Beautiful Stranger

There's a boy in Bombay i flirt with. Online. On Facebook. He's a... ummm... 'friend', you see.

He's a cute boy. Very sweet and smart. Almost shy. Except when he tells me he's come out of the shower. Naked. And that he's got a very sizable... ummmm.... 'tool'.

We talk about random things.

His mixed heritage. (Yes, he's an CBCD - Canadian Born Confused Desi.) The extra pounds I put on in Amreeka. My fabulously svelte new figure. (Thanks to yogurt, instead of ice cream.) Sex. Love. And rock 'n' roll. (Fine, not rock 'n' roll that much.) He bemoans the fact that he's single in the big, bad city I love to distraction. And it brings back memories of how I used to gripe and groan about much the same thing when I lived there. (But, no, let's not go down that road again now.) I tell him (in quite a long-winded, flirty way) that I find him terribly handsome. Tall, dark and handsome, to be precise. He moans that the men in Bombay seem to prefer gora Punjabi braawny hunks, with buns of steel and brains of rust. I tell myself (and him, albeit in that long-winded, flirty way) that if we were in the same city, I'd probably jump him.

That's when he reminds me: Don't you have a boyfriend?

Ummm... yes. That's why flirting with a handsome (tall, dark, etc.) stranger/'friend' is so much fun.

Passion Fruit

Ten minutes ago, I was in the shower and thinking about that big tub of strawberry yogurt ("creamy strawberry", the label announces) in the refrigerator, lying unopened since I'd bought the damn thing 3 weeks ago. A late-night blog post, instead of completing the Human Subjects Research Board test module, was the perfect occasion to say hello to it, I decided.

Lapping up yogurt in the dead of night, 3.15 a.m. to be exact, and I'm pretty sure I won't be waking up before noon. Suddenly, it's last year all over. Or perhaps, even earlier. It's as if the summer never existed. Nor does the window right over my bed, apparently, which always used to aim a sunbeam unerringly at my eyes. I've learnt to ignore it, it seems. And so I live the life of a vampire.

O, yes, it ties back to the 'Dracula' vintage movie posters framed atop my bed, its crazy lettering proclaiming: The strangest passion the world has ever known! And yes, he's chasing a group of panic-stricken men below the lettering. Of course I had to buy the poster as soon as I saw it!

Only, instead of blood or men, I get my strawberry yogurt. Mmmm.... creamy. :)

Some Big Words About... *gulp* Race

So I've been following the news coverage on the recent racially motivated attacks on Indian students in Oz-land, and been suitably astounded by the whole situation. Irish Coffee remembers Australia as the ultimate chill place, full of beer and shags on pick-up trucks, but does acknowledge that race might well be an issue for the peeps down under. And that set me thinking, with due apologies to President Obama and his wonderul speech on the subject, what about race here in the US? More specifically, what's it like being an Indian grad student in the American Midwest.



And to make it even more specific to this blog: what's it like being a gay Indian grad student in the American Midwest?

The truth is: I've never had to face a racist slur (much less an attack!) here - and neither have any of the other Indians I know. Now, admittedly, I'm a really bad NRI-type, in that I don't attend bhajan-sessions organized by the Indian Student Organization when navratri rolls along every year, neither do I actively seek out the Durga puja community around here, I don't hug every single South Asian I meet on campus (even though most of them make goo-goo eyes at you when they see you're brown as well, and then look quizzically at you after you don't reciprocate!), and I don't attend any of the ISO meetings (formal or informal) either. Let's face it: Indians (not just Bengalis) are an intrinsically clannish species, especially when we're abroad. There's nothing really wrong in that - in fact, it's quite natural to want to ally yourself with like-minded people... but when that clannish-ness is on the basis on etnnicity or skin color or regional roots, can that be construed as racist?... and does that give the impression to the larger community (be it White, Black or Hispanic) that hell, these people don't want to mix with us, so we may as well treat them as Other and weird...?

The answer to both questions are decidedly problematic, and need constant negotiations and recognition. The answer is not to adopt an uncritically-in-love-with-White-people approach and abandon one's roots - and yes, I deny having done so! - and is most likely to be found in embracing Tolerance and Openness and Diversity. Big words, I know, if not in a dictionary sense then at least in real-world terms.



When I first came to my little Midwestern university town, despite my carping and bitching about it's decidedly non-big-city status, I was pleasantly surprised (and a little impressed!) with all the polite nods and smiles I got from random strangers, while walking downtown. Perhaps it speaks to my own unresolved issues (reverse racism?) that I wasn't creeped out if a random White/Black/Hispanic guy on the street smiled at me, but it's another story if a fellow South Asian did.

Being gay added yet another weird component to the whole mix. There's a strange feeling for some of us gay Indians, when we worry about how the whole queer thing will be received by other South Asians - given the lack of familiarity about the concept back home. There's an assumption - usually premature - that Americans understand what being gay/ lesbian/ bisexual means much better than South Asians do. Almost two years hence, however, my world-view has matured somewhat. I've come to realize that not every American is clear - or comfortable - about being queer, and not every South Asian is as clue-less - or as bigoted - about it, as I might have imagined. During the past two years, as I have slowly but surely come out of the closet to the people around me - both Americans and Indians/ South Asians - I've had to negotiate and re-negotiate all the different facets of who I am - male, gay, Indian, Bengali, NRI, grad student - continuously, both consciously and unconsciously, for myself as much as for those around me and those I have come out to. To use an awful pun, it's clearly not been a quick 'race' to the finish, more like a slow, important process, with often unclear dividends at every turn.

