Worli

Worli

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

One of our happiest times together. ;-)



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

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

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

Straight-laced?!

Straight-laced?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

A, slightly interested now: OK.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Pity.

Roundup

Roundup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I, Audience

I, Audience

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

***

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



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

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

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

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

And, o yes, the man is cute.

Cut and Run

Cut and Run

I've never smoked up. How strange that makes me seem sometimes. Never even had a puff of the stuff. No one at school or college ever offered me a take, and I came through to my twenty-second year quite free of narcotic infuence. That seems a mite absurd now, when I listen to some of my friends rave about how great the occassional puff is, and I sit silly, smiling ignorant.



I've had a brush with the stuff, of course. One of the people I used to date was quite an addict. The Peacock (all puns intended here - meaow!) was quite addicted to the stuff. I found that out, the very first time I met him. In the PVR Saket complex, behind the McDonald's store, with some other wild and whacky friends of his. I'd met him online just that evening and he'd told me to rush over for a night out - I was bored, horny and bored, so I went. Went and met The Peacock and his gaggle of 'pals' whom he bitched about at length after they'd gone.

The Peacock was a beautiful specimen in those days - tall and strutting, fair and pink lips, pretty pout, beautiful smile, and I was smitten. So I didn't really care when he puffed up in front of me. He was the first person who ever offered me a puff, but I refused. I refused over and over, for the three or so weeks that he and I dated.

One night, I asked him, why he took the stuff.

Peacock: *snigger*

CT: "No, really... why?"

Peacock: "Well, babe, I'm just staying healthy, you know!"

CT, stops dead and shoots a highly skeptical look: "You stay healthy by smoking weed?"

Peacock: "Of course! I don't do cigarettes anymore now, do I?!"

And that was followed by a gentle tug and tumble in bed, so I dropped the subject then and there. Eventually, though, we broke up, rather, drifted apart, and I could never get over his need for the weed. After a while, it hurt the Ego in me, and we all know how big that thing is...! It kinda stung that this guy would be morose and moody before he took the weed, and after a coupla pulls of the stuff, he'd be amazingly mellow and romantic and cutesy. I found him funny and sexy and cute, but I also found him demented at a level. And not the kind of dementia that Boy and I share...!

(Thank God, or else, I'd have to be wed to a fading, aging gay Peacock in Delhi!)

;-)

My second brush with narcotics was in Delhi again, but this time on a visit, after I had moved to Bombay. The guy in question was this acquaintance of Architect Ex-cum-Friend, and we met up at his absobloominutely amazing apartment in Greater Kailash, sprawling rooms, huge verandahs, yards and yards of fabric everywhere, and we had this very amazing session in the middle of a hot sweltering Delhi afternoon. And that's when he took them out, the Poppers. hell, Poppers are considered baby stuff by those in the know, but to me, they seemed wild and exotic... and when I got them offered to me by this hot naked guy on a hot afternoon, I decided to shrug off my prejudices and take a snort.

Ummm... nothing.

Not even a teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, polka-dotted or even bar-striped little relative of a high. While he went gaga over the stuff and took loads more snorts, dissolving in orgasmic groans after each sniff, I thought Vicks inhaler was probably ten times stronger than the Poppers, and I kept on wondering how such a great looking, hurly-burly Punjabi dude could turn out to be such a... umm.. pansy!

;-)

I mean, hell, even The Peacock behaved with far more self-respect for a tiny little snort!

Pshhhhaaaaaawwww!

Pshhhhaaaaaawwww!

I think I have a fever coming on. That's the good news. Because that means, I'll be able to bunk work tomorrow because of a valid reason. Not very nice an ambition to have, but at least that's better than bunking work on a not-really-valid reason, something which I did just last week. Boy has given up on me: he says, both my flatmate and I are itching to get fired from our jobs, because we have this penchant for not showing up at work, or showing up very late. That's easy for Boy to say, though: his work is dancing!

Damn, I'm jealous.

