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! :)

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.

My Bel Ami Life

So Georgia's not the only flashpoint in East European affairs, you know. Here's a strange situation. Closetalk recently moved into a brand new apartment with a brand new room-mate. The room-mate is an East European hunk, in his early thirties, married but his wife lives some six hours away so he visits her on weekends. Bit of a chatterbox, but then, in a fun way, and the two of us yak well into the wee hours of the morning, about university gossip and nerdy research stuff. Welcome to boring Gradstudentville. But then what happens when Pavel (that's my nickname for him, after the o-so gorgeous East European hunk I've lusted after since I was 18) starts talking about ummm... the dearth of romance in his marriage?



Here's a sample:

Pavel: After having having our second child, the li'l woman says she just stopped feeling romantic. And she's not in the least apologetic about it. Says that's just the way she feels. But then... my feelings for romance haven't changed, and I'm not sure she gets that!

CT: Aha. OK.

Then, again;

Pavel: O, she's really great with the guilt trip. She tells me before I head over for college: I'm a good wife, so don't cheat on me. But then, I'm thinking: why did you have to tell me that?! I mean, I wasn't even thinking of cheating but then by saying something like that, it just makes it seem all the more forced, you know what I mean...? You're supposed to be with someone because you really want to... not out of guilt. Now, if she really wanted to be that 'good' a wife, she should have said: you can go ahead, honey! *guffaws*

CT: Ummmm.....!

Scene Three -

Pavel: Do you think it's wrong of me to totally find my sister-in-law smokin' hot?! I mean, she's totally awesome, and it's all I can do to help myself! *guffaws even louder*

CT: *blank*

And then, of course, there was the 'confession'...

Pavel: So, yea, I wanted to screw my bitch girlfiend in college, so then I went and slept with all of her room-mates... in fact, my roomie in the fraternity and I did her best friend together! And she called back saying we took advantage of her friend, but yea, we knew she wanted some of that stuff too: she asked, can I come over to study? And is your roomie at home too? *cackle* O yea, I was quite good at sleeping around during my undergrad years!

CT, talking to himself mostly: So, shall I study Discourse Analysis tonight or Humanistic Audience Research, do you think?

So now... I'm left wondering lots of things, really. Number one on the list: am I turning out to be, of all things ghastly and horrific, a prude *shudders*?! Number two: is Pavel looking to cheat on his wife? And far more interestingly, Number Three: what with all the talk about how he believes sexuality to be fluid and not straight versus gay, and his insistence on spotting me on the weights at the university gym, is he perchance looking to me to provide him with some... aah... relief till he gets to meet his wifey next? I mean, not to sound like a mutton-headed egoist who thinks everyone wants to get in his pants, but the fluid sexuality speech is pretty much used by most guys who wanna play gay now and then, and the whole gym-thing is so out of good ole 80's gay porn... so it does give me pause to think... What the fcuk am I getting myself into?



And you'd think, this would be something I'd keep to myself and not blab to the boyfriend, right? Wrong. I go and tell Irish Coffee everything about the Pavel-thing, and of course his reaction is to guffaw even louder than Pavel, and growl that he'll tell him to "keep his filthy mitts outta my boyfriend's knickers!" the next time he meets him. (Yes, Irish Coffee can be quite the archaic speaker at times.) While I'm quite positive that that speech isn't going to happen anytime soon, I am looking forward to my newfound gym-routine and chat sessions with Pavel, if for nothing else than to explore where this goes ahead - purely research interests, of course *harrrumph*. As I recall, married men are usually lots of fun to play with - especially insistent and fired up! Aa, but then if I were a prude, I wouldn't be having these thoughts now, would I?

Hallellujah and praise the 'lawd' for something! :)

Society Lads

I've wondered aloud earlier about the politics involved between tops, bottoms, and those in between, even when I hadn't morphed into this strange social sciences nerdy academic I am now. Wondered about the power strategies used by both tops and bottoms to get what they want, and the accompanying typecasting that even the most adroit of them cannot help but get mired into. The other day, however, I revisited that contentious lane, while chatting with SnowWhite's Stepmum who'd phoned in to wish me well on inching that one-step closer to the grisly morass of the big 3-0... namely, turning 27.



*CT shudders, as he hears the Ghosts of Gay Death creep up behind him*

Getting back on track, SS and I were talking about his new crush and my boyfriend (should I be all politically correct, fag-itistically speaking, and call him my partner? *giggle*), and his old crush and my old fcuks, and that's when the strange phenomenon of being a social top versus a sexual top cropped up.

You know what I mean: the social top is the swaggering guy who brags to all and sundry about how he had last night's trick squealing giddily with his legs apart, who spits regularly in good ole rustic Punjabi fashion, and who has zero imagination on the dance-floor...



... While the sexual top is the one who actually does the whole making-squealing bit (and not very gently at that, either), who doesn't brag about his exploits too loudly, who spits into bodily orifices rather than on pavements, and who can actually do a trick or two on the dance-floor not related to pelvic gropes... And there are many a times when the two are actually not the same person: the sexual top isn't really very top-ish when you first meet him, and the social top often turns out to spread his legs wide when he finally gets to the sheets.

And of course, that opens a whole-frikkin' can of beans: if there's a social versus sexual top, there's bound to be a social versus sexual bottom - I'm not sure versatiles qualify for this categorization, though. Unless... you consider power bottoms as both social bottoms and sexual bottoms - and the sheer intricacy of all those permutations and combinations simply leave one gasping for breath... not in a good way, if you follow my drift! *wink*

CT: "Would you believe me if I said I'm a sexual top, though not a very convincing social one?"

SS, squealing: "Never!"

CT, sulkily: "Well, don't give yourself too much credit either, dearie. You can be quite the hoity-toity drama queen, shooting looks and glares that can freeze the balls of the most horny stallion out there. You're quite the social bottom yourself!"

SS, falling off his chair while giggling: "O, you know I can! But then I'm quite the sexual top too! If one of those idiots try manhandling me in bed, they'll soon be missing their balls!"

