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... :)

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!

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! :)

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.

Another Ever-After Story...

Once upon a time (it seems ages now!), in a gorgeous city perched by the sea, with neon lights and shining skyscrapers, a boy sat on his sea-facing verandah-flat, poring over his laptop and was going about his merry way finding a fcuk for the night, as all devastatingly witty and cute gay Bombay boys who're not very modest do. A chat-window suddenly opened, however, and it turned out to be an American. Older guy, but with a grin so impish that it made our hero grin back unconsciously to no one in particular.

CT: "So, are you here in Bombay for a vacation?"

Irish Coffee: "Nopes, I'm in the States. In TheCityWhereYou'reTravellingToIn4Months."



After the initial surprise had subsided, the boy decided that this was a great opportunity to make 'first contact', so to speak, with the people whom he was going to stay with for at least a year of his life, in the middle of the American Midwest. So CT and Irish Coffee chatted, they laughed and they talked, exchanged emoticons, and enquired about each other. Irish Coffee wasn't single, he was planning to visit Southeast Asia next month with his boyfriend of three years, but he was very amenable to befriending new people. He even offered to pick up CT from the airport and drop him to his university, when the time came, four months later, and CT actually considered it.

His friends however had other views. SnowWhite's Stepmum made an O with his lips, and charged that horrible horrible things might happen to the traveling Bombay boy: "You could get kidnapped, and then maybe raped and he could maybe do wierd kinky stuff to you in his basement!"

CT, pauses: "Ummm.. Tell me again, why that's a bad thing...?"

Despite the brevity, our hero decides to follow his friends' advice and not trust the stranger for a pick-up ride. "Plenty of time for him to pick me up later," CT grinned to himself. In fact, as the weeks drew close to his departure from the fabulous city of Bombay, he didn't come across Irish Coffee again. Till, finally, just a week or so before he was due to catch his flight, they bumped into each other - virtually, of course.

CT: "I'm dropping in about 10 days or so!"

Irish Coffee (paraphrased): "My asshole boyfriend dumped me, and I'm heartbroken."

CT (paraphrased): "Well, you can give me your number, and when I'm down there, I can cheer you up so that you can forget all about asshole ex."

Or something like that.

So, our hero lands in this sleepy Republican Midwestern hamlet, applies himself to loads of orientations and introductions, runs around helter-skelter in finding an apartment for himself, and lands himself with a most impolite form of strep-throat, so that he goes out of circulation for close to two weeks. When his birthday comes rolling around, though, he decides that he needs to take his mind off things - of course, he's also explored all the men in the hamlet by this time, strep-throat or no strep-throat - and that's when he discovers Irish Coffee's number, hastily scribbled onto a patch of paper, creased and crumpled in his wallet. Perfect: Irish Coffee lives in a nearby city, he might be willing to show our hero around a bit, which would be just the thing to get over his funk. So that's what he does: "Hello? I'm the sexy smart Indian guy you chatted with ages ago. I'm bored. Can we do something?"



Despite SS' brilliantly suggested itinerary, however, CT and Irish Coffee decided to start off with vanilla. So that weekend, Saturday to be exact, they met up: our hero standing at the corner of the road in front of the Subway, and Irish Coffee's car whizzing by twice, and then stopping on the third round, his head poking around, and: "You wouldn't be CT, would you?" Yes, I am, and off they head to the gay bars. They talk some more, tell each other about the kind of work they do, they laugh at silly things, Irish Coffee tells him about America and why he hates Evangelicals, CT tells him about gorgeous Bombay and living the fast life of a PR con and what he wants to study here, and while the drinks flow, the music thumps, and they dance (sort of), time somehow whiles away. They end up heading back to Irish Coffee's place. And our hero ends up staying the whole weekend there.

***

A story I recounted to my friend in Cleveland, when she asked me at the fantastically romantic Italian place we were at: "Tell me the story of how you and Irish Coffee met!" And so I did. And, seeing that we crossed our first-year anniversary a couple of days back, I decided to re-tell it here. If only for myself. :)

Wanted: Sanity

So, yes, I tend to be a bit... over-the-top, as I revealed in the last post. I tend to be a bit... insecure, for the silliest of reasons, when I'm with a guy. And that's why having a gay best friend is so bloody important for me. And this silly present situation, where SnowWhite's Stepmum is halfway across the world in frikkin' Bombay doesn't really help. It's tough being in a situation where your boyfriend is your gay best friend, as is the case here with me. I tell him things I should probably not, and I don't tell him things I probably should have... and God only knows what he thinks of me, then. Thankfully, as I realized last night, he doesn't think I'm too weird. :)

So this is how it all unfolded:

Irish Coffee's supposed to go to his sister's place some 5 hours away, and that means our usual weekend sojourn isn't happening. While he was initially supposed to go yesterday, that plan got postponed to today. So... I proposed that he come pick me up, and we spend the night together. All good and fine, till he has this really hard day where he had to travel all over the city, so he returns home at night and asks me on the phone if he can put off the trip down to my place, and we just meet up later today. Ummm... that actually sounds pretty reasonable on hindsight. So then, why on earth did I get all whiny and try my very best to coax/persuade/pressure him to shrug off his tiredness and drive 45 minutes to come fetch me...? The charitable answer is, I don't know. The less charitable one is: I'm a needy prick.

*sigh*

So he says then, that he'll call me back in about 30 minutes and decide, and I go back to folding laundry... and then reason hits me. Hard. (Thank God.) I'm a dummy. He's tired. He's had a long day. Why on earth am I getting on his back and forcing him to make that long trip all the way here, and especially so, since he has to leave town in less than 24 hours?! O good gosh, I'm like one of those horribly nagging wives who want everything done their way. I've probably already irritated him, now I'm going to completely annoy him with my crap. Where on earth is SnowWhite's Stepmum, with all his brilliant advice on playing it cool in relationships and not throwing oneself at him... O, damn.