When I think of the racial attacks on Indians in Melbourne or Sydney or anywhere else, the first question that usually pops up is why. Obviously, that's not an easy or small question, by any standards, but it does deserve some conjecture on everyone's part. Are we considered soft targets, as so many in the media seem to suggest? Are we the new representatives of a resurgent Third World, and thus the whipping boys of recalcitrant White bullies? How many of us were queer, and how many of us were straight, in these attacks and did the perceptions of being queer play a role at all? Or is it primally because we are not White?

Bottom-line: none of these are good enough reasons.

Leather Lions

So this past weekend, I was in the Windy City of Chicago, attending a hoity-toity academic conference. But during the preceding week, while I was chatting with the gay denizens of crazy-wild-Chi-town, the most common question I encountered, when I told them the dates of my visit, was: "O, you're coming for IML?"

Umm,... IML?

IML, as it turned out, was the mecca of all things queer and leather: the International Mr. Leather contest/ conference/ festival. The reason for using those three words and all that "/" is mainly that I'm not sure (yet!) exactly what it is/was. Not quite a festival like the Gay Pride marches, not exactly a conference where fancy-shmancy papers get presented (and ignored thereafter), and no, not merely a contest either.

For five whole days, leather afficiandoes (and yes, they were men, no women at all that I could see!) descend from all over the world to Chicago, in all their bovine (o, I'm sure most were faux leather!) adornments and glittery chrome attachments, to strut down Michigan Avenue. An entire five-star hotel is booked by the IML organizers, rooms are offered to attendees at special rates, conference and banquet rooms are booked for special 'sessions' (to put it most delicately) and a Leather-Mart that houses the most out-of-the-world apparatus, and a long-drawn-out pageant to crown International Mr. Leather is held.



My first reaction, when I heard the whole deal: O.M.G.... how frikkin' fantabulous! :)

Yes, so you always knew I'm a bit of a skank, didn't you? *grin*

Unfortunately, I had to balance IML and my hoity-toity conference together, so no, I wasn't exactly hanging for my life onto the slings suspended in the ballrooms, or screaming hoarsely in a sweaty hotel-room (well, not the IML hotel-room, at any rate! *giggle*)... I was trying to be a good nerdy academic at the conference, imbibe the High Arts of fabulous Chicago, and engage in some tiltillating voyeurism at IML - all at the same time. So, I visited the world-famous Leather-Mart with a hunky 'daddy', was suitably awestruck at the scope of the human imagination that could come up with all the wondrous inventions therein, and ogled at the furry/ smooth/ gleaming buttocks in full display at the hotel.

But my favorite intermingling of the three? Most definitely, when I hit the Art Institute of Chicago to check out its new Modern wing with a conference-colleague, and spied the many gorgeous leather-men in their boots and chaps milling around...

You've head of the famous lions at the Art Institute, right?...



Now imagine my roars of approval! :)

Spring Cleaning

In the eons long past, I would have a little scrap book of sorts, filled with ticket-stubs, pamphlets, brochures and other knick-knacks from my holidays. A keepsake of the vacation and the memories, I suppose. Nothing too fancy - it was usually a blank exercise book with all those little what-have-yous stapled in, and little notes scribbled on the side. And then, Blogger happened. There was no need anymore to go to all that trouble - it was much easier to post about the things I'd seen, the places I'd been to, (the people I'd shagged)... you get the point. :)

And then there was Facebook.



I asked a friend the other day via chat on FB whether he thought it was behind the death of blogging. The answer I got was hardly conclusive, but it's something I haven't been able to shake off, either. Satori pinged me the other day (well, to be honest, this was a couple of weeks ago!) on FB that it was about time I went back to blogging, and while I did agree with him in my response, it took me this long to get back on the wagon. The answer as to why (or why not!) is fodder for another post - hell, I need something to keep me going, right?! - and I won't talk about that now. Suffice to say, this my most recent return to Blogger (circa: now) is as much a return to blogging, as it is a return to the root causes of blogging.

I write my self. Think about that for a moment.

On the events side of things, I've been a busy, busy, busy boy. I finished writing up my thesis (in all its 240-page verbosity!), then defended it successfully, said goodbye to my Midwestern university, got accepted at my dream school for a Phd program (due to start in August), presented a couple of great papers at a global conference, embedded myself with Irish Coffee's family (especially, his dad!), spent a gorgeous week in Chicago (arguably the most amazing city in the world), and bought my tickets for a long-awaited trip back home to India later this month. Is it any wonder that I haven't had much time for blogging, so that status updates on Facebook were all that I was capable of? :)

On the personal life side of things, I've been equally busy. It's been interesting, fabulous and tantalizing, living in with Irish Coffee for the past month or so, since the semester closed. I've been experimenting with strange cocncoctions in the kitchen, which haven't been all bad, really. And I've been growing (maturing, I'd like to think) in my relationship, both with my lover and myself. I've been exploring boundaries and central cores both, and I think I've been the wiser for it. I don't mean to sound like a tored old man here - o, you should have seen me party in Chicago this past week! - but I do want to stress on how important that peculiar juxtaposition of stability and mercurial flows is. Perhaps I need to book a spot with The View ladies to elaborate on that one. :)

For the moment, though, I'm satisfied. Scratch that - 'satisfaction' is a bad word to use here. It's more like: content to be here at this space, excited for the crazy new stuff that I know is right around the corner, and clearing up my closet from the past.



Hello again, Self. :)

Tricks of the Tease

So I wasn't going to blog this week (you won't believe my jam-packed sked!) but then I sauntered over to Orange's blog, and saw the whole mess with the ex, and since I'm practically a Dowager Empress at the tender age of (ouch!) 27, it's pretty much expected I dole out expert advice on how to handle men. Bombay Style. :)



Expert advice on the 'ex', to be more precise.