;-)

Not really any bad news in this setup of things. I haven't been blogging for ages now (not really ages, but it just seems so!) because quite honestly, not much has been happening. Keep making plans and castles in the air about somehow making it to live with Boy within three years. Strange stuff like GREs and GMATs, about which I'm a completely dunderheaded gay Alice in Wonderland. Don't even have a Cheshire Cat to show me around. D/d grins like one, true, but he's completely no help. O, by the way, that's another thing: d/d and I talked about it earlier, and he must be given a new name. Something nicer and truer. The persona of d/d is so... cliched, and we both agreed that my best friend is anything but.

So the hunt for a new name for D/d is on.

Yay: Activity!

PS: I'm also thinking of options like moving to Dubai, heaven forbid, to be closer to Boy. Now, while the idea of those yummy Arab princes is quite, quite, quite seductive, I won't have ex-d/d and Emily breathing down my neck all the time, like they do here, as soon as they spy me getting along nicely with a goodlooking boy: "O, hello, isn't the weather nice today, O and CloseTalk, you have a boyfriend!"

I know: let's call d/d BitchyWitch!

What's a bird in the hand worth, really?

What's a bird in the hand worth, really?

Infidelity is probably as old as love. Back to when the caveman dragged his cavegirl out by the hair, then came back and decided that her mother was pretty hot too, and so he decided to go fetch his club again.

;-)

And infidelity in the gay world is often taken for granted. Hence, the very convenient definition of an 'open relationship'. That's when you get to tell yourself that hell, he's gonna cheat on me anyway, so at least this way, I know who he's screwing, and I get to have some fun on the side, too. Seems simple enough.

And then, there are those poor sods who think that cheating is a grievous sin, and of course, it could never happen to them. And when they discover that Adam has also been screwing the snake behind Evan's back, there's a fountain of tears. Naive, naive tears.

(Step back: Adam and Evan? I like that!)

Personally, I've never been cheated on, either physically or emotionally, though I've been in the role of the cheater. I like to tell myself that being a physical cheat is much better than being an emotional cheat, but that's the MAN side of me talking, and not necessarily the gay side. Most men think it's cool to fcuk, as long as you don't spend the whole night in bed. Most men think cheating is quite, quite inevitable. I've felt that myself, and when I have, I've realized that I'm not in love with this person, as I profess to be. Who were the people I cheated on? Mmmmm... Well, there was The First One, after the first break-up we had; then Architect Ex-cum-Friend who's now in the Middle East chasing Arab princes; and Cute but Unattractive (d/d's name, not mine!). But that's all. No other cheating. No cheating on Nature Boy, for instance. And I don't plan to cheat with Boy, either.



Not knowing how it's like being cheated on, though, I have little idea what it actually feels like. That is, apart from my conversation with some friends. I mean: was a situation when I had a great date with Airline Boy and expected good things to follow, but then he slept with someone else and not me, was that a situation that qualified as being cheated on?

I see you shakes your heads to the contrary.

Aaa well, I tried.

My love stays in a beautiful city on a river, surrounded by lakes.

My love stays in a beautiful city on a river, surrounded by lakes. He goes walking in forests covered with snow drops. He sighs at the window glass and it frosts over. He drives past the boats and the sails. He smiles when he knows I think of him every moment.



My love stays in a beautiful city on a river, surrounded by lakes.

It's our Two Month Anniversary!

It's our Two Month Anniversary!

Not too long a time really, when you think about it, but I guess every milestone counts. Especially, when you're in one of those hated LDRs. What have we done in the two months? Been through a lot, Boy and I. Extraordinarily special moments, where we've shared and understood so much about each other. Good things, and also the bad things. Like me being egoistic, impatient, slow to move, slow to wake up etc etc etc. Like him being stubborn (so stubborn!), whiny, manipulative, impulsive etc etc etc. But in the end, it doesn't seem to matter.

I love him.

And he loves me.

And to all those silly, silly people out there who don't think it's going to last: Go Jump Off A Cliff.

It's going to take work. A lot of work. A lot of effort. A lot of patience. A lot of love. But we have all that. And what we don't have, we'll muddle through. We'll understand so much more about each other. We have hope.

So, BigNose, I love you.