So, I called Irish Coffee back, told him I'd been acting like a dunce, told him why, and that I was sorry, and that he should understand I'm a flake, but usually reason does shine through (though it may be a bit late), and since he's got to make that horribly long trip in any case, it doesn't make sense for him to come by. He laughed, said I wasn't too weird after all, that he understood, and we ended up having a nice long chat over the phone, till we both got sleepy. And yes, he's coming over for a late lunch here, on his way to his sister's place.

All's well that ends well, I suppose, but see - flakes like me NEED gay best friends around in my immediate vicinity! *sigh* Perhaps I should put out an ad in the local paper or something.

The Queen's English

The Queen's English

Surprise, surprise, I seem to have been nominated "gay spokesman" in my Queer Theory class. Not really that surprising, if you take into account what Irish Coffee says about me: apparently, my gay-ness can be seen from space! I feel like doing a salute or something now! :)



Back on the track of my de facto nomination (only guy in a class full of gals, so waddaya expect?!), the other day we were dissecting the notion of "gayspeak". And while we pored over research and remarks galore about whether there really is some fabulously mystic language exckusively for gay people, it naturally came to the point that the gaggle of females who make up this particular class looked pointedly at me and asked, so , what do you have to say? Spill the beans!

To my surprise, it wasn't really as easy to deny the accusation as I thought it would be. I mean, I don't think that all gay men look and sound the same - even though some of us do have the infamous "voice" - and then there's also the fact that if there's such a thing called gayspeak, where the hell is lesbianspeak? Hell, here I am, in a relationship with a guy who doesn't come across even remotely gay... so where does that leave the grand theory of "gayspeak"?! And then... there's me. I have the "voice" - if Irish Coffee is to be believed, even the little green men up there who're surveying the planet right now want to get my pants down. I also have the lingo: I refer to my very best friends on this blog in feminine terms, even though they're both men - case in point, SnowWhite's Stepmother and Vivian. And yes, all of our gaynesses can be seen from space - and I honestly don't think we'd like it any other way!

*cue for Pride music*

In the ole days back in Bombay, when I'd get a phone call from SS in the middle of my shoot with the (obviously straight) camera guys, I'd slip into "straight voice" mode without a thought - it would just happen, no conscious move required, really. And SS would snigger at my fake manly laugh - and induce me in every which way to get me tittering in front of the butch camera guys. Just your typical HO!HO!HO! over the more intrinsic HEEHEE, you understand. How's that for "gayspeak", then?

But where "gayspeak" really scores in my opinion, is not so much in the intonations or the voices or the giggles, but in a shared global identity - as corny and a la gay.com as it may sound. Gay men everywhere in the world don't share exactly the same slang, but let's admit it, they come pretty close! Thanks to the internet, porn and gay men holidaying all across the known world, "gayspeak" really isn't very isolated. I may not have been conversant with what "basket picnic" or "call house" or "playing checkers" or "jam fag" or "tea room" meant, when I first came to the States, but even back in good ole Bombay we know the really important stuff like flamers and daddies and aunties and P-n-P and the value of muscle marys!

So, does that mean we speak a wholly different type of language from the rest of humankind? All said and done, that does seem to be stretching things a bit. As SnowWhite's Stepmother exclaimed, when I told him all about "gayspeak" and its connotations, "What rubbish! We're not a bunch of Zulus with all this nonsense about a strange indecipherable language, you know!"

And even though the Zulus might not appreciate it the way he put it, he does have a point. You see, it's like this: there's English... and then there's the Queen's English. :)



V-day Weekend Update: Had a delightful time, up at Irish Coffee's, and despite my gruelling workload of readings etc, we did have time to cuddle on the sofa, cook up some effing fabulous food, drink loads of booze, have mindnumbing sex, and crack some really tough crossword puzzles. Not necessarily in that order, but you do get the picture! :)

What makes the world go around

So what makes the world go around, again?



I was going to begin this blog by announcing it as my first V-day post, but then I recalled this particular one a couple of years ago, in good ole Bombay. Technically speaking, it's V-day already in India, even though it's still Feb the 13th here in Midwest America. And even though I won't be seeing Irish Coffee tomorrow, it's still going to be a disgustingly mushy V-day for me, because I'll be chatting on the phone eating heart-shaped candies.

That's right. You heard me correct. Heart candies.

*giggle*

Irish Coffee says they're a stupid American tradition, and I kinda believe him. Little heart-shaped multi-coloured sugar bits, with stuff like "Hot Thing" and "Kiss me" written on them, and he says that millions of Americans will gift them every year to everyone they know - classmates, parents, cousins, the works! I sincerely can't think of anything much more saccharinely Hallmark-y than that! So... he went and got a couple dozen of the ridiculous packets and put them outside my apartment door, so that I'd find them when I returned from class. I called him up to tell him he was mad.

It's been about six months now, by the way, with him and me. I like it. It's kooky and grown-up at the same time. Ridiculously ribald. Quite mad. And, comfortable at the same time. If I sound weird and nonsensical, then it's because it seriously has elements of all that. It's got to the point where I've introduced him to my straight friends here, and even the odd faculty member, and that feels kinda... different. So here I am, feeling all happy and buzzed, 15 minutes left to the V-day countdown, and I've made a terribly over-the-top V-day Closetalk avatar over at the side there, and I've hunted online for a sexy Cupid to post here.



But I think it's also important to play down the mush factor, what with the boyfriend and all, in noting that for us gay guys, while some of us go ga-ga over V-day (most of us hate it, of course: most notably, SnowWhite's Stepmother is celebrating "Thank God I didn't end up with the wrong guy" Day today!), we can't really let ourselves go totally as far as PDA (public display of affection) goes - at least, in the straight sense! Hence, that great pic which I posted up there with the L-O-V-E sign and the guys smooching is actually just a NYT stunt pic for their article on censure over gay PDA, and not real guys kissing - and that's a horrible lie to tell on V-day! Of course, I've thought often, since coming here, that the US of A isn't really the great "land of the free" it's billed to be...! *sigh and despair* But that's fodder for another, longer, and much more sensible blog post. For now, to all the bigots out there who can't stand the rainbow, this is all I hafta say...