At last count, it was 6, if I'm not mistaken. There's a way to handle such situations. It's a cool, calm, adult, easy, never-fails way. Read my lips. A-V-O-I-D.

That is, until you're looking drop-dead gorgeous, smoldering sexy siren, with a killer attitude to boot, and he's going to wish he was down on his knees in front of you, doing whatever it is that gets you off - the kinkier the better! :)

I jest, you think? Pah - amateurs!

Like I said before, there's a science to it. Essential items, of course, are fabulous friends who can tide you over while you lick those wounds, heal your pride, and are ready to claim your spot on the meat market again. Let's see, first there was the Call Center Boi in Delhi - broke up, moved away to Bombay, felt fag-ulous again, went back to Delhi for trips and had him splayed out on his apartment stairs... thrice! Salsa Guy? Same formula, works like a charm. Peacock Boi? Yuck. Too icky too even bother with, so I satisfy myself with bitchy smirks when I see him on-and-off in saddi dilli. Banker Boi - danced dirty all night long (lots of times!) at the bars with him, and left him high and dry every time. Nature Boy was different - he's my one best friend from all the dumb exes, but yes, the same formula applied. Avoid for some time, get back into 'fabulous' mode, hang around again, and have a steamy farewell fcuk (or two) in the shower. And as for the Gujju, I'm still playing him now and then - he's dying to get in my pants and I love turning him on, and it's extra-fun because he doesn't know that I'm with Irish Coffee, and he's never really going to get within ten yards of me. *grin*



I feel deliciously evil now. In a good way, if you know what I mean.

But fun and jokes aside - it's a cardinal rule. You bump into an ex when you're not ready - you RUN. There's a humanitarian twist in there, really. Why give him the satisfaction of knowing you're still broken up in there? Tantrums and scenes never really work, so you might as well forget all about them. Keep yourself intact, and put yourself back into your work and the next hunk who comes walking your way, and the rest, as they say, is easy as A-B-C. That's called the Tricks of the Tease.

Dear Diary

Coffee mug in hand, here I go...

• Christmas was beautiful. I fought tooth and nail with Irish Coffee and managed to keep the tree up for the better part of January, so his was the only house on the block which twinkled with fairy lights on India's Republic Day. :) We exchanged gifts on New Year's Eve and spent New Year's Day evening at the zoo, which was all lit up and looking spectacular. Yes, yes, very romantic and all that. (Though I'm not too sure if we held hands and did all that mushy stuff!) :)
  
  
• Work has been hectic. Preparing and mailing PhD applications has been taxing, both mentally and physically. The good news is, I've been accepted into all the great schools I applied. The bad news, bureaucracy is being a bitch and it's the same old Indian 3-year university system versus the US 4-year one that is making me want to pull my hair out (...which is, a big deal, really, since you probably know my haircut is buzzed). So, yes, I'm waiting and watching and hoping things get resolved soon.
  
  
• Talking about hairy issues, I almost stumbled in disbelief the other day upon spying not one but two (!) white hairs on my chest. Good God. So now it's official. I'm old. Not even 30 yet, and I've already been put out to pasture. Irish Coffee (smug bastard!) is thrilled. I, understandbly, am less so.
  
  
  
  
• I might be headed to NYC again for a quick trip - as part of the recruitment weekend for one of the graduate schools who've accepted me. Haven't worked out all the details yet, but I am hoping things will fall into place :) (Not too sure I'm going to accept their final offer though, but that's another matter...!)
  
  
• So I found out I have a lousy credit score. More accurately, I have a non-existent credit score.Which makes my obtaining a credit card terribly unlikely. Which makes my credit score remain perpetually low. Am I the only one who thinks the American credit score system is inherently flawed? Yes, Barrack, you do need change! :)
  
  
  
  
• I have re-discovered Dr. Pepper after a hiatus of several months. Not quite Cherry Coke, not quite Pepsi, not quite anything really - least of all, pepper-y! Now that I've re-discovered it, it's time for me to shun it once more, of course. So there.
  
  
  
  
• May is looking good for Chicago. I do love that city. I love the feel, the ambiance, the sky-scrapers, the Mag Mile, and Boystown. I'd love to live in Chicago some day. O, wait. Didn't I say that about Manhattan earlier? (And Pittsburgh? And Cleveland? And San Diego?)
  
  
• So I defended my thesis proposal successfully. That makes me (officially) a Masters Candidate, ripe for the PhD pickings. I've given myself about three months or so to complete the thesis (even though the official deadline is early June - o, wait, that does work out to three months, doesn't it? Whoops.). So, no more doodling on separate projects and papers that have nothing to do with getting that darned thesis complete and graduating.
  
  
• Is it strange that I find this random pic sexy - even though I can't see his face? Are tattoos and a hairy chest all I need to get intrigued? (Perhaps it's the shades?)
  
  

Season's Greetings... and All That Jazz

So this is likely to be the last post of the year, if my lethargy is any clue to go by. To anybody who regularly comes here, and to anyone who may have happened to stumble over... a Merry Christmas to you.