Another Old Favourite

Another Old Favourite

Don't go breaking my heart
I couldn't if I tried
Honey if I get restless
Baby you're not that kind

Don't go breaking my heart
You take the weight off me
Honey when you knock on my door
I gave you my key

Nobody knows it
When I was down
I was your clown
Nobody knows it
Right from the start
I gave you my heart
I gave you my heart

So don't go breaking my heart
I won't go breaking your heart
Don't go breaking my heart

And nobody told us
'Cause nobody showed us
And now it's up to us babe
I think we can make it

So don't misunderstand me
You put the light in my life
You put the sparks to the flame
I've got your heart in my sights

Don't Go Breaking My Heart
Elton John - Duet with Kiki Dee (1976)

Role-play

Role-play

My first undercover blog had a lot of sleaze. It started with a basic introduction of who I was: Young Turk Closetalk with a swagger, in another city and with no Boy, randomly picking up afternoon mates, and recording them in typical debonair style. Ummm.... so that blog lasted about five posts. After a while, I was quite lost, because... ummm... I got bored. Prematurely. And no pun intended there.

I mean, I found myself at a loss: I got bored of talking dirty talk and sordid tales of sticky afternoons while no one was at home. I got bored of stories of eyebrows rising, and eye balls playing games and cruising in parks. I got bored of the same old fcukbuddies and (possibly) the same positions.

So the blog died its inevitable death.

So, when I keep hearing people ask me to have some more sleaze in Talking Closets, I can't help but wonder why. Can I do sleaze? Of course I can. You only had to see the sketches at the back of my Class 8 exercise copies to see that! ;-) But I also know I would get horribly bored of sleaze. Maybe, I also need to keep on having different sexual expereinces to be really accomplished and eternally hungry for more sleaze: recently, I was going through a couple of international gay sleaze blogs, and the amount of gay bar, sex bar, sauna, steam room etc etc etc experiences there is simply mind-boggling! Mindboggling, to imagine the possibilities, once GB and Humsafar and other noble-minded organisations break Sec 377...

;-)

But of course, there's Boy here now, so all those kitchy little fantasies have disappeared in thin air. Instead, I dust off the cowboy hats, and stick to role play...

Cry Me A River

Cry Me A River

Overheard: The so-called baap of Bombay gay blogging (thanks to FFF, that name has stuck now!) telling budding young professional: OMG, Closetalk and d/d are the biggest women I've known!

;-)

Well, we never denied it, d/d and I, but our issue was the frank airing of such a view behind our collective backs. Yesterday, I realized, just how womanish we really are: The Tapworks.

I cry. Terribly. Hopelessly. And I've realised, I use it as an unconscious defence mechanism. With all due respect to the so-called fairer sex, how womanly is that?!

Imagine scene: Closetalk is cornered into a situation where he's been made to confess. He's scared shitless about ensuing circumstances, and so the bawling starts. The blinking of eyes start. The nose screwing and sniffing starts. And the teardrops form. And roll. Down the cheeks. The hands rise up to wipe away in a futile gesture. It's a beautifully crafted, splendidly orchestrated performance. Only problem that makes me turn blue in protestations: it's not really crafted, and there's no conscious performance: it's just... natural.

Now who on earth would not believe me when I say that?

A quick survey of the Bombay gay world proves that most gay men are pansies, however, so I have misery in company (whatever that means). Emily cries after reading my mushy posts about Boy. He'll probably bawl buckets after seeing Brokeback Mountain. Veed cries at the drop of a hat to get his way at college, and escape having to study too hard. D/d cries as a defence mechanism, like me. Pansies, hankies at the ready... now.... blow!

Oops, did that sound obscene?

;-)

Tying in a bit of current world politics, in an effort to make this blog seem intelligent:

'Me Hearties!'

'Me Hearties!'

Valentine's Day without Boy and I survived somehow. More than survived, actually. It was great fun, as The Gang and I headed out to GB's annual V-Day bash. Minus Two: Emily was in Hyderabad, and The Penguin was overworked and tired. Instead, Veed joined the ranks, much against his initial protests, and there were Gupshup, D/d and yours truly.