CT: "That's true; you're also quite the aloof social top at times, as well, you know... I wonder if that makes you a social versatile...?"

SS: "You are so not writing about this on your blog...!"

Right. As if that ever had a chance of happening. *grin* I mean, come on: a boy on his 30's deathbed has to have some joy in life, right? I resolve hereafter to stop having birthdays once I reach the Big 3-0 mark. I'm going to be the one with the older boyfriend (or partner, however you like it), always in his 20s. *sigh* Social wishful-thinker, that's me.

Existantial Angst...

So there I am chatting online, when a window opens up on my screen. It's from Wandercock, who has a very appealing picture of himself pressed up against the wall, wearing some kind of stretchy tight pants, and that furry chest and clipped beard is kind hot, really.

Wandercock: 7'' here, lookin'? Need a tight ass to ram.

O, my. Very nice, I think to myself, saying that it can't hurt to be civil, but then a bit weirded out also that here's another guy who automatically assumes I'm a "bottom" without even bothering to ask first - must be the pic of me in the humongously sexy shades. Anyhow, just as I'm about to reply to Wandercock that I think his pic and his measurements are both abso-fuckin-lutely charming, what should happen, but...

*PING*

Assbanger27 pops up, with full frontal nudity, and very impressive apparatus of his own, proclaiming that he's Russian, wants to do exactly as his chat nickname suggests he should, and that I should get myself right there at his apartment in 20 minutes.

I mean... do I wear a sign or something around my neck that says B-O-T-T-O-M?! I have nothing against bottoms, and I think that's a fabulous way to get laid now and then, but I hate being typecast into either "top" or "bottom" roles. Especially, even before the guy has even spoken to me.

More importantly, how come I get hit on by Russians and Lebanese hunks (o, yes, did I mention that about Wandercock?) when I'm all cozy in a relationship, but none of these assholes give me the time of day when I'm single and actively lookin', as they say here in the Midwest?

***

Onto other, more important news, Queer Pride is marching into India: simultaneously in three cities: Delhi, Bangalore, and Calcutta, this Sunday afternoon, June 29. :) I am so frikkin' thrilled, and wish I could be there...!





'Fraid I couldn't find any logo of the Calcutta Pride march on facebook, where I took the Delhi and Bangalore pics from... But then, Cal was the first Indian city to have started the march thing in India, so hat's off to those guys! :)

How Cliched could my Lust Life get?!

Honestly. I never thought the day would come that I'd be this cliched! Of all the things/boys that could happen to me, this one did. How predictable. Sheesh. The Hot College Boy Lawn Mower. (in capitals, in case you fail to see the enormity of the porn-movie-touches-reality irony thing.)



So, no, he wasn't in a black tank top and cut-offs, but he was wearing a torn blue sleevless tee and some pretty nice tan shorts. He was hunched over his noisy machine and chug-chugging along outside my window, mowing the damn grass. Lucky grass. His motor kept giving way now and then, and he gave the sexiest curses - "Damn! Fuck!" - and it was not very hard imagining him saying those delicious things doing something else in here with me, loads more energetically. He grunted and kept up a steady sheen of sweat on his fabulous body, and wiped his face now and then with his wet (and strong!) forearm, tossing his dark brown hair back now and then. Again - "Damn! Fuck!"

:)

My reading of "Participatory Development Communication and A Thesis for Empowerment" didn't stand a chance. I was feeling empowered in quite a different zone of my body, rather than my cerebrum.



Now, I know I'm in a relationship right now, and I'm not really supposed to be naughty or anything, but Santa Claus, can I have that for an early-Christmas gift? I'll be extra bad, I promise! *wink* And as these (and other) idiotic thoughts went through my head, I sat there on my couch, book held open, trying my hardest to read while peeking out, not being able to prevent some doodling happening down there in my pants, and kinda hoping that the lawnmower hunk would notice... What would I say or do if he did? I dunno... maybe I'd do something corny like open the window, and call out to him - "Hey, that looks like hard work you got there! You wanna come in for a quick beer... or something?"

(Oops. Note to self: remember to stock fridge with beer for future imaginary encounters with hot lawnmower boys.)

... and of course, once I got him inside, there would be the suggestive POP of the beer bottle, the frothing on the top as I handed it over to him with another suggestive wink and then quite clumsily (but charmingly) proceeded to spill it on his pants, obviously necessitating their prompt removal... "O, maybe it'll dry faster if I blow....?"

*sigh*

He finished his noisy chore, packed up his trunk and left. And I went back to "Participatory Development..." How come they don't discuss the really important participation stuff (the kind with your hunky lawnmower) in these books...?

Up Close (and personal?)

Up Close (and personal?)

For some inexplicable reason, while in the shower this afternoon, I was thinking about gay relationships and how they start. I'm going to try to not generalize, but it does seem that for most of us in relationships, it starts off with sex and then the date. Just another thing to make straight people think that all we 'really' care about is sex: if the sex is good, well then, maybe we can have a go at the relationship.

I remembered my own Carrie-Aiden incident some months back. You know, the one where Carrie drives herself crazy wondering why Aiden the big sexy boyfriend doesn't try to get her pants off (is he gay? O my!), and then he gives her that big spiel about "doesn't anyone in New York believe in romance anymore?" What's with the rush to get into bed... why not take the time to know someone a bit better over a couple of dates and then kick your shoes (and clothes) off? Why was Carrie in such a hurry to get the "fuck-me" dress on (and off!) for Mr. Big?



Let's start from personal history then. All my relationships or flings - except one - so far have involved either a hook-up or sex on the first date.

• First Ex and I wanted to get into each others' pants as soon as we laid eyes on each other, and our very first physical gesture was in a (ahem ahem) foursome romp.
  
• With the Fashionista, it was a roller coaster first date with loads of schmoozing in Delhi and Gurgaon night clubs, culminating in sex on a dentist's chair. (Long story, look uo the archives if you're that interested!)
  