I've always been a sucker for Christmas, ever since I was a wee li'l gay boy. I guess I got the right idea since way back then: men look fabulous in wings, angels be damned! :)



Despite my belligerence about sitting at home twiddling my thumbs last weekend, my Christmas did go nicely. (Well of course you knew it would - I'm just a little shriek-y at times, but I usually have happy endings!) Irish Coffee managed to pick me up, and I've been here at his place since last week - and will be for another 2 weeks or so. The Christmas tree came down, we played carols and decked up the fairy lights (is there any other kind? *giggle*), and hogged like pigs on some grrrrrr-eat food over at the family's. So this was my second year as the gay umm-something-like-a-sonny-in-law, and it went pretty, well, OK. Even though Irish Coffee feels everyone's always been very comfy with me, I detected a warmer tone, a greater degree of comfort, with me second time around, and that was good. It made me feel good. :) Suddenly, I'm OK with him not being the black sheep in the family! The best part, of course, was getting Presents. Frankly, I was surprised they even got me any - but they did: three boxes of chocolates, a game, and a card. What can I say? (They wanna fatten me up, Evil American Family!) So, now, I'm all choked up! *grin*

Anyhow, there's just about a couple of days till it's buh-bye to 2008, and hullo 2009. Irish Coffee and I are planning to head down to the fancy Christmas lights over at the zoo tomorrow, and even though it's bound to be chilly, I'm looking forward to it. The two of us are exchanging gifts on New Year's Eve, since we don't really do much of a partying binge in this Midwestern town-let (new word, something like pig-let, and yes, you heard it in the Closet first!) - man, I wanna head back to NYC or Chicago! - so that should be a nice, romantic evening for the two of us. Some great wine, good food, gifts, and a couple of mind-bowing orgasms... each! *winks*

So, yes, in the event that I don't get to blog again till after 2009 gets here... a Happy New Year to everyone!



And, in place of my usual Sexy Santa spread, since I'm a bit fed up of red suits and hats and have taken a new 'shine' to fluttery feathers, here's a Fantabulous Fairy line-up... :)

Crazy-ass FUNNEE :)

OK, so I presume everyone here has seen the 12 gays of Christmas (if you haven't, GO SEE IT NOW!!!), but this one is another crazy-ass-hilarious must-watch clip !



OK, so that's what I want for Christmas now. Right under the tree in a bright red box with a pink bow. :)

Whatever happened to being the *black* sheep?!

It's a blight most people probably wouldn't call a blight. The out gay man's family. You'd think that'd be so cool, wouldn't it? To have a family who's totally cool about you being gay and include you in every family occasion, birthdays, thanksgivings, christmases, whatchamacallits...! And if you're seeing such a gay man who's got such a happy-happy family, you'd think that'd be perfect, too.

So what do you do, when your boyfriend is this total family-nut and you're not?



Warning: this is a post where I play the Evil Scrooge Incarnate. Worse yet, I'm going to argue that I have a right to feel the way I do and ESI is actually much maligned. I'm not one to spit "Bah, humbug!" at Christmas - it's just this whole "we love our gay family-member" crap which gets to me. Why, do you ask? Well, frankly, because I'm not used to it.

I suppose I never thought of it from this angle before: the thing about being gay and fabulous in Bombay (or anywhere else in India really) is that you rarely come into contact with the family - the real blood-ties family, I mean, not the gaggle of gay gals your guy (and you have your own, of course!) hangs around with. Family outings then meant you getting your 4 gay friends and him getting his 5, and then all of you hitting the club Saturday night, moving onto someone's house at 3 a.m. for the after-party, some giddy fondling on the couch, followed by some mindblowing sex back at either his or your place. Brunch next morning is optional, but speaks volumes to the dgree of intimacy between your families. That I could handle, that I'm used to, that I like.



But what do you do when you're hoping to go away to your boyfriend's house for Winter Break, and your boyfriend can't do that because he's in another frikkin' city doing odd jobs for some much-loved family member? There's a part of me which cautions me against feeling all-too angry or indignant because blood is thicker than water (or so they say), and there's another part of me which feels... lonely. And honestly speaking, that second part is winning out right now.

Sure, I know the script. There's supposed to be laughter and moldy family-jokes around the dinner table, great food and nice people - and yes, Irish Coffee's family has been pretty nice to me, really. I know they're nice people who might be a little flummoxed at the new gay son-in-law (well, not really that new anymore!) but they're doing their best...! But what happens when the new gay son-in-law (yours truly) is not really used to this whole thing? My idea of a great Christmas season with my boyfriend is the two of us cozying on the couch, watching a great movie, sipping wine, eating some fabulous dessert, watching the snow flakes outside, and some log-burning sex. It's not my present situation: me growsing and grumbling at home, making coffee for one, doing my laundry, brushing out my tiny christmas tree from the hall closet, and expecting to be alone for the coming weekend... while he's doing house-projects in Timbuktoo. No, I'll still be spending Christmas Day with him, but that's not the point. Christmas is not just a day, it's a frikkin' season, a whole week (or more), and I'm stuck doing thesis work at home and grumbling to myself. (And no, just because I have plenty of thesis work to do doesn't particularly mollify me, either!)

No, the point, quite simply, is this: why did families have to get all "we accept you, come join the mundane-activities fold again, dear gay son" and why couldn't they just step away into the shadows surfacing for the odd lunch or two?

Yes, I'm needy. Bugger off!

Naughty or Nice?

So Christmas is fast coming up, and most of the stuff I'm supposed to get for Irish Coffee are terribly unexciting gadgetry for his fish-tank:

1. A carbon dioxide reactor.
   
2. A cave. NOT a fabulous Disney castle type cave, but a boring ole grumpy cave with moss on it.
   
3. Sand and gravel.
4. Fish: a pair of black wellies OR 10 rummy-nosed tetras. I mean, what happened to good ole cute goldfish? (Though, I do like the sound of the rummy-nosed things!)
5. A floor to ceiling plant stand.
   
6. A pair of hair clippers.
   
   

My Christmas list goes something like this:

1. Sex and the City DVD-cum-Music CD pack.
2. A fabulously sexy light rain jacket.
3. Britney Spears' Circus.
4. A pair of zippered black boots.
5. A sharp new Fedora (to make up for the one I left behind in New York!)
6. Steamy sex from Sexy Santa and perhaps a couple of his Elves!
   