Fun!

Veed had given a very clear cut diktat: Get me drunk, as soon as I enter, or I shall whine so much that the sky will fall down on your head. I decided that I had my job cut out for me, what with the extremely diluted drinks that GB parties serve, so on the third glass I instructed the bartender to skip most of the Sprite and go mostly with the vodka. Within minutes, li'l Veed was grinding on the dance floor.

;-)

Of course, d/d and I didn't need any alcoholic fortifications to grind ourselves, and we were soon practising the rainbow rendition of Dirty Dancing, which is way more dirty and has way less of dancing that impersonating copulation. Spotted loads of ex-one night stands, and blew kisses at them. Strange to think that Funny Parsi Guy, whom I'd gone out with on all of two dates, with not a single piece of hanky-panky between us, should be at the party with Delhiwalla Media Man, who's notorious for his sexual hook-ups. But they actually looked happy with each other, and I was happy when d/d agreed that Media Man, despite being much older than I, was reasonably hot, so that my sleeping with him once upon a time ago was quite justified, apart from the free hotel room stay and free hotel room booze.

Then there was Gulf Muscle Boy, who used to live in Thane ages ago, and who felt me up in a local train, when we were out on our one-and-only date. I'd seen GMB for the first time at this very same place, when he'd been dancing very sexily, and I'd sidled up and hit on him shamelessly. I did so again last night, and then danced my way away. I'm evil.

But not as evil as I was with Flighty Flight Attendant, who'd come over from Juhu for a date with me and said he wanted to date date me, but never called back again, preferring to have sex with someone I know well, instead. So, FFA was there last night, getting a drink when I was getting one myself, so I decided to play a game. So I smiled, and teased, and toyed, and soon we were close dancing on the floor, till I felt him 'rising' to the occasion... and then I abruptly turned around and left.

Sweet, delicious revenge.

Other GB regular freakoids? Orkut Muscle, who goes to every GB party in the same white tight tee, and always takes it off after five minutes, preferring to have unknown creatures pet him all night, and always gets slutty but never goes back home with anyone. Ummmm... and of course, the Mandatory Pair of Foreigners in their 'open' relationship, who come and dance and kiss for the first two dances and then flirt/dance/kiss/make out with as many other people as possible, all the while exchanging sweet smiles at each other, in competition. And the Short Bald Pot-bellied Man who hopped his way across the floor, feeling up and pinching as many hottie butts as he could manage, and was actually dancing with one of the Mandatory Pair of Foreigners, who was actually grinding back in turn.

By the way, in case you didn't get the message, I had a GREAT time last night at GB's!


PS: Boy called me up in the middle of the party and we chatted for a good 20 minutes, going mushy while I sat on the steps outside the disc. Came back home at 2 am, to discover that he'd sent me a V-Day Package, and it was waiting for me on my bed, so I chatted with him again at night online. I'm completely in love with this ethereal creature, and I can't believe he loves me this much.

*grin*

My Fair Lady

I've decided that My Fair Lady was made for a gay audience.



Straight people just won't get it!

Knocking on doors

Knocking on doors

Veed and I were sitting at Kaala Ghodaa, eating candyfloss. Pink and deliciously sticky. And discussing coming out. While I may be still very much in the closet, despite my mum's buying me silver bracelets and my brother buying me skin-tight tees, Veed pretty much broke his way out through the wood ages ago. Something which I've admired, but not managed to emulate as yet.



But Veed hates going to parties.

"Why is that?" I asked him, between bits of pink candyfloss, "How come you've never been to GB parties or Voodoo's or anything at all?"

Veed, shrugging shoulders and whining: "I don't knooooowwww. I went to a GB party once... but walked out after ten minutes."

CT: "Why? Someone grabbed your crotch? Or because no one grabbed your crotch? (grin) That's what happens to me, usually!"

Veed, glaring sarcastically: "NOOOOO!!!"

CT: "Then what?"

Veed: "It's just... not my scene. I'm out to my parents and all... I've always known I was gay and everything... but... I'm just not comfortable with seeing all those men out there, openly rubbing and grinding and kissing each other!"