• In the case of the Nice-Guy-No-Chemistry, we locked eyes on the dance floor, flirted all night long, and met up for a real date a week later - fun date, and yes, so much fun that we hit the sack. :)
• With Ponytail Boy, it was bombastic chemistry on the first date which led to sex in the hotel elevator.
  
• Salsaboy didn't jump me on the first date - in fact, he had to literally push me away, cuz I was ready as ever to hump him - but there was loads of sexual chemistry in our very first meeting, when he saw me at a party (I was dating Fashionista at the time) and started slow dancing, complete with ear-licking, hip grinding, soul shattering moves!
  
• With Boy, sex preceded the date that then preceded round 2 of sex. (archive!)
  
• And then there was NatureBoy - arguably, the one with whom I waited the longest to get laid: almost a week or so, really. Aaa, but the sex was great - and maybe it's a crime for me to say so, but the sex we had after we broke up was even more fabulous! :) Maybe cuz it was so fcukin' unplanned and in such a taboo environment - my big bro's apartment when no one was at home. *smirk*
  

... all of which brings me to Irish Coffee. Which was a very long first date, but it started off on the premise of a fun no-strings attached weekend and sight-seeing a new city and generally freaking out. So of course, sex was on the agenda from the start. Might not have started out as a hookup, but it did lead to very good sex at the end of a fun first date.

SnowWhite's Stepmother would probably shake his head, mutter "dugga dugga!", and tell me it's all me, and not really a gay 'thing' per se. I'm the slut who sleeps with men on the first date. I don't listen to all the sage advice, which clearly states that men who get first on the sex date don't come back for seconds. I'm too narcissistic, and believe that after they get sex on the first date they keep coming back for seconds, thirds, fourths,... you get the point. And maybe I shouldn't really pontificate about gay men in general, because, as everyone knows, SS would never contemplate getting into a relationship with someone he slept with on a first date. And then, of course there was Mr. Responsible here, who gave me my very own Carrie-Aiden incident some months back.

So this was in the days when Irish Coffee and I weren't serious at all, and Mr. Responsible comes in: kinda cute, with that North Carolina twang that just drives me crazy, saying all the right things, and intelligent to boot. Mmmm.... so we head out for a late night date, it goes about ok, and here I am thinking, aaa, well, maybe things will get nicer once we get those jeans off, and that's when he lets me know that he's content to get physical the next time around. Ummm.... ok. I think that's when I realized I was bored with him. All that niceness, all that responsibility, all that intelligence was actually boring. O my. That was a jolt, really. So I did the only thing I could think of doing: I reached over the car seat to him, and locked lips in the longest kiss I've probably given anyone since coming to the US of A... smiled at him and bid him goodbye. The Aidens of the world aren't really my thing, I decided. I need some Big in my life - no pun intended.

After all, as any SATC afficiando will tell you, what on earth did the fluffy dress get Carrie?



A swollen face. She went to Paris and got slapped.

Bottom-line: I like sex (or at least some dynamite chemistry) on the first date. That's because, for me, a hookup with great sex is different from a relationship, which needs so much more than that great sex. But hey, a guy has to start somewhere, right? I look at it as just another way of getting to know someone...

And yes, the "fuck-me" dress did get her Big in the end.

SSIs (Singleton Slut Infections)

SSIs (Singleton Slut Infections)

Somewhere in Season Three, Carrie muses, "How many men is too many men? Are we simply romantically challenged, or... are we simply sluts?"

I've been watching a lot of SATC as you can probably tell. They show about five to six episodes a week here, and even though it's not in any particular order of seasons, it's still fun. So I flop down on the weekends over at my friend's home and torture him while I imbibe the girls - he calls them "trollops". :)



Getting back to the episode I quoted, Miranda is all crushed when she discovers she contracted chlamydia from an old lover, and of course that ties in perfectly with Carrie's reflection of what makes a "slut", when she's really hoping to sleep with Aiden but Aiden seems more interested in cultivating her enough to "care" for her. (Of course, watching the episode with my friend just reinforced his notion of the SATC gals as "trollops", but I didn't really care.)

And then, there's us. The gay boys of the world. Who are often accused of being sluts. The stereotypical gay boys. Who are often looked down upon for being sluts by those other gay men, who hate being thus stereotyped and hence look down upon the gay boys who do have sex regularly. *ulp* I once had someone who I was dating read this blog and decide I wasn't the "right kind of guy" for him via sms, and of course that pissed me off big time. Because that kind of thinking really gets my goat.

So, today, I was online chatting with this really fun/ cute guy and after some time, the conversation somehow turned toward matters of sexual regularity. He asked me if I were a "playa", and of course I've had this conversation before with Natureboy, and I tell him of my views... which is basically, I don't think that someone who's a slut while he's a singleton is necessarily going to be disloyal and bad "relationship material". The two are not mutually exclusive, so says CT's Law.

So then, Online Guy says, "I agree. There have been times when I've hated the periods of long abstinence and wanted to feel a body next to me in bed, so I've gone and gotten some. *grin*"

*sigh* My reply? "Abstinence doesn't do a thing for me, dah-ling."



Aside from the psychological infections a Singleton Slut might have to deal with, there's also the physical kind. Getting back to the Miranda issue, I once had the conversation about Sexually Transmitted Infections with Natureboy: he educated me about crabs, and called me the "cleanest slut in town" if I didn't know what they were with my track record. So, I took pride in my achievement, but when I hastened to pass on the information to SnowWhite's Stepmother, he had the fits and refused to hear anything about the ghastly subject. *sigh* Crabs. The skank's handmaiden. Poor Miranda.

Over here in the midwest, being "clean" is very important in the online chat room. That question may not have come up too often in the Bombay chat room, but three times out of five, it does here where I am. Of course, as I've posted about earlier, a lot more gay men unfortunately seem to have HIV and thus seem to either be in the dark or lie about their actual "clean" status, but the point is - that question does come up online.

Makes it easier to hate them when they say they are, and it turns out three weeks later, they're not.