   

Yes, I know, I'm the 'shallow' one. Ain't that great? *grin*

Ring-mistress

So Britney's back in the ring, and HOW! Circus has pretty much shattered all the records, following closely on the heels of her other hit single Womanizer. This is the part where I blush, shuffle my feet and admit that I'm one of the old-time Spears fans. I liked the masochistic school-girl with pigtails who liked being hit... one more time, and I loved her in Crazy, and I even liked her in that ridiculous poor-little-rich-girl Lucky song... And then I watched horrified as she spiraled down a horrible rollercoaster, amply helped in her smouldering descent by the media.

Let's not blame the paparazzi alone here. As someone pointed out on her Wikipedia page, Britney's a great example of how people become simultaneously valued/devalued as commodities rather than human beings. Suddenly, every little thing Britney did was news, every tantrum, every angry outburst was screaming at you from the front page - and yes, you were lapping it up! As Britney croons, all eyes on me in the center of the ring, just like a circus...!



Was she partly responsible for all that attention? Perhaps - but definitely not to the gruesome extent that it turned out to be. The Spears Phenomenon pretty much became a case study in media ethics on reporting privacy in my classroom - in fact, I encouraged my students to think about the media attention and whether it was merited even in the case of the most publicity-greedy celebs.

But this post is not about debating the pros and cons of media commoditification (yea, you probably won't find that word in Webster!). It's about how she actually came back from over the hill where she'd practically been hurled over and buried six feet under. It took more than one lunge from her, and several attempts to come back, fight for custody of her kids (an ongoing battle), fight to get back into shape, fight to get the right songs, and struggle to grow as a person. And I like to think she has. Circus is definitely a newer Britney: I see shades of her journey as a person through the awesome challenges thrown at her. And I like how she uses humor to channel her anger into some great ditties in the new album. Case in point: Womanizer.



K-Fed, duck for cover - she's opened the closet now, bitch! :-)

America's Finest City!

So my first thought on walking out of San Diego airport was: I look odd all muffled-and-bundled up in my winter gear, while everyone around me is traipsing around without a coat or a care in the world. My second thought: so this is what Santa gives me for being good all year - a long weekend in sunny California! :)





So even though my friend Lo-retta (as my giggly friend in Cleveland will henceforth be known as, and if you watch Family Guy, you'll know where I'm coming from!) wasn't able to make it on the trip, practically everyone else of my academic discipline did! This was the most anticipated conference of the year, and a whole bunch of us nerds from everywhere in the US descended upon San Diego - "America's Finest City" - to question, analyze, problematize, showcase and many-other-things-besides our field! We had a lovely hotel downtown, bang across the gorgeous harbor, regular parties hosted by various universities practically every night, and some very touristy places to hop around-and-over.









(Like Balboa Park, which is supposed to be SD's version of central perk, oops, park - and its strange but surprisingly engaging row of miniature globes - all except the blue one which had bras etched on it for some weird reason: as every gay boy knows, bras are just plain eewwwww!)

The gaslamp quarter was amazingly alive with life - too bad I didn't take my camera along with me the times I went there for dinner, but it was a treat. Sunny sidewalk cafes for lunch during the day, and some great clubs and bars to visit once the sun went down. A colleague and I headed over to Croce's Jazz Bar, and though I was supposed to hook up with a cute gay professor for clubbing at Hillcrest afterwards, I decided to cancel that and stayed on for the jazz!



Hillcrest wasn't cancelled for too long, though. The next day, I was chatting online with another gay academic from my conference, and we decided to have a great night out. So, yes, there was good music, great drinks, fantastically nerdy conversations (for a gay bar!) and some jaw-tiring kissing. :) I've promised to stay in touch with my Californian gay academic, even though I'm half way across the world simply cuz we had such a great time talking and dancing. (OK, the kissing played a part in the decision, too!)

The best part about San Diego though wasn't really Hillcrest - personally, I much prefer Chicago's Boystown in terms of ambience - but rather the fabulous ocean. Frankly, the land-locked Midwest doesn't have a patch on a beautiful, sparkling ocean, and that's where my homesickness for Bombay kicks in again...!







And though I spent some time walking along the harbor, I know there's much, much more to do/see here... San Diego deserves another trip - and this time, I know I have kiss-worthy friends, too! *grin*

Just another angsty post!

Sometime back, I had a theory that I was (despite my sparkling wit and brilliance) after all just another white mouse running on an ever-whirling wheel. Nothing really has changed so far in my life to dispute that theory. I've lived through writing the proposal of my thesis, the horrendous terrorist attacks in Bombay (thankfully, everyone I know is safe!), the gorgeous weather in San Diego, the hideous weather in my Midwestern hamlet, and a crazed mailing of PhD applications.



*squeak*

The 'busy' motive doesn't completely cut it, of course. Somewhere along the way, the Closet lost its penchant for honesty: honest fear, honest excitement, honest trepidation, honest lust. Instead, I fell into the trap so many bloggers who get too conscious of their readership do, and tried to project the 'happy' face: devoid of fear, trepidation, excessive excitement, and (it must be said) lust. In an online conversation, Satori sighed and said, "No offense, but it's usually you under-30 somethings who go around starry-eyed with simplistic views of love and sex and matrimony." That's not to say that he's not a believer in all of the above himself - but perhaps he would define a more nuanced role for himself. And I've been doing the same for myself, I suppose. In the shadows. Away from the Closet, because somehow even that isn't very closed these days - and of course, that's all my doing, so no, I'm not really complaining or anything. I suppose I've been trying to deal with the fact that I'm all happy and domesticated, but still check-mark all of the above: fear, trepidation, excessive excitement and (again, it must be said) lust.