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Cock-a-doodle-doo



From my readings...

"McWhirter and Madison (1984) found that 73% of their male couples began their relationship with an understanding, sometimes explicit, sometimes implicit, that the relationship would be sexually exclusive. Yet, 100% of those couples who had been together 5 years or longer who start a relationship with intentions of being monogamous either change their intentions or fail to live up to this standard."

- from J.H. Harvey, A. Wenzel & S.Sprecher (Eds.) "The handbook of sexuality in close relationships".2004.

Wow. I guess I always knew the truth. But seeing it right there, in black and white, supported by all the raw data etc was still... strange. Whatever happened to the girlish notions of everlasting love and undying fidelity that SnowWhite's Stepmother and Vivian and I cherished and hoped and prayed and longed for...? Not very sure, really.

SS and I would sit and talk and we'd try to think of at least one or two completely faithful gay couples and we'd have to admit we didn't really know any. And that would lead SS onto his diatribe about "all gay men are chuts!" The romantic in me would make a last-ditch attempt and argue that it's really all about the intimacy between a couple, and if they think fooling around on the side is ok, we shouldn't be quick to judge... and while I still do believe that, I must admit that the naive little gay boy inside me still hoped... Still hoped to find one - o, at least one! - gay couple who was completely monogamous.

And that's why that para from my reading hit home as much as it did. There was statistical certainty there. Not just of the fact that there aren't many monogamous gay couples out there, but also that even they are exclusive now, you can be pretty sure they won't remain so in a couple of years - if they're even still together then. I know that's really not earth-shattering news for any of us gay men - or straight people who have close gay friends... and yet... the naive little gay boy inside me feels awful. It's like a pronouncement: don't you even dare hope for a cozy twosome - because before you know it, either you or your boyfriend will be found fellating the TV repair guy/ gardener/ UPS guy/ Wal-Mart check-out guy/ what-have-you. And even though I know there are probably millions of gay couples who are happy in their extracurricular arrangements, I'm crushed on hearing this kind of a message even as I start a new relationship. I have half a mind to go and show this article to Irish Coffee and ask him up-front when he's going to cheat on me - and then I'd better go and cheat on him a day before that, just to save face. I'm quite aware of how stupid I sound here... and yet... *sigh*

The same article goes on to state: "... there seem to be no significant differences between gay men in exclusive and nonexclusive relationships on measures of love or liking for the partner, closeness, satisfaction, commitment, or relationship longevity... Research suggests that for gay men, agreement about exclusivity versus openness is more important to relationship satisfaction than any specific type of behavior."

In other words, it's just a matter of getting your rocks off. And then it's fine. As long as Prince Charming tells the Beast (so, yes, I have a thing for chest hair) about his one night stand with the Frog Prince, all's well in fairyland.

Whatever happened to the fairy tale, though?

Post-holiday Trimmings

Post-holiday Trimmings

Came back home the other night and started stripping down my Christmas decorations. The holidays are over, my three-week long stay at Irish Coffee's place is done, college has reopened, classes have resumed, and there seems to be a sudden lack of romance. Well, till I make my midnight phone call to Irish Coffee, that is. :)

There's a veritable mountain of work and academic papers to be written just waiting for me, and yet the largest, arguably most important project on my plate this semester is literally that - on my plate. The Happy Holidays are gone, and the pounds I put on during those fabulous times have to be chased away too. Re-enter, the PHAT (Pretty Hot and Tempting) Plan.



Of course, being a college student in the US of A, you're almost expected to put on weight. A friend of mine here calls it "the freshman fifteen". After all, when you're running from class to class, and from paper to paper, it's all you can do to grab a piece of artificially cheesy pizza, or extra-greasy burger with fatty fries, and some fizzy soda pop... And when you don't know how to cook and don't have the patience for it either, like me, you're pretty much doomed to put on those excess calories. And then, of course, it was Holiday time. Loads of great food in Chicago, lots of eating with the Irish brood, and before I knew it, I stood on the weight to realize I'd gained (gasp) ten pounds.

So, the other day, Irish Coffee and I sat on the love seat and pored through this diet book, looking at the loooooong list of banned foods - all the while, munching on low-fat brownies. (Yes, such an unearthly thing actually exists!) Turns out, the genius who wrote the book says that diets should be determined by blood groups, and so an O+ guy like me should stay away from lentils, corn, wheat, bread, pork, cabbage, cauliflower, potatoes, cheese and a whole host of other foods that formed my staple diet a week back. Now, even though I don't completely buy that blood-diet logic, and am scouting around for copies of the South Beach diet, a lot of those aforementioned foods probably are bad for me! *sigh*

So, this evening for dinner, I popped over to the dining room and helped myself to salad. Not the yummy decadent Bombay salad with its dripping meats and pasta and corn, but a rudimentary American-style one: lots of lettuce, beets, carrots, spinach and broccoli, with some lean turkey strips on top, and low-fat balsamic dressing. O, and yes, Diet Coke.

Some time back when I called up Irish Coffee for our nightly conversation and told him about my evening meal, he chuckled and said I shouldn't worry...

My reply? "Thank God, he made boyfriends to say stuff like that!"

Prettier than Russel Crowe

So I'm prettier than Russel Crowe, really...

It's the close of the holiday season with the start of the new year, and it's been an interesting week, really. I've been "meeting the family", you see.



So, the last time I found myself in a similar situation was back in Bombay, when I first met the Wicked Witch of the West, Natureboy's gal Friday. WWW was witty, bitchy and pretty - just the sort of person I gel with o-so completely, and we ended up being great friends even though the Natureboy-Closetalk romance didn't last too long. Aaa, but last last week was different. Last week, I was introduced to a 20-member strong immediate family and a 35-member strong extended family. Irish American. Whoa. And I'm horrid at fake accents.