PInk Panther/ Adam

Pink Panther/ Adam

The video up there was shown to me by a friend here in the ole midwest, and I just fell off my chair laughing. O, and of course it brought back memories. I used to have this massive crush on He-Man in the good ole days and despite my yearning for that tanned hottie, I also nurtured this li'l hope that Teela and He-Man would finally get together. O, and the gay fantasies had tonnes of scope for Prince Adam, of course. :)

I mean, look at Adam - he's blond, he's wearing a wide-neck skin-tight white shirt which is sooo gay, with a dark pink velvet jacket, pink undies, pink stockings, and pink boots lined with fur. Hell, you don't need Youtube to scream out that it's all fabulously homosexual. Of course, when I was ten, I didn't really get all the subtext, but I still had all the usual moony thoughts about Adam finally being brave, and sweeping Teela off her feet and the two of them fcuking like rabbits in the palace. (Castle Grayskull is too sombre a place for humping!)

And now that I'm a seasoned ole slut, I can imagine Skeletor with his mad ole grin pumping poor li'l Adam against the walls of Snake Mountain. *cue for evil laugh*

What prompted this little trip down Nasty Nostalgia, was bumping into this guy (not the one who showed me the Youtube clip and loaned me DVDs of Best of He-Man) who has a fetish for cartoon sex. I think it's called hentai, actually. So there we were, he and I, and he confesses that he's got a thing for watching cute furry cartoon characters sport huge dicks and start going at it with each other. I'm intrigued, because at one level this is something new, and at another, I'm thinking of my own childhood fantasies involving He-Man (and also the GI Joes, hehehe!), and so he starts showing me some of his collection. It's pretty impressive, really, some of it has great artwork. It's like imagining Superman fuck Spiderman - it's got all the improbable positions - but with maybe a Kryptonian Dog and a Tarrantula head affixed.

The thing is, despite my childish trepidation, hentai gay porn is a big business. I remember, while going through one of my favourite gay websites, how many of the galleries featured cartoon wolves copulating with cartoon foxes. And no, that can't be part of a Gay Parent Education Programme, right?

CT, stunned: "Wow, you're telling me there are loads of people out there who go for cartoon porn?"

CartoonKid: "O yea. Feel me - I'm hard."

O, he was. :)

Positively Prohibited

Positively Prohibited

The other day, I was chatting online with this really cute Italian guy, and making plans to visit him. He was tall, dark and handsome, with wavy black hair, a strong jaw, shining olive skin, worked out in the gym two hours a day five days a week, and then mentioned something about being ‘poz’ in the conversation. He got question marks from me on the chat window on that one.
So he drops the bomb: “O, I’m HIV+. Check it out. It’s on my profile.”



Well, he was right. He hadn’t really dropped any bomb, I’d just neglected to lift the covers and see what was in there, do my homework before venturing into uncharted territory. He’d plainly stated that he was HIV+ there, and had even mentioned it in the conversation.

For a second, I was stumped. I’ll admit it; I didn’t know how to react for a few seconds. I’ve never actually talked with a Positive person before, even though I’ve familiar with HIV and AIDS and taken the test. But no, I’ve never actually come across anyone who’s contracted it, and I’ve certainly not negotiated a hookup with anyone like that. But then, I didn’t want to be the stupid guy who treats him like a leper and drops him like a hot potato either.

So, I asked him how he’d got the virus and how long it had been.

Hunky Italian: “Well, I don’t have AIDS. I’ve been Positive now for about 10 years. My ex boyfriend of three years infected me.”

Of course, that wasn’t it. It turned out, that he suspected his ex of actually knowing about his own Positive status before having unprotected sex with him – something which completely inflamed me.

“What an @$$HOLE!” I exclaimed in my indignation and anger. I mean, here was this completely healthy guy who was just about 35 now, who looked simply fabulous, and he’d been infected by his boyfriend. I recognized how it went, of course, the line with boyfriends – “O, honey, I love you, and I’ve been safe and I would never suggest it if it weren’t safe, and you make me so hot that I wanna do it raw” – hell, I’ve been in that position myself, and regretted/ tormented myself about it later. And while I’d thanked God fervently that I hadn’t ended up in a horrible nightmare as a result of that capitulation, it was clear that this gorgeous Italian had. He was living that nightmare, and yet making do with what he had.

The thing is, back in Bombay, we see AIDS more as an African or Asian disease these days, or hell, maybe a Big City Thing. But it’s shocking how the American Midwest here seems to ignore the problem in its backyard. Some days back, there was a top guy online here who wanted to bareback, when I told him I didn’t have condoms with me. He realized I meant business when I told him to go away and put him in my ‘ignore’ list. (Or else, more likely, he badmouthed me as the prissy Indian bitch to everyone else on the chat room.)

And tonight, I just came back from meeting this young man, who’s all distraught because (a) he listened to his stupid boyfriend and had unprotected sex with him, and (b) he cheated on his stupid boyfriend with another ass and had unprotected sex with him, too. I’m glad he stopped me before we got onto the serious petting, because as you know, I don’t have condoms here either. O, in all probability, he hasn’t contracted anything from either the dumb boyfriend or the dumb hook-up, but he’s rightfully distressed now, and I played the good Gay Counselor and told him he needs to get himself tested ASAP. He says, I was better than Oprah, so maybe I should just chuck my degree programme here and hunt out the television channels. I can see the headline in the Washington Post already: Indian Fag Starts Gay Counseling Centre.

The thing is, I know that living with HIV is a much easier option now than it ever was earlier, with all the medication that’s out there. But it’s still an expensive and wasteful proposition, and I’m amazed why anyone would want to even risk it. I’m an idiot myself, I’ve been down that road, and I know that one moment of imagined intimacy is simply not worth those weeks or even months of self doubt and questioning later – or the years of regret afterward, as in the case of the cute Italian. I’m glad he’s living his life with dignity, hell, he’s even having sex these days (though protected), but o yes, there’s regret, plenty of it. And even though I know I probably sound all preachy right now, I’m simply stunned by this stuff here, because I’ve been confronted with all three cases in the time span of just a week…!