I'm a sucker for that Lust. *grin*

Lust for that cute gay academic with who I went dancing in San Diego one night after the conference, yakked 19 to the dozen about Obama, gay politics, doctoral programs and other scandalous tidbits that would make any self-respecting gay boy blush - and you could tell by the progressive ying around the two of us as the night went on and the conversation grew more... intense. A couple of drinks, some pretty sexy dancing, and a lovely lingering kiss before I said goodnight and disappeared a la Cinderella - only much later than midnight! *sigh*



Lust for that other cute young man I flirt with online, a senior at the university who grins o-so coquetishly at the camera with his shirt rolled up to his armpits to show off his fabulous abs! Surprise, surprise, he's actually intelligent, well-read, funny, and gets my craziness.

OK, and yes, I'll admit it: lust for that huge hunk of a Latino who doesn't get any jokes what-so-ever, probably doesn't even care (but then he doesn't have to, with a sculpted body like his!), and is simply in the mood for a fcuk. I'm not sure how long I can keep stringing him along with sleazy online sex-chats, instead of actually delivering the goods... but, I figure, as long as I can, that's good enough for me! *grin*

It feels terribly invigorating to admit to my lust here. I don't do guilt very well, I'm afraid. To tell the truth, I don't do guilt very often, either. :) But when I do, it's usually those quiet-and-alone moments lying in bed, followed by anxious soul-searching that lasts for a few minutes till a friend pours a bucket of cold reason on me. I'm not perfect. And I'm not asexual. (SO not asexual!) And just because I'm not a singleton anymore doesn't mean that I should stop feeling whatever I feel - fear, trepidation, lust, and all of the rest. I used to think that "growing up" meant you stop being naughty and become boring. I tried that for awhile. It made me cringe at the thought of coming here and admitting who/what I was and did. Instead, I realized that growing up means to reconcile both your stable relationship status and your naughty streak. There's a reason my guy is with me - he admits he loves me being crazy. And not being honest means stifling the craziness.

So where does that leave me, and the Closet? To put it fancily: in an enlightened state of being. *grin* I"m going to try to "grow up" from an under-30 something dimbulb to an under-30 something adult. Did I like my kiss in San Diego? Loved it. Do I enjoy flirting with the cute frat boy? Most definitely. Will I fantasize about hunky Latino Lover in bed? Umm...! Am I still in love with Irish Coffee? More than ever. :)

Does that make everything very complicated? As the song goes, I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose-garden! :)

Maa da laadla bigad gaya (Mom, your son's become... spoilt?!) :)

So, I'm supposed to see K.Jo's new movie Dostana with Stephen when he hits New York City later this year. While the movie's been much-hyped about being the first gay Indian movie yadayadayada, to tell you the truth, I've kind-of thought the promos looked a bit... well,... homophobic. The usual stuff about "haha, laugh at the pansy gay guy!" crap. And that's felt weird, what with me being a long-time fan of K.Jo, even before his Koffee With Karan days - which was a fag-ulous show, by the way!

But then, I get an email this morning from SnowWhite's Stepmom with the lyrics of Dostana's newly released song. And no, even though my knowledge of Punjabi is terribly rusty as best (and non-existant at worst), I didn't need to really know the language very well to understand that this is K.Jo at his tongue-and-cheek best! :)

So, yes, I really, AM looking forward to NYC movie-time with Stephen in December now!

And, in more serious news, this was MSNBC anchor Keith Albermann's emotional reaction to Proposition 8 last week...



Nice, Keith... but perhaps a bit too late?

Next Up: Closetalk's shenanigans on Halloween '08!!!

KA-BOOM

So it's like that Huntington guy said, the Clash of Civilizations... I'm far away from home, and Proposition 8 is a far cry away from Section 377, but am I really surprised that Californians, Arizonians and Floridians all voted overwhelmingly to ban gay marriage, and Arkansas won't let gay couples adopt children? Not really - well, maybe a bit on California, but only cuz I let myself do the wishful thinking bit. I know I've blogged about this before, but I'll reiterate again that America seems much more tolerant and open-minded from outside than from inside.



But then, perhaps the question is not one of tolerance - given that America now has its first African-American President - but, rather that basic brick wall that one comes across now and then (but which we academics paradoxically see as co-constructed and eternally shifting!): culture. That's the same excuse proponents of Section 377 back in India use: that homosexuality is simply not in our 'culture', society is not ready for it, and the majority should not be force-fed something by a minority group.

And that's the argument here in the United States by many as well: it's not 'our culture'. By 'culture', I mean that Barbie-Ken perfect marriage in the perfect suburban home with white picket fences, and large boisterous families replete with bratty kids. For so many Americans, the word 'marriage' has a special sanctity that they are loath to see embraced by non-traditional folks. And if that cultural block is the real deal here, then is it really fair to spew about minorities like the African-Americans and Hispanics who, because of their traditional stress on family values, have apparently been blamed by No on 8 activists for voting for proposition?... So there we are back again: the age-old tussle between traditional and not-so-traditional, culture the brick wall versus culture the shape-shifter that we academics (and it seems, not many others) believe in.



To be sure, there are brick walls on either side. There are many determined gay rights activists here who will settle for nothing short of Gay Marriage in capital letters. It has been suggested that activists should compromise for civil unions with similar legal benefits, rather than insist on the Big M - as was the case in Florida, for instance. There have been suggestions that perhaps with his new-found majority in the US Congress and Senate, Obama might be able to bring in a federal mandate on civil unions - something like they have in Britain. But, again, I'm not holding my breath for that. Not least because I'm sure there will be several gay activists who will oppose that too...

And I'm not sure I can blame them.