It's been about four and a half months now that Irish Coffee and I have been together, so when his family moved back for the Christmas holidays, it was quite inevitable that I'd meet them. My first encounter with the aliens was when one of them - his older sister - came over for a midmorning coffee some two weeks back, and so I sauntered out from the bedroom, trying to not look guilty as the gay whore from the subcontinent who seduced her innocent-as-a-babe (yea, right!) brother some twenty minutes ago. We drank coffee, ate slices of pie, chattered about this and that, and by the end of the conversation, I found myself invited to a great prime ribs party she was throwing for the whole family a week later. I gulped and accepted.

As it turned out, I got a chance to meet the Family even before the big prime ribs party. A day before that was scheduled, Irish Coffee got a phone call that the whole family was already assembled and there was a demand that he come right over. So I dressed appropriately (no Boystown tee) and got into the car, and soon found myself surrounded by sisters and brothers-in-law and nephews and nieces and bawling babies and a father. Ummm... okkkkkkk then... So yea I was pretty nervous, not moving much, trying to be very polite and all that, and I kept thanking god for the talkative niece and the cute (if bawling) baby who deflected attention away from me. I got some questions thrown at my general direction and tried to answer them as nicely as possible, trying not to appear as (a) the uppity grad school student who's going to become a high-brow academic who doesn't give a shit for Midwestern middle class people, or (b) the gay tramp who's trying to infiltrate our good Catholic family. *sigh*



Russel Crowe had nothing on me! :)

There was a short break that evening, and then I found out that everyone was then going to pack into their cars and drive over to another bigger party by 'Uncle Dave' in his house. The extended family... ooo, goody.

Uncle Dave's house turned out to be this lovely old mansion-type, overflowing with Irish bric-a-brac, and his son kept on talking about good ole Ireland with me, trying to convince me to go there the very next season. There was booze, loud music, even louder people and interesting artifacts all around, so I actually had a pretty fun time. Before we headed out to meet the family, Irish Coffee had told me he was going to introduce me as his 'friend' and not 'boyfriend', because he didn't want the "o, you slut!" looks from some disapproving elements right after they'd come to terms with his ex, and though I'd agreed, I don't think anyone really bought that story.

Anyhow, the big prime rib party went off quite well, too. I decided to get on the family-pleasing offensive and baked a batch of brownies for the lot. There were party games and yummy food and great wine, and I probably gained five pounds that evening.

By now, most of the Family have departed for their respective homes, and it's back to me and Irish Coffee here again. We brought in the new year, watching the second part of the Godfather trilogy and eating a fresh batch of brownies (that's the only thing I can cook, really), and some great snuggling on the couch. :) I missed my Bombay boys and remembered the great New Year's Eve party we had last year, but was quite content with my Irish Coffee here. I'm not sure whether we'll last forever or not, but it does feel great to be here with him, to cuddle and snog and do up the Christmas lights. And to watch the Godfather over my excellent brownies.



Happy New Year, netizens. :)

Closetalk in Chicago

Closetalk in Chicago
(sounds like one of those Asterix comics... 'Asterix in America'...!)

The ole Midwest is hardly the place for you, if you're a Bombay boi, who's used to 13 million teeming and pulsating around you, so you can imagine how eager I was to finally get my ass out to Chicago for a quick pre-Christmas trip. I'd heard all about the "Windy City" from Irish Coffee, who lived there for ten years earlier, and I was dying to see a real city finally in the States - with all due respect to Indy. So we packed our bags, put the dog in the car, and drove down to Chicago.

We found a motel right off Halstedt Street, Chicago's Boystown, and Irish Coffee and I traipsed down the street. I, of course, found the Rainbow Pillars of Boystown quite freakishly fabulous and got straight down to posing for snaps! Also drove over to Lakeshore Drive, which is supposed to be quite the scenic cruising area, and then back to Halstedt Street in time to catch the play we had tickets for.



Once that was done, it was time to visit yet another icon of Boystown - Gay-Mart, which I can only describe as a thoroughly kooky curiosity shop! Picked up a completely nonsensical Stewie angel ornament for the Christmas tree, and then ambled into the Leather Shop and Cupid's Treasures to check out the merchandise. Was sorely tempted to buy the handcuffs and edible underwear, but then decided I could be quite devilish in Chicago without them! What can I say... I get my inspiration from Stewie! hehehe!



After we finished checking into the motel, Irish Coffee and I hit the bar - the straight bar, that is, where his friend's the bartender. The idea was to get loaded on free beers and (yuck!) whiskey. Anyhow, it was fun chatting with the straight folks (as SnowWhite's Stepmum says, or used to, at any rate: "Straight people are normal too!"), but then I forgot that my boyfriend is Irish whereas I get high on a single malt, so after seven beers I ended up puking my guts all over the floor. Mortifying start to a fun holiday, but there I was. In my defence, we were at the bar for a good six hours till I gave my virtuoso performance.

*sigh*

Anyhow, by the time morning came, I was raring to go again and we dropped by the Magnificent Mile. I drooled at the sight of Prada and Tiffany's and given my Holly Golightly affliction, just had to pop in, much to poor Irish Coffee's vexation! :) Walked downtown some more, posed for cheesy pictures and then into the Millenium Park to watch the city's skyline reflected in the Big Bean. :) When the Traveller first recommended I head over to some place called "the big bean", I must admit I sniggered, but hey, it was actually loads of fun, standing by and watching the skaters whizz by.

Did loads more sight-seeing in the next two days, and we headed down to the gay bars in Boystown each night. Time to show of my Bombay togs, so out came the sexy pink Benetton tee and tapering black leather shoes, and I was ready to sashay. Roscoe's was fun and sexy, great cosmopolitans; Cocktail was amusing with its pretty boys; and Hydrate was fun too, with all the hunky shirtless guys boogeying on the dance floor. I'd been poring over the Gay Chicago reader during the day, over my Starbucks, and noting where all the fun parties were, and though I missed the Wet Bear contest (damn!) I had fun nonetheless. Nights of white wine for me, no more beer (thank you!), and it felt nice, standing and chatting and laughing with Irish Coffee, while he whispered terribly sweet nothings in my ear... :)

There are two different joys in exploring a fabulous city with (a) your boyfriend, or (b) your friends... and though I only have (a) right now, and I miss my (b) terribly, it was still a freakin' fun time in the Windy City!