These cowboys down here need to get their caps on straight!

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...!

Gay Calcutta Chromosome

Gay Calcutta Chromosome
- With Due Apologies, Mr. Ghosh

Back in the homeland, and this time I've been missing Bombay from Day One. The good things have been regular phone calls from SS and Vivian to keep me going, chats with Natureboy about Sex and The City, and some good ole-fashioned hogging! (I can imagine SS pursing his lip with a "I'd be horribly mean to you, but then since you're going away...!" whimper) The men, however, have been few and far in between.

Calcutta is not famous for its cute gay men - the author of this blog being the notable exception.



Somehow, with the barrage of Sushmita Sens, Rani Muherjees, Bipasha Basus, and even the sluttier Koena Mitras and Tanushree Duttas, the Bong men were left far, far behind, so far behind that no one ever stopped back to look for them. The Bong men, we're just usually the smart and witty ones, the arty-farty ones, who totally lack in the Body Beautiful department. I got hit on online by an otherwise great Bong chap this evening, and when I told him he wasn't my sexual type, he responded with a o-so-hurt "Aa, so you prefer the brawny hunks, eh?" - to which I replied, yes, Delhi's Jats and Punjabis have always done it for me, in a way that hardly anyone else has.

(O, ok, so there was the Mac sailor-boy I'd had just before leaving Bombay. O, and the Gujarati tall boy who liekd getting down and dirty. O, and even the hunky Marathi guy in his Andheri East flat. Oops, and the Sindhi cutestuff in Khar...)

But the point is, with the notable exception of Salsaboy in Delhi, I've never been really attracted to another Bong. The so-called Bong Connection has never happened with me.

So yesterday evening, I went out on a great date with this Multani Punjabi fellow, a dying species I know, and we had vodkas and beer and chatted nineteen to the dozen. The morning before that, I was playing wicked games with a Sindhi muscle-mary I somehow managed to find in the by lanes of the Calcutta chatroom. Tomorrow, I have a coffee date with a NYC Bong boy - but no, since he's spent 24 of his 34 years out of India, I don't consider him a Bong in any sense of the term. Hell, most of my childhood buddies would hardly consider me a Bong. SS for one, though no childhood friend of mine, habitually says I have no "cul-chaar" (culture), as befitting a true Bong. (I like my sex much too much, and I have no fashion sense, he says. :)

So, no, I haven't had much luck with the Bengalis in the city. According to a survey, Bongs account for only 45% of Calcutta's population, and even with those statistics, its gay inhabitants are by and large unpalatable. There was this hunk who buzzed me on Manjam's chatroom, and after ogling his pecs for five minutes, he told me he was Punjabi, recently moved to the city. Then there was another Salt Lake inhabitant who is a Bombayite, desperately seeking doable men. After a brief chat with him, I realized that the IT and Call Centre Boom in Calcutta has thankfully aided its gay fauna - we now have cute men from Delhi, Gurgaon, Bombay, Hyderabad and Bangalore in the City of Joy, all trying their very best to spread some gay cheer.



With four days left till I leave Calcutta, and only one sexual escapade since I arrived, I'm certainly cheering from the front rows here! :)

Swapstakes

Swapstakes

Commenting on the last post, dear Iz was kind enough to say that I have the required spirit for a 'bomgay' of sorts. And yet, the other day, over a bowl of chicken khichdi and a dvd of "The Object of my Affection" (word of advice: read the book instead), SnowWhite's Stepmother and I were discussing how there seems to be a role reversal of sorts between us: how, all of a sudden, I was the one shying away from multiple sexual encounters and orgies, and he was the one getting drunk and humping Andheri hunks.

This evening, I was listening to some classic Madonna, and there was this one track where she reaffirms "You think you destroyed my faith in love... you'll see!", and I thought to myself, I used to be like that. I used to be this guy who would bounce back from heart ache, fully confident of finding the right guy at the right time. And yet, this time around, it's just not there - the expectation. Somehow, I realize, I've become this cynic that I always thought I'd never be. Somehow, I just don't see much of love happening... and all those jokes about never finding the right guy suddenly don't appear funny anymore. They're not funny, but they're not depressingly sad either - they're just... numb.



The thing is, the cynic in me thinks that all the guys these days are dolts or dimwits or disturbingly yucky. So, none of them are Mr. Right. That's ok - I used to have a convenient Mr Right-Now theory for that, but the cynic in me is now on high gear and reasoning, you've seen all the One Night Stand options out there and it's clear they're crappy too, or it's the same old thing, so aren't you just bored?

And, yes, I am.

So, even though I go online practically every day, chat and exchange numbers with some semi-cute random guys, I never call them or store their numbers. I'm more interested in chatting online with the guy I can fix up a date with for next week, rather than go out and meet the guy I'd fixed up a date with for this week. And when they call/ sms me and go "Remember? We met on so-and-so date on such-and-such chatroom?", I go, "O, yea, hi dude, am at work now, can I call you back?" And of course, I don't.

The other day, one of these random guys calls me, and informs me he's arranging a threesome at some Bangalore guy's hotel, and he wants me to come. So, I think about it, and tell my cynical self to get lost, that I haven't done a threesome in a while, and I call this guy back to confirm. That's when he tells me, he now has 8 guys coming to the hotel, and I'd be a welcome 9th. I panicked. I made my apologies and hung up on him so fast you'd think this was Closetalk the Novice Gay Boy in Bombay.

And, of course there are exceptions. Which usually happen when I'm traveling, and shagging a guy from wherever I'm going is just part-and-parcel of the trip, like packing, so no real thrills, per se. Like, on my day trip to small Gujarati town today, I brought back this absolutely ripped hunky Gujju boy to my hotel room for some fun and games. Totally sweet, totally lacking in taste, totally hunky, totally delicious, and I'm so totally never going to see/ sms/ talk to him again.