Isn't it just another case of (excuse my use of academese) Othering? Isn't it a case of "No, you're fags, and we don't care if you want to call your union a 'marriage', even though we all grew up in the same cultural space, believing that marriage was the be-all and end-all of life, but you still can't have it, cuz it's ours, so you have to be satisfied with a civil union"? The irony of the whole culture-thing of course is in that fictional retort of mine: it doesn't matter that marriage has been so completely sanctified (by religion, state policies, whatever!) for ALL Americans, gay and straight, but marriage with a capital M cannot be granted to anyone not... traditional.



Where am I going with this, and why do I care? To tell the truth, I haven't really ever looked forward to getting married - well, at least, not since I was 14 in Calcutta and dreamed of that fabulous garden wedding and me in a yummy sherwani (yep, the dominant theme of my dream wedding was my wardrobe!). The most I've hoped for in my adult life has been... to find someone to fall in love with, who loves me back, so that we can be happy for a long, long time. It's been the romance angle with me, not too much the legality - perhaps, quite simply, because I never saw any scope of that legal framework back in India. It's been some 1-year-three-months for me here in the US, and to be honest, I don't see a legal framework happening here either. Even though I would love to live in New York City, I don't see myself moving there just cuz I can get my Connecticut-sanctioned marriage approved there. But I don't count, since I'm an alien (legally speaking!) in the country.

The people who do count are those like Irish Coffee, who's infuriated that if he were to marry, he would not enjoy any legal benefits or rights. He rants about moving to Canada pretty much in the same vein as a bunch of people were, when asked about a seemingly-stupid scenario now, if Obama were not elected. People like Stephen, who emailed his friends' parents, trying to get them to vote no on proposition 8. And so many others like them.

To all of them, I say (cornily enough): lick your wounds, and come back to the ring boys; it's going to be a long haul. I'm Indian, I know all about waiting it out.

Yes, I'm happy... :)

The next step? Use the complete control in the legislature to put into place a Federal Mandate that'll overturn Proposition 8, and extend full rights to civil unions for gay couples...

Do I hear a refrain of Yes, we can?

Let it be said...

Sarah Palin is not a nice person.



O, believe me, when I said that sentence aloud awhile back, there was something else at the end of it, other than "...not a nice person". But while I'm not exactly too shy of calling a spade a spade (or a bitch a bitch!) my refraining from using some of the 10,000-odd colorful invectives that are at the tip of my tongue right now serves to make a point. A point of contrast.

Not only is the woman stupid/dumb/moronic/take-your-pick, the woman is one of the most aggressive hate-mongering creatures from that right-wing bastion of the Republic National Party. (Yes, what makes you think I'm a liberal now? Just cuz I'm gay? *grin*) At yet another rally, she called Presidential candidate Obama a terrorist - something which even her running mate has desisted from (or tried to, at any rate, even though the infamous robot-calls kept up the hate on his behalf!). And to make matters more laughable, the conservative camp cries shrilly that Obama is lampooning Palin and denigrating women! The focus of their fury? - this perfectly tasteful ad that simply shows you her lack of experience and knowledge on (let's not get into numbers now) a wide variety of subjects!



O, except hate - she's very qualified at that!

You want the real deal? Here he is...



And let's not even get into the debate on why an international grad student should even care about American Presidential politics... I'm damned if I know... except that, yes, he's the real deal.

Truffle/Trifle

One thing common to love and stress is chocolates. When it's love, you're left panting for that next delicious mouthful of caramel from your main squeeze, and when it's stress, the squeeze-ball doesn't help much and it's all you can do to not pop the entire box of caramel down your gullet and directly to your waistline. *sigh*



Due to a host of circumstances involving both, I've been inundated by chocolates.

The love factor hasn't come exclusively from the boyfriend either. Several of my best friends back home are currently seeing people they believe (fingers crossed) to be the loves of their lives. They're doing the whole razzmatazz, so to speak: the bubbling champagne late-nights, the jet-setting holidays, the dancing-till-dawn and happy, happy, happy grins, and the jaw-dropping sex. Not too sure about the jaw-dropping sex, though, since my friends are by no means the kind of slut I was in my singleton days and even if they were, they know that if they tell me it's liable to end up here.

As for me, I've been indulging in the more homely kind of love-shove. As I told Vivian the other night, it's almost a shock to realize how domesticated my love life has become. I sit at the desk and write my academic papers while Irish Coffee potters around the fish tank and the television and his computer; we go for long walks together with the dog; we concoct fabulous (and not so fabulous) meals for dinner; I wake up in the morning and make a large pot of coffee for the both of us (OK, so he does coffee most of the time, I lied!); he slides a chocolate bar to me sometimes, a bottle of Diet Coke at others, when I'm busy working on my papers; we quietly watch his fish in the fish-tank swim in circles or ellipses or what-have-you; we go shopping for foodstuff, groceries and clothes (he hates the clothes-shopping part; I of course love it); dinner-time is followed by some snuggling on the couch and some late-night TV with the occasional white wine.

And no, I don't seem to part-ay any more.

My room-mate and his friends head out practically every Thursday and Friday, and I turn them down every week because I have tonnes of work to complete, books to read, papers to write, tests to grade, and basically be a melancholic old curmudgeon. My boyfriend tells me, I have much too much on my plate to be a frat-boy party animal like them, so it's OK to concentrate on my books and my studies. And while I do think he's right, and I DO try concentrate as much as I can on one other element besides the workload and the stress - that's my love - I can't help wondering sometimes: where did the party slut in Closetalk disappear to?