What did I bring back? Mmmmm... apart from the wicked Stewie ornament, a great Boystown football tee that I plan to wear during the summer and a very shiny Pink Pig dogtag. :)



O, and a bunch of great memories!

Library Brew

Library Brew

It's hard to believe, really, that four months have already passed since I got here in the ole Midwest. I haven't really been that great intrepid explorer of the new land as I thought I'd be. :) Just Indianapolis and one other city in the Midwest and that's it. Yikes. And I haven't been very adventurous in the last couple of months on the men's side either, as the complaints from my sex-hungry freaky commentors will inform you. :) Well then, what on earth have I been up to here, millions of miles away from good ole Bombay?

Ummm, well...



I've been attending my classes, and writing reams of papers for them, and the general verdict so far is that I seem to be fairly talented here. :) So, while I'm already dreaming up PhD plans (mum always did want a 'doctor' in the family!), I'm also submitting papers and articles to conferences. The good news is: I've already been accepted at a couple of them and come March, I'm going to be in Pittsburgh and then at Detroit, waxing eloquent about my sheer brilliance. Aaa, well, not really, but you do get the picture. Suddenly, I seem to have become (gasp) the academic. As a prof informed me, I'm quite the FOB PIG about town - Fresh Off the Boat Poor Indian Grad (Student). :)

So, last semester saw me calling Famous Activist Guy and asking for pointers on a project I was working on, about sensitization toward gay men and women in the corporate workplace. FAG was a great help, of course, but he did assist me in realizing that I'd turned into one of those gay NRIs (Non Resident Indians, for the uninitiated) who turn toward good ole India for research work. *sigh* To think, I actually dated one of those for some time - o, but then he was cute, so it really doesn't matter that he turned out to be a prick. Anyhow, my project happened to be a great hit here, and then I started on a second one: gay-friendly curricula in US colleges. Of course, when I broke this piece of news to SnowWhite's Stepmother, he huffed and said I was as original as Om Shanti Om, with my o-so-cliched little faggoty research topics. :)

Nevertheless, I am being quite true to my faggoty self. *giggle* In a way, it's the whole "coming out" thing. I'd always planned on being more "out" here than I was back home, and I guess that's showing more in my research projects at grad school than anywhere else. I've already declared my intention to focus on Queer Theory to my professors, and they've been quite gung-ho. I don't think they've had a fag in the department in quite some time, so they seem to be quite excited at the prospect! :)

On the man-activity front, there's a reason for not posting about brand new scintillating sex-ventures, aside from my harried nerdy grad self. And that's cuz I've been getting progressively serious about the thing with Irish Coffee. It's not completely smooth sailing etcetera over here, because there are complications involved: I'm not very sure about my future, and he's not sure about his, plus he came out of a long-term relationship two months before meeting me, so there's "rebound-baggage" involved as well... so... *phew*... it is complicated. But it's also nice. It's fun being with him, and talking with him. Spending a lot of my time with him. He's been my sounding board for all my academic (and not-so-academic) yadayadas, and it's been great finding an intelligent, funny, witty (and patient) person in the Midwest to cuddle in bed with.

And he's a funny foil for me. I'm this weird flamboyant gay guy whose scarf has to be flounced over his shoulders just right, whose leather gloves must gleam, whose hat must be tipped just perfectly, who can only wear well-fitting jackets despite the freezing weather - and he's so butch he might as well be straight. We do make a funny pair. He likes his coffee black, straight up, no sugar, no milk - but he still makes mine for me, the way I like it: plenty of sugar, plenty of milk. India ishtyle.

I'm getting used to my Irish Coffee. :)

Wanna Nach All Night...

Wanna Nach All Night...

I guess it's partly the Diwali fever, but here I am in the ole Midwest, and I've been missing amchi Mumbai. I had a formal dinner the other night with the Dean of Graduate Students, and there was the usual introductory round and I do my "I'm the international student from Bombay..." routine, but then he interrupts to ask, "Bombay? Don't you mean Mumbai?" And I'm like: "Nopes. It's Bombay to Bombayites, Mumbai to the rest."

*sigh*



So this weekend, there's a little Diwali something at my li'l Midwestern university, and I'm dragging Irish Coffee over with me. Thought I'd show him some of the desi moves. He's already heard some of the Hindi stuff on my computer and makes a face whenever I play Jhoom Barabar Jhoom, and so now I thought I'd torture him with the sight of some ABCDs and College Curry Bois dance to Where's The Party Tonight. :) (actually, he may like the dance performance more than the music.)

And that's another thing. I am soooo completely behind what's current in the Bollywood scene right now that I still listen to Where's The Party Tonight! Just now, I was so overwrought with nostalgia of the great parties at Guppie's house, and Vivian and SnowWhite's Stepmum dancing to Beedi, that I started listening to the Omkara album on my ipod while studying in the library. While walking to campus this morning, I was playing my five-month old Bollywood collection and snapping my fingers. I miss letting go on the dance floor when they play those fabulous jhatka tunes. I miss seeing the Bombay gay boys do their horrible rendition of the bhangra, and my joining in with my own topsyturvy version.

And the other night, when I found myself alone at the gay bar, I missed o-so much my GB parties and my gang of silly, fabulous queens. :) I missed all the lousy drinks, and bitching about the lousy music, and doing the borderline porno moves with SS, and squealing about the horned-up Punjabis on the dance floor. I missed having friends to dance with. I really want to dance. Just step out there on the dance floor and go wild like I used to in Bombay. With someone (friend or trick) who dances back with me. And while Irish Coffee is so terribly sweet to offer to go to gay bars and clubs with me, he just hates dancing and I know that. It seems somehow terrible to admit that I haven't slipped on those dancing shoes of mine in almost three months!