I'm not sure which one is Dr Jeckyll and which one is Mr. Hyde.

Old, New, Borrowed, Blue and Money to Boot...!

Something Old...

So here I was, reading a book at home, quite happy to be left all alone on a weeknight, when I get this sms from GanglyGuy. I first met him during the course of a threesome some months ago. He and his boyfriend were both very nice, and we lolled on the silk tasseled cushions in their South Bombay love nest, while smoking weed and playing Strip Rummy. Of course, all the clothes went off, and everyone soon won, and I left that night a very high young man. :)

Three weeks later, I hear that the couple split, and two weeks after that, one of them was already seeing someone else. Good enough, because I quite liked GanglyGuy, the part of the couple who hadn't coupled up yet. And when I bumped into him again at a GB party the other night, he was looking utterly gorgeous in his grungy jeans, t-shirt and dopey eyes, so I flirted with him and told him to buzz me sometime if he wanted to catch up.

So there, in the middle of my Michael Crichton genetic thriller, came his sms: So do u have a place tonight then?



...Something New...

Partying with friends at a trendy bar the other night, and they're crooning Y-M-C-A, much to our delight. And there was the GrandMaratha, a friend of SnowWhite's Stepmother, from distant shores, and I was flirting outrageously with him. He eats his burger hunrily, and of course I flirted with him on that. He dances like a Spanish diva, and of course I flirted with him on that. I moved and I grooved, and I was glad to note that GrandMaratha moved and grooved right back, flirting right back, hands roving over lower back and legs and ass, and Gloria Gaynor was suddenly even more electrifying than usual.

SS and Guppie came over to me, and asked in hushed tones, "Should we leave now, and why don't the two of you, well, do your thing?"

I tittered, and went back to dancing and flirting. And then, when I thought I had the right opportunity, I went over to the GrandMaratha and whispered in appropriately slutty-breathless-hushed tone, "My friends think it's a given, you and I are having sex tonight. So, shall we leave for your hotel now or later, then?"

Then, the unthinkable happened. He blushed.



Damn. :(

...Something Borrowed...

Haven't really been talking with NiceSexThing in a while. I know he's down with the flu, so we chatted briefly online, but that was it. I was supposed to go over to his place, but didn't, because I was feeling a bit too lazy after getting back from work. I would probably have gone anyway, earlier, but I sort of decided to just maintain platonic ties with him, despite the Nice Sex.

It's because he thrives on romance. Even when it's always a one-night stand for him, he thrives on romance. He's one of those guys, for whom sex is no fun without the fleeting thrill of romance and all those mushy gestures like holding hands, walks on the beach, slow dancing and the works. As for me, romance confuses me. Romance confuses me if I don't see it leading anywhere, and then I think, what's the use of all this? If it's just sex we're after, why on earth don't we cut to the chase and screw like rabbits? All the haze and the romance promises me things... which it doesn't deliver, and I don't see the point in getting confused.

Anyhow, his boyfriend is due to hit the city in about a week or so, so I guess his recuperation is guaranteed! *grin*

...Something Blue...

He was driving the car, while I was seated in the back with the client. I don't know what his name was, but I loved the way he smiled back at us in the rear view mirror, and assured us he knew the way to where we had to go. His crinkled blue shirt fitted the contours of hsi body perfectly, and I was imagining how those shoulders would feel to touch and probe. God knows, I was having wicked thoughts, and not really listening to the client rattle on beside me, because what I wanted more than anything was to clamber into the front seat, onto my driver in blue, run my hands through his delicious salt-and-pepper hair, and tear the buttons off...



He drove us around for about five hours that day, and I don't think I'll ever see him again. *sigh*

...And A Silver Sixpence In Her Shoe...

Ok, so I have a Suit Fetish. I've begged corporate guys to come to bed with their ties on. I've loved undoing their blazers and trousers and shiny black shoes, and unknotting their ties to push them against the wall... :) So here I was in the conference room, with this utterly cute investment banker and I was staring at him quite openly. I loved the way he bantered and grinned and winked and stuck his tongue out, when he made a bitchy comment about a competitor. And I loved the Arrow pink shirt, with mother-of-pearl cufflinks, teamed with his dark navy tie, shot with streaks of pink and white, and I was o-so terribly in lust.

He was Gujarati, he said, and I grinned. He had been working at the current job for about two years, he said, and I smiled again. He said he required some reports from me, and I assured him I'd deliver. :)



That's my ideal guy, I told myself, once the meeting ended. I want a tall, hunky, cute Investment Banker from Cuffe Parade or Nariman Point, who understands his numbers and reads his pink papers (no pun intended) and has a holiday home in Matheran or Alibaug. I'm hopeless at Maths and I usually begin my daily newspaper-reading with the tabloids, but I still think we'd make a match. We'd complement each other perfectly. I would help him spend his money, and he would help me decide what to buy.

Perfect.

Talking about Tarts...

Talking about Tarts...

Now and then, at lunchtime, Natureboy and I meet up for a tart or two at Piccolo's at Fort. And there, amid bites of chocolate, lemon, apple or pineapple cream tart, we talk about our flagging/raging love/sex lives and the general ire that pooor single gay men have to go through. (And even though Natureboy had accused me and SnowWhite's Stepmother ages ago of sitting around and discussing/dissecting the men we do and their techniques/dimensions, I find that I do far more of that with Natureboy these days, than with poor much-maligned SS ever.)



:)

So, on this occassion, Natureboy and I order a Dutch Truffle and a Chocolate Tart, and broach the subject of his recent on-hold relationship.

Closetalk: So, you're saying that you've broken up, but still do each other, when he's in your part of town or vice versa?

Natureboy, slicing a part of the Truffle: Yep. Because I don't see us getting back together in a relationship, but he says he wants to. So this is the middle way out - since I still have some feelings for him, but not strong enough to get back together. This way, I told him, we should both be free to do our own thing, and not get jealous.

CT: Hmmm.. and does it work?

Natureboy, grinning: Not sure. He says he still feels jealous.

