat at MacD's, so that we would face the tarmac and be able to see the circus that paraded up and down, outside. We would get our burgers, and play songs on the juke box. Superstar was my favourite. There was a lot of Kylie as well - that was the time that she released Chocolate, which Tarun found terribly sexy. So we would sit, he and I, eat burgers, talk about our lives and our loves, and ogle at the men passing by.
Sometimes, some of them walked in and sat at a table inside MacD's too, and then we would exchange glances. It was nothing serious. Neither Tarun nor I would go to bed with any of them, but we would grin and twirl, and walk up towards the juke box, to try to get a better view and see if any tell-tale eyes followed us.
In economics, that's called Game Theory.
*In Delhi gay slang, hunting = cruising
Monday, May 09, 2005
Psssst!
Psssst!
I finally did it. Confessed. Part of coming out of the closet... one teeny weeny foot out. Told my straight and male flatmate, with whom I've lived with for the past eight months, and known for the past two-years-two months, that I'm... bated breath... gay.
I'm overjoyed at his response.
"And I don't care!"
In a split second.
With a smile.
I love the guy! ;-)
Actually, I have quite a crush on him. Have had one, for the past six months! I think it's because of the proximity. But then - now, it's gone to a completely higher level! I am simply HAPPY that he responded like that! I expected no less, true - but I was... fearful. Closet freaks always are.
There were hints, of course.
He once asked me if I were going to Pegs and Pints, when we were in Delhi - it's a gay bar. At the time, I pretended not to know what he meant.
He's read Allan Hollinghurst from me.
He's told me, he thinks my shades are much too gay.
He thinks the way I hitch my walkman onto my jeans screams out GAY a 1000 decibels loud.
But he doesn't care. For any of that. He's still cool with me. So, I'm happy.
I finally did it. Confessed. Part of coming out of the closet... one teeny weeny foot out. Told my straight and male flatmate, with whom I've lived with for the past eight months, and known for the past two-years-two months, that I'm... bated breath... gay.
I'm overjoyed at his response.
"And I don't care!"
In a split second.
With a smile.
I love the guy! ;-)
Actually, I have quite a crush on him. Have had one, for the past six months! I think it's because of the proximity. But then - now, it's gone to a completely higher level! I am simply HAPPY that he responded like that! I expected no less, true - but I was... fearful. Closet freaks always are.
There were hints, of course.
He once asked me if I were going to Pegs and Pints, when we were in Delhi - it's a gay bar. At the time, I pretended not to know what he meant.
He's read Allan Hollinghurst from me.
He's told me, he thinks my shades are much too gay.
He thinks the way I hitch my walkman onto my jeans screams out GAY a 1000 decibels loud.
But he doesn't care. For any of that. He's still cool with me. So, I'm happy.
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