Ok, so this is the part where I realize that I've been moaning and groaning this whole post. Is life really that bad? Ummm... no. That's just the drama queen in me griping. Halloween was fun, for instance. And even though I was just one cowboy among the 200 others in this Midwestern town, I'm happy that Irish Coffee whispered in my ear that I was the cutest among them all! :)

Things are actually going quite nicely on this end. We still haven't had the "chat" and someone told me the other day that I was a whore to still have random hook-ups now and then if I was seeing someone, regardless of the "chat" having happened or not, but in all truthfullness, the randomness and the frequency of the hook-ups has descreased. Hell, it is true: graduate students don't have time for much else but work! :) And, more than anything, it's fun to talk about Irish boys and college boys and all the other different kind of boys that I bump into here.

That, and Bombay. *happy sigh*

Fairyland's Redheads

Fairyland's Redheads

Sitting here in the ole Midwest, I realize that there's one type of game here which seems especially drawn to me: the Irish American buck. I didn't really notice it much, the first time around. I mean, as far as I knew, there was only Irish Coffee, with whom I shared a fantastic equation. I mean, we ate, we drank, we drank, we drank, we shared conjugal relations *titter*, we drank some more, and we bitched about the British, and then I really didn't think much more about the Indo-Irish connection.

Till I found out, Bearded Boi was Irish American too. Aha. That made me think the world was a small place. Bearded Boi and I drank a lot too (sheesh!) and ate Mexicano food, and drank some more again. And anyone who's known me in real life knows I'm what they call a cheap date: I get drunk after one-and-a-half beers. So, of course, Bearded Boi and I had fun.

And then, I met the Scriptwriter, we had a great date dancing all night, got drunk beyond ourselves, bonked like rabbits till the early morn, and then he tells me at the door while leaving that he's (surprise surprise) Irish American!



So, now I'm left wondering what that special connection between moi and the Irish Americans of the Midwest is all about. It's become a joke for me to ask my hook-ups during the online chat, whether they're Irish or not - and six out of nine times, they are. I mean, back home, I didn't really have much of an idea (or opinion) about the Irish laddies. I knew all about the conflict with the Brits, I knew about the poor ole peasants who had to migrate to America, and I'd seen Ralph Feinnes look very sexy in a variety of Irish roles on the big screen. O, and yes, there was that soppy soap opera movie with Tom Cruise (ages ago, when he looed human) and Nicole Kidman (who is simply gorgeous) playing Irish American immigrants, and that hideous movie with Leo DiCaprio in NYC as an Irish hoodlum. Ahem, ahem.

So... my notion of your average Irish man hasn't really been dripping in style (except, maybe Ralphie). No, they're mostly the rough men-of-the-soil, who drink and belch and fart and laugh, but don't really know much of the finer things in life. But then, neither do I. :) When I tell Irish Coffee this, he has his standard reply ready: "The British stole it from us!"

There are of course, lots of gay men who like swarthy men-of-the-soil. Like me, for instance. :) Like my friend Diamond Choker Baccha for another. O, also Vivian. When you come to think of it, a lot of Indian guys go for that kinda MAN'S MAN - ok, well maybe not SnowWhite's Stepmother, but then, that's not catastrophic. Had sauntered over to an Irish American Festival sometime back, and it was quite fun, watching all the cute redheads fanning around, drinking Guinnes and swearing loudly. I'm no leprechaun, but I do like my redheads! :)

Multiple Choice Questions

Multiple Choice Questions

Grad school has been busy, and that's why I haven't been as regular on this blog as I should have been. So that's why I got Wicked Witch of the West play mommy on me and reprimand me online. So that's why I got SnowWhite's Stepmother play ummm... wicked stepmother (?) on me and say nobody really reads this and I shouldn't bother. *sigh* And then I bumped into my Delhi Twin online, and we had a fun chat about some of the people we know in common, and what the whole rigmarole of dating is all about. Complicated stuff.

I've been reading about Michel Foucault a bit for class, and that bugger used to talk about something called the "de-centered self": basically, there are multiples "selves" to every person, and everyone flits among those "selves", so there's no real "one person". How does all that mumbo-jumbo apply here? Mmm... think about it. So many of us gay guys are so many different "selves", we're continuously looking for a different person to cater to each "self". And do we get shortchanged in the process? Well, what do you think?



I started thinking about all this, after I told Delhi Twin that I was (kinda) dating someone. "ONLY dating," I hastened to add, "Nothing more than that, mind you." So he was a bit perplexed about what I meant by that, and I filled him in on a conversation I'd had with SS the night before:

SS: "*sigh* So are you doing other people, besides this guy?"

CT: "O yea. I had this cute Irish laddie in bed last night - and this morning, of course."

So... that's it, I explained to Delhi Twin. "Dating" is when we're meeting up regularly, so it's more than a one-night stand, and we're getting all cozy and cute and cuddly, but we haven't had the Exclusive Chat (capital letters) yet. When that thorny issue comes up, and we pass through without getting singed, that'll be the "seeing stage". I remember having a similar conversation a year or so back with that other Delhi boy, Soulboy, and talking about what's a relationship and what's not, and so this was a strange deja vu happening here. And, very much like Soulboy, Delhi Twin was not very convinced with my logical reasoning. I see perhaps a pattern here: are Delhi boys (Soulboy and DT) per chance more old fashioned in how they see gay relationships, while Bombay boys (SS and myself) are more... umm... pragmatic? Save that thought for later...

So, DT referred to a common friend and opined that people who date/ conduct one-nighters on an extra-regular basis aren't really giving either themselves or their potential dates a good enough opportunity to evolve. It's always a situation of "Yea, he was cute, but the sex wasn't all that great, and hell, I can make up my mind after I meet candidate number 2 who's ringing my doorbell right now." And even though DT was talking about our mutual friend in this connection, that description could pretty well fit me too.