CT: And you say you still have feelings? How is it 'mindless sex' if there are feelings involved here?

Natureboy: O, well, I just don't think I'm the sort who's cut out for a monogamous relationship. I mean, there are just too many expectations involved, and I don't want to feel guilty and all. So, this way, we both can have fun, and I don't have to feel responsible, because I've told him all this outright."

I know he gets very needled when the Wicked Witch of the West and I call him 'commitmentphobic', and when I do so now, he predictably argues he's not. "No, no," he says, waving his chocolate-coated spoon, "I don't have anything against a commitment. It's just that I don't think I'm very good as far as commitments go with him! There's a difference!"

So that's when I decide to go for broke, grin and declare "Gosh, you're a playa!"

Natureboy, shocked: I am not a playa!

Closetalk grins some more and doggedly goes ahead: O yes, you are. You're not the sort for a monogamous thing, but you like getting emotional with your men. So you'd like to have an emotional fling with a guy, move on when you're a bit tired or he's tired or whatever, and then find a new guy to have great emotional sex with. Ergo... you're a playa.

Natureboy blinks: You make me sound like this... this... horrible old schemer who plots in bed about who to corrupt next! That's... awful!



CT shrugs nonchalantly and finishes the chocolate tart: O well, if you stopped being all Drama Queen about it, you'd realize that that's exactly what you are, and it doesn't involve 'plotting' so much as just a simple series of unconscious manuevres.

***

So now, I'm wondering whether I'm a playa as well. And though I said very matter-of-factly to Natureboy that there really is nothing 'scheming' or 'plotting' about one, it's true that the word playa doesn't have very nice connotations.

So, look, let's examine Closetalk: he's a guy who can usually be found on the gay chatrooms every day or every other day. indulges in a fair bit of dirty online chat, exchanges some numbers for some dates that usually turn into sex-dates more often than coffee-dates, and has been resolutely single since mid-December. Is he monogamous? Not at all. Is he monogamous in a relationship? Ummmm.... let's not get on the witch-hunt here. :) Is he a playa? Oops. I wonder, now.

The thing is, and I was tellng this to an anonymous stranger on a chatroom just twenty minutes back, I have regular sex, because sex is easy. It's freely available. Like a movie to watch when you're bored. That's how I treat mindless sex. And even though sex is definitely better if it's with someone I'm interested in, I don't wait weeks/ months to meet the 'right guy' to have sex with. As far as sex is concerned, I'm more in search of Mr. Right Now. But I don't mix emotions with my one-night stands. And though I've been slightly worried at my great rapport with my Nice Sex Thing, I've also consciously made the effort to pull away and meet him just once a week or so, for some nice sex and a nice date. The point is: I can't manage to be emotional about someone I'm in bed with, and not think/hope of a possible relationship with him. If I'm going to get into bed with someone I'm interested in from a standpoint of other than just sex, but I know he's not very interested that way, that's when I put the brakes and tell myself it's Just Sex, do the dirty with him, and walk away without looking back. As simple (?) as that.



So there: the whole myth of Closetalk the Playa comes crashing down, to reveal Closetalk the Pansy. :)

Thong Throng

Throng = To crowd, press into, gather around
Thong = Sexy little number
Think the similar sound is a coincidence?

I had a Samantha moment the other night with my friends, when I was recounting my experience at the g-string shop.

"G-STRING shop????!!!!" exclaimed the Penguin, whirling around so hard from the front passenger's seat, I was half-afraid he might get whiplash.

"Yes, yes, you heard him right," said SnowWhite's Stepmother in a bored voice, composed only because his jaw had already dropped open three hours back when I'd told him about my purchase then.

And suddenly, I felt like I was Samantha Jones. That one who always talks about blowjobs and advises random sex with no commitments to her friends and is well informed about what grade vibrator to buy and what kind of workout one should get during sex, and so on and so forth. A Samantha moment, because SS says I apparently shock him on a routine basis.



But as far as I'm concerned, a gstring/ thong is hardly that news breaking. I mean, sure, it's racy - but then, it's meant to be! It's meant to liven things up in the bedroom when you're bored of good ole cotton boxers between crisp ole cotton sheets. That's when you want to don that black mesh gstring that exposes your butt and you wanna buckle on a great big belt on your waist and slip into those boots. Sure, it's not PG, but then, isn't everyone an A over here?

My first time in an 'exotic underwear shop' was in Calcutta, at the tender age of 17. I had seen an ad of this shop in a magazine, traced it down, and decided to pay it a visit. There was a mousy looking Gujarati man behind the counter, and I walked up and down in front of the store, but wasn't brave enough to actually go in. Finally, the next day, I summoned up my courage and walked in to buy something. And there, next to the mousy Gujju guy, was this complete hunk who was o-so totally droolworthy. I go over and ask him to show me some 'fancy underwear' - I need it for a party, I say - and the mousy fellow gives me a wink and takes a catalogue out. He probably thinks I'm a stripper who's going to perform or something, but I don't really care - I'm too lost in that brochure he's showing me - picture after picture of hot European/ American men in the tiniest and kinkiest of underwear, and I actually asked the mouse whether I could purchase the catalogue, as I had 'lots of friends who also want somethings for the party'.



The things I come up with!

Anyhow, so I buy two pieces from the mouse and his hunky assistant (probably a brother or brother-in-law), and leave. Over the next two years, I use my two purchases (1. black mesh, and 2. leopard print - yes, corny, I know) to my utmost advantage. When you have it, you thong it, dah-ling! :)

***

Coming back to the recent past, there I was, in this shop at Bandra, face to face with some more Gujaratis selling gstrings. (What is it with Gujjus and g-strings now? :) The G-connection...!) The old lady asks me whether I want the 'regular' or the 'fancy' stuff, and when I erm...erm, she shows me Chromozome. That's when I stop being shy and ask for something a bit more 'exotic', and then the old man pipes up, flashes me a big grin with 28 teeth and 4 cavities, and says that what I need definitely is the 'fancy' stuff! So out come the reds, blues, blacks and yellows in nylon, mesh, knit and leather, and I'm sorting through them.