CT burts into laughter and Veed glares some more.

Veed, in icy avatar: "I'm sorry if I make you laugh, Mr Been-There-Done-Them..."

CT, sobering: "Naaa, that's not it at all. It's just that... well, that's what makes GB so special for me... the thought that, here's the place where I can go with a guy and actually do all that rubbing and grinding and kissing!"

Veed, disbelievingly: "Really?"

CT: "U-huh! That's why Boy and I frequented Voodoo's so much, when GB parties were not happening. And now, with all that silly bar license issue, GB parties may be royally fucked even more!"

Well, apart from how GB parties may end up getting screwed/skewered, it seemed strange to me: the dichotomy in what Coming Out means. There was Veed, who came 'out' to his parents at the tender age of fifteen/sixteen, but who hates the idea of public gay affection, even in a gay forum... and there's me, who still likes to believe that my family doesn't know I'm gay (though, my family probably hopes for it more than I do!), but loves to boogey at GB parties in full Pink Gear nonetheless. I'm not completely sure which one is the real 'coming out', and I'm not sure I would be right, even if I thought I did. Veed's parents know he's gay, but his bringing guys back home is completely absurd... and while my mum may buy me a chunky silver bracelet, she still blanches in horror when she sees the orange pants I bought for myself.

;-)

Closets are made of sterner stuff than wood, methinks.

Pink is not the only colour that looks good on me, you know?!

Pink is not the only colour that looks good on me, you know?!

The idea of meeting friends is to chill out. It was, the last time I checked. What do you do, however, when you bump into friends with whom a meeting inevitably means a descent to Gay Blabbering one-on-one? A bit irritating at times. Funny at others, but a bit irritating at times.

Two ways of looking at it. Like the situation a month or so back, when Flatmate said that I've completely allowed the gay part of my life to overshadow me. I retorted, that wasn't true, and even if it were, it was justified. All that ended ages ago, a lot of conversations with a lot of friends went into all that, and yadayada. It all came back however, the other day, in a conversation with Friend X, when he said he needed to maintain a fair degree of distance from one of the people he's out to. The reason? It was clear that To-be Distanced Friend could not get beyond X's homosexuality.



"It's as if he can't get beyond the fact that I think men are cute, and not women," X said, sipping coffee at his place.

I was examining his dark blue linen curtains and smiled, and said I knew what he was saying. I'd been down that road myself, and was still walking along, signposts and all.

"I mean," X struggled to explain, "It's not that I don't appreciate with how nice he is about the whole gay thing .... but it's not COMPLETELY who I am!"

Objectification. Reductionism. Words I do not understand. Words that some artistic or pretentious artistic friends wish I did, but that's another matter altogether. Closetalk is gay. Closetalk is not only gay, however. Drawing lines possibly never seemed so... important, before.

And then, there was Friend Y, who recently came out to his brother's girlfriend, who's quite an established fag hag in her own right, and he's come to the horrible conclusion that he's just become her latest 'project'.

I have a lot of coffee conversations with these people, it seems, for the other day, Y put his feet up in the coffee couch, and moaned about how she was asking him insistent questions about his love life (or lack of it), sex life (or lack of it), and continuously asking him out to watch arty-farty plays, because "...you're gay and clever, so I'm sure you'll love it, Y!..." I burst out laughing at Y's bosom-breaking groan, at the end of his story.

Extremes, really. The world at large knows of how homosexuals are not accepted in mainstream society. Little does it know, that where there is acceptance, there is often a nasty habit of obssessive occupation. Perhaps, Flatmate was right, after all.

Getting homely here

Getting homely here

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

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

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

He laughed and lifted me in the air.



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

Thank God I met Boy! ;-)

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

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

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

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

Packed for the Long Haul

Packed for the Long Haul

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All my days. ;-)

I could do black magic

I could do black magic

Boy is back. *Big Grin*

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

;-)

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

FWB: "What's the good news?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

;-)

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

O, wait, he doesn't have any.

Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!

Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!

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



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

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

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

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

;-)