"So what happens is this," types in DT, "A year or two later, he calls me up and says, you know DT, candidate number 565 has really grown up quite a lot now, and he's soooo my type! And I keep saying, why don't you just stop?"

I tried to put on a defense for both the mutual friend (and myself) and argued that well, it's not easy to know when to stop. So, when you're looking, and they all seem to be turnips, you don't want to end up with a turnip, right? So... you keep looking.



But then, DT had this to say: "Is it that tough really? I mean, my fear is: when you find someone who is sexy and cute, and smart and well-settled, and everything you ever wanted, will you be able to understand it - or will you be so used to looking that you'll just ignore him? What will you really do, when you bump into Mr. All-of-the-above?"

*ulp*

"All of the above". An elusive term.

Collars and Cuffs

Collars and Cuffs

The other night, I'm over at the Lesbian Cowboy's place before heading out to a party together, and we're discussing Employment Opportunities at the li'l ole midwest town I'm at.

CT: "I mean, I would love to meet someone who's not in either the retail business or the food business. I mean, where the eff have all the cute white collar boys gone?"

LC, a bit flummoxed: "Huh, say that again?"

CT, trying to organize thoughts: "Well, in Bombay I used to date all sorts of people with fun careers. There were journalists with big newspapers and television channels, there were rich stockbrokers and investment bankers, some great designers, interiors and fashion, some smart guys working with NGOs even, and you know... basically, cute, sexy and qualified!"

LC bursts into laughter: "O you poor thing!"

CT: "Well, here all I get are college boys or Subway boys or Wal-Mart boys or boys waiting at bars! I mean, fine, if I get a truck-driver for the first time, I can tell myself it's a gay porno fantasy so just shut up and have sex and enjoy it... but here I've been meeting 5 truck drivers online in the past few days!"

LC falls off her chair.

This is actually a topic I've chatted on with Irish Coffee as well. He's one of the few gay men here I've met, who have what can be considered a proper Bombay-ishtyle white collar job. And he's got a sad story to tell. He says, the city I'm in is dying away and every smart gay man over the age of 30 moves from here - so, it's not really a surprise to him that I'm meeting truck drivers and Subway boys. O, and nursing attendants. A lot of 37-year old nursing attendants here.

While this story didn't really trouble me too much at the time - I mean, every city rises and falls, right? - I got into a conversation some time later with this really smart and sexy artist here. Artist, yes, but he gets his money from his night-job, that's playing bouncer at a bar. Ummmmm.....! And when he heard me moan about how I wanted white collar hunks, he got a bit perturbed and said that I was being snobbish. I shouldn't be bothered about what my guy did for a living, he said, I should simply let go and be attracted/ fall in love. It didn't matter that I was white collar; I should just go ahead and do blue collar/ hippie.



Well, sure, I can do a blue collar, but I doubt I would be happy enough to settle down with one. I know I've blogged about professions and which ones are 'sexy', and while I never really thought about that in so much detail, I know I probably won't be happy 'living' with a guy who drives trucks, or even one who's going back to college at age 38. True, there's the cultural thing: guys here go back to college even at age 40 sometimes, but there's also my culture - and I don't set up house with pizza boys. Sadly enough, that does make me a snob in America.

Seasoned Sizzler

Seasoned Sizzler

So the other day, I'm having pancakes over at Irish Coffee's place, and we're discussing the kind of men we go for. He's a rice queen, I tease him, and curry's lately become his agenda. He doesn't deny it, but counters it with a "And you go for older guys!"

CT, flinging maple syrup in his general direction: "No, I don't! I'm just looking for cute, smart men who can talk sense and fcuk great. I can't help it, if the majority of those happen to be above 30! I wouldn't mind spooning a clever and sexy 25-year old, you know!"

Irish Coffee, not buying my argument: "Above 30, eh? Liar!"

So I think about it, and realize he may have a point there. He's 45. The Latin Lover is 38. The Manager is 32. The Serious Guy is 35. And the other two grizzlies I've been flirting with online are both on the other side of 40. It seems I do have a thing for older men.



Cut back to an online conversation with SnowWhite's Stepmother some days back -

CT: "So I met this really great guy who's sweet and amazing in bed, and don't worry, I'm not falling in love with him so soon. He's 45 and works as - "

SS cuts in: "Excuse me?"

CT: "What?"

SS: "How old did you say he was?"

CT: "O, he's 45, I said. So anyway, he's interested in markets and everything and - "

SS: "45."

CT: "Yea... And we went to this great Indian restaurant the other day and I help him choose what to eat, and he's really so much fun to talk with - "

SS: "45."

CT: "Ummm, yea. So we talked about the new trends in India with the car industry and the IT boom and what all of that means here - "

SS: "45."

CT: "You still haven't got beyond 45?"

SS: "Honey, I'll never ever go beyond 30."

Ummm, so there you go. Some people find it strange that a 26 year old would probably find a 45-plus attractive. Hell, I've posted a singularly idiotic theory about gay Shelf Lives here in the past - to which thankfully no one actually subscribes to!

So there are some guys who find it absolutely natural to fall head over heels in lust with older men. Diamond Choker Bachha, for instance, has always had a fascination for older men, and we've teased him tonnes about this fixation earlier. Somehow, though, while I always kinda found older men sexy, coming here to the midwest has seen this interest of mine peak. Maybe it's cuz very few of the clever, sexy men here are under 35 - despite this being a university town. *sigh* Not that I regret falling in lust with the Pepper Brigade - personally, I quite enjoy discussing international policy matters, what movie to watch, what sexual position to adopt, all in the same breath.

And, yes, the sex is great...!

Occupational Hazard

Occupational Hazard

The other day, on my way to work, I sent an sms to SnowWhite's Stepmother (SS) and Vivian: Whiny msg from first class local - y cant the hot investment banker in the divine shirt and great fitted trousers fall madly in lust with me and spirit me away to his private office for a day-long appointment?

Well, of course, the responses I got from both of them were not very encouraging - more of the been there, heard you whine that before variety - but then, I thought about doing a post about the men we fantasize about and the professions we seem to favour. Sort of... occupational hazards, really.