Where's that fagulous creature who loved to dance all night long, down his vodkas and shag a new guy practically every night? Why on earth did I have to turn *gasp* 27 - why can't I remain forever a "dancing queen, only seventeen"?! And, yes, how warped must I be to grumble at my comfortable life and yearn for that extra zing? Is this how married people get: all happy and complacent and whiney at the same time? But then, from my experience, that's also how single people usually are: happy and complacent and whiney about never meeting Mr. Right ! Trust me, not only have I been there/done that, I've seen firsthand so many accounts of that same avatar that it's quite... numbing.

You know what helps get rid of the numbing? Chocolate.

O, and porn comes a close second.

Nuthin' wrong with a bit of Brilliance...

One of the virtues of blogging, in my book, is the self-reflecting and pondering that it affords you. Blogging for me is less of an anonymous confession to the faceless masses of the internet, and more of a process whereby one writes one's self into existence... if that means anything. To be honest, this has been more of a process for me than anything else, as I have come to realize: the understanding that a blog moves from being personal to confessional to communal, and then somewhere along the way, all of the above! It's a strangely cathartic journey, where one encounters a variety of people (readers, commenters, other bloggers) who become as important as the original blog-writer in determining the flow of the blog.



I know: I'm a nerd. I'm supposed to say, this is just an online journal, and that's it. Enough of the high-falutin' crap. :) I'm a nerd, though, cuz I really do believe all that high-falutin' ummm... stuff.

The immediate cause for this sudden reflection was the conferral of a blog award to Talking Closets, from two bloggers whose writings I have followed (pretty) compulsively for a loooooong time. Now, usually, I'm not one for blog-awards - some inane part of me thinks that you need to be a techie to really go for that stuff - but I guess the Brilliante Weblog Award is a bit different. For one: it's less of an award, and more of a vote of confidence by your readers, commenters and the larger blogging community one tends to inhabit. And it's a process of discovery, wherein you help that community enlarge, by discovering new writers and readers. By virtue of its sheer fluidity and its lack of a restricted organizational backing (that is, any particular high-profile site or blog that bestows awards), it becomes that extra bit more... brilliant. :)



So... all thanks to Pepe and Iz for thinking I deserve an award. Let me take my virtual bow now, and applaud both of you.

Pepe is an enterprising young Filipino (or was it Malaysian? Pretty sure it was Filipino...) settled in Chennai, who blogs about the "jumbled blah blahs" in his life. Between the terribly endearing stories of his love life and his shockingly brash takes on high-end consumption, his blog is a treat to pore through: you get the real deal from Pepe, and some heart-warming advice. Thanks, you.

Iz is, quite simply, audacious. She is survived by her terribly nice hubby Father A, and a pooch whose name I cannot recall for the life of me - or did she have to get rid of him? (Yikes, as I approach 30, the brain cells dry up, methinks!) I have no recollection either of how I originally bumped into her blog - or Pepe's for that matter! - but she turned out to be an old friend of an old friend - and the hilarious part is, she stll has no idea who I'm talking about! *grin* Iz chats about the wacky forces of nature, her screwed up take on life, and some random nuggets that are too hilarious to be remembered - so that's my excuse. :) Iz, thank you.

In keeping with the conditions of the Brilliante Weblog award and the whole communal nature of blogging, I'm to plug seven blogs which are, according to me, "brilliant in their content and design". So, here goes...

• The Reluctant Observer is Mahesh, an immensely sensible, sensitive, interesting guy based in Bangalore, who blogs about his life, the world around him, and his interesting interpretations of it. The best part about Mahesh? - he inspires you to think. :)
  
  
• Humming Bird in Hyde is "Elegant. Stylish. Quick. Colorful.", as he puts it on his blog. A London-based desi - at least, I think so - he's full of fabulous tidbits about the strange people who occupy his personal and professional life... And to read him talk about his gorgeous boyfriend is an awwwwww moment, if ever there was one (or several, for that matter!).
  
  
• Satori Stephen is currently in... New York, New York! When he's not striding all across the globe, Stephen is writing about the people he meets on his travels, the amazing cuisine and places he scouts out, and yes, how can anyone forget those deeeeeep introspections on the nature of humanity? *grin*
  
  
• An Actor in Search of his Stage, or Clockwork Orange as he's known on my blogroll, is your average bursting-at-the-seams-with-knowledge-and-great-style engineering grad student. We have quite a lot in common, he and I: we're both desi grad students in the States, but then he's in fabulous Pittsburgh and I'm in my Midwestern hamlet. :)
  
  
• Confessions of a Rambunctious WhipperSnapper, or Whippy as I have christened him, is one blog that has most likely been nominated for this 'award' before: but knowing that he's "fat, alcoholic and gay" (his words, not mine!), it's doubtful that he's gotten around to actually posting about it - so maybe this is the nudge he needs! Whippy reminds me a lot of my fabulous friends back in Bombay - thanks for the nostalgia, you.
  
  
• Bedtime Stories are not all about sleaze, really; in fact, if you're sharing beds with Paul, you're most likely to giggle yourself to bits rather than end up in a sticky, sweaty, sweet mess - O, but then, what do I know, I haven't really been pyajama-pals with him off-line! *grin* I've been following Paul's blog forever, really, though I'm not a very prolific commenter, and while his manic quirks alarm me at times, they keep inducing those fits of giggles!
  
  
• The Gay Banker is, frankly, my kind of banker! I first came across his blog ages ago and have followed it ever since (though I'm a silent reader rather than an outspoken commenter most of the time), and his travails of poly-amory and his boyfriends numbers 1, 2, 3... have often entertained me, as well made me think more seriously about gay relationships. GB presents an alternative view of things: that it doesn't have to be all about heterosexualizing gay relationships with townhouses and picket-fences - but then, the final decision really is yours: what do you want? And take a moment (or two) to think about it.
  

While you're doing so, happy bloggin', y'all! :)