OK, so yea, everyone wants to be pulled up for speeding and given a (ahem ahem) *ticket*, but that doesn't really happen in amchi Maharashtra here, with its potbellied cops and their greasy palms. And besides, those things are so often than not the product of a diet of porno flicks, rather than a real occupation one is likely to come into contact with during the course of a regular dating life - all the policemen, firemen, soldiers, trucker-types and pizza delivery guys. Sure, on now and then, you may come across a guy who's made himself a reputation for shagging autorickshaw guys, but those are really far and in between. As SS would argue exasperatedly, "... but Decent Boys don't do that sort of thing!"

So who do Decent Boys do? Speaking for myself, and I wouldn't call myself terribly decent, I have a penchant for investment bankers. My career proximity to the financial world of Bombay has ensured that I get weak knees whenever I see a cute i-banker/ stockbroker/ mutual fund manager/ banker type in great-fitting formals. Who would I not do, in any circumstance? Definitely, the trucker/ autorickshaw driver/ cabbie/ menial worker types. I may be into rough men, but not penury.

I asked around a couple of friends to see where their occupational tastes lie, and as expected, the white collar job format fits in very well with most of them. The Penguin is partial to the financial sector like me, thinks people from the media and ad world can be quite cute, and is quite OK with the Old Career Brigade aka Doctors/ Engineers/ Lawyers. For his part, SS would appreciate his man more if he had some sort of artistic career, like that of a designer/ architect/ theatre personality, but is also fine with both the financial services and the OCB, and of course both the boys share my revulsion of the menial types.

As for the 'No Entry' candidates;

1. Both SS and the Penguin expressed a mild distaste about dating an aspiring actor/ model, and we all know how many of this kind there are in Bombay. The thought of sharing bed-space with an Ekta Kapoor-aspirant however was not too awful - so, while we don't mind sleeping with them, showing them off as Possible Love Interests is a bit dicey.
   
   
2. Despite Bombay's status as one of Call Centre India's bastions, the doyen of gay call centre employees finds little from either SS or the Penguin. However, while the Penguin admitted, he wouldn't debar someone from middle-to-upper management, SS remained steadfast to his "No Call Centre PLEASE!" rule.
   
   
3. OK, so this one was a mild surprise. SS also rules out journalists and media people. I'm not exactly sure why, but the relatively low pay packets and the comparatively high ego sizes could be some of the factors... The Penguin had no such bias however.

While it may seem we're being excessively harsh, we're still hoping there are quite a fair number of people we haven't ruled out summarily. And while I thought I'd point out that I seem to have the least hang-ups among the three of us, I refrained from doing so, because I realized that they'd point out I was also the sluttiest among the three of us.



That's the occupational hazard of being CT...

Guest Post: Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...

Guest Post: Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...

I've been toying with the idea of SnowWhite's Stepmother writing a guest post for ages now, and while the thought has appealed to him as well, he's always shied from the task, making up one silly excuse after another ("O, that's too scandalous, I can't write about that!", "O, people will think I'm a horrid person if I really say that!", "B-O-R-I-N-G!" etc etc etc). I could sense the ice thawing though when sometime back the cynic in me surfaced and I wrote a post about how futile it seemed to find love in Bombay, and when SS responded with a "It sounds like I wrote that post, not you!"... And when I saw the looooooong and obviously heartfelt comment in the preceding post, I told him outright: I'm going to copy-paste this onto blogger, and this is going to be your Guest Post.

Aaaa, but of course he finally bit the bait. And the drama queen did his "O, let me spruce it up a bit" line. So here, it is, spruced up and all, with pictures scoured by him, and me retreating to the sidelines. SnowWhite's Stepmother on Bombay and her gay relationships....



Relationships, eh? Many a night has been spent brooding over this word. CT knows. I sure do. One of my closest friends calls me a relationship junkie. Am I one? *sheepish grin*. So when CT did his little LV bag versus relationship post, I knew it was time. Time to do the Guest Post I had offered to write and promised CT. Months went by. It rained. Relationship status was still the same. The way I seem to be going, it looks like its going to be the same...

*SS ponders, gets pensive, sips hot chocolate, starts typing again*

While CT writes on a myriad of subjects (some very interesting posts, I must say... and some... well... *beatific smile*), I never figured what to do the guest post on. Being the self-proclaimed expert on the subject *SS looks around, ready to shoot anyone who rises to object to the fact*, it just made so much sense, na CT?

I am going to support what I have to say with rhetorical questions.

1. How many of your close friends are in a relationship currently, CT?
Ans. None!

2. How many (completely) monogamous couples do you know, even tangentially, CT?
Ans. None!

Like Samantha once said when she was asked if she was in a relationship, "It's tedious and the sex is dwindling, so as far as I know, it's a relationship." (hahaha)

And about the theorems....

1. All men are bastards

2. An LV will never cheat on you, I promise you that.

3. CT and I are the Nicest and Finest Young Men in the City. We really are.

4. Carrie: "Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the way you you love, well, that's just fabulous."

5. It's ok to be single, but not single AND fat.

6. There are no fine boys/men in Bombay.

7. Chalo Dilli.

8. Samantha (to Carrie, when Carrie asks if she looks back on her old relationships): "Honey, you look back so much, you should have a relationship rear-view mirror."

9. A good b/j always works when you hate being single. If it fails, get a Bloody Mary. If that fails, God help you!

10. One of the sweetest guys I once (kinda) dated, didn't sleep with me saying, "SS, you are not one-night-stand material". I still don't know if it was an insult or a compliment. (And no, I am not asking you what it is.)

And while I’d like to post a plethora of images (full frontals, of course), I am sure CT with his delicate sensibilities will not permit me to do so * snigger* I think I’ll just sign off with a picture of me *chuckle*

Ummm.. for the record, that is not SnowWhite's Stepmother. Yes, yes, I just had to burst the bubble, didn't I? :)