Nicely cheap, at Rs 200, and I'm happy. So is the old man, when he sees my final choice, and he compliments me on my kinky taste and offers me his business card - "Give it to your friends. Spread the word."

From the Penguin and SS' reaction, though, I'm guessing that my friends would prefer I keep the word - and thongs - to myself!

Diplomatic Immunity

Diplomatic Immunity

On my way to town Saturday morning, and I'm on the phone with the Penguin. As the train courses its way along the Western Line, he and I end up talking about, well, men. I tell him about the extraordinarily hot Australian guy who I'd met the night before (and who's legacy - chapped and sore lips - are still with me, even as I write this), and the Penguin was guffawing as I described why I like Australians... and it's not just because of their terribly cute accents and the fact that they love kangaroos.

Penguin: "You know, you could become a Gay Cultural Ambassador or something for us, CT..."



CT, grinning modestly while the train chugs along: "Well, if you think that I can help good ole gay folks in any way..." *giggles*

Penguin: "So, is there any country you haven't done? Do tell!"

CT, exercising weak memory cells: "Well, of course there are loads of countries I haven't seen, you know....

I mean, I was glad I did the Pakistani at the Sheraton the other week because that was really really fun and good for neighbourly affection and all that - plus, cuz he was a Punjabi Tiger (if ever they exist!) in the sack - but I haven't really done a Bangladeshi. In our immediate circle of influence, I've also done a Sri Lankan - during the Chennai years, you know - but not up north. No Nepali or Bhutanese...

Never thought I'd be attracted to Chinese men, but then there was that hot guy from Hong Kong who was here on an exchange programme in Andheri West, and he was a pretty vigorous top. Then there was the American of Chinese descent who was a completely great bottom, very smooth, very energetic, very... yummy. And I'm sure it doesn't really count, but then this Aussie fellow lives in Jakarta, so maybe that covers a bit of South East Asia, though not as much as I'd like to...

Americans are the easiest of them all, of course. I mean, they travel to India (and especially Bombay) like anything. Spiritual Upliftment or whatever upliftment - *giggle* LA boys are cute and hot, hot rugged men from the north are very sexy, NYC guys are bindaas like Bombay Boys, and hell, one meets tonnes of Canadians online also - so, am sure I'll do one of those pretty soon.

London's like the S&M capital of the world, you know. It's quite overtaken Amsterdam and all. I mean, I did have this beefy German flight attendant who liked a fair degree of BDSM, but I looove the Brit boys for their sheer versatility - they love it hard and fast, and they also like a good amount of vanilla. The French are pretty sweet and gentle - this one I went out on a date was like the most generous ever - and no, I'm not a hooker... yet! There was the cute Spanish guy in Delhi - very adorable accent, and a powerhouse between the sheets (as if either of us covered up during our encounter - hah!) And the Italian that time in the Hyatt was also damn sweet - and very long lasting too! *shy grin* Had this Swede once, living in Australia, and yes, they are right about colder climates and longer appendages, you know.

O, and did I forget the cute guy from Dubai who was down here from London? The word is Y-U-M-M-Y. :)..."



Penguin, chortling now: "I repeat my question: Is there any country you haven't done?"

CT, ponders: "O, well, of course I haven't done anyone out of Africa, you know. Never had the opportunity to try 'Once you go Black, you never go back', so I don't know about that. And like I said, I want to expand my South East Asian horizons. Russians - now, that's a breed I'd like to examine in detail - Russians and East Europeans. I mean, let's try some Bel Ami for real now! and o, yes, South America... Any country would do. Peru or Brazil. I think Cuba would be nice too."

Penguin agrees: "Cuba would be nice!"

CT sighs: "A nice long puff on a smouldering Cuban cigar... oops, was I profane now?" *grin*

Anyhow, so later that evening, I meet the Family for dinner at Lokhandwalla, and the first thing I do on seeing the Penguin is grin and amble over to him. "You remember that list we discussed this morning? Well, you can scratch Africa and South America off that list, da-ling!"

Penguin looks speculatively at me, a bit afraid of what to expect, but delightedly thrilled as well.

Closetalk, grinning broader now: "African descent from Venezuella! Two birds with one stone!"

Queen of the Dessert

Queen of the Dessert

It's physical
Only logical
You must try to ignore
That it means more than that

That's what good ole Tina says, while crooning what's love got to do with it, and when you think about it, it really is the truth. About sex, I mean, and about rampant sex in particular. In the last few weeks, I've basically been really getting around, if you know what I mean, and while that may cause several of my friends to drop their jaws and treat me like Priscilla Queen of the Dessert, pun intended, it also has seen reactions like: don't overdo it.



The other night, I was chatting online with Sin, and while he was cluing me in on the strange subterfuge of aloofness he has had to adopt to get a certain boy into his life, I was regaling him with stories about the men I'd done on my Delhi holiday and after coming back to amchi Mumbai. I told him about my lust affair with the American, and how I was quiite disappointed that he didn't have sex with me despite acknowledging my (ahem) charms, and Sin chortled, "O my god, you're real easy!"

And the truth is: I am. I am easy. In bed, at any rate.

I'm the kind of guy who grins and smiles and charms, and gets charmed by the other person's grins and smiles and charms as well. And I get charmed very easily. There's only so much I can blame it on my sun sign for - and despite all the "careful, I'm a leo: flattery will get you everywhere" dialogue that I give on the chatrooms sometimes, I know that my swollen head and easy capitulation has got less to do with my sun sign and more to do with the way I am.



... which brings me back to Tina's song. Because, for all the eagerness I display to get in bed with a random stranger, that has zero impact on how I fall in love. I'm one of those strange creatures that can very successfuly divide the left side of the brain from the right, have loads of great sex with a hot guy but not fall headlong in love with him if I don't feel the spark. I can pine in lust, as much as I can pine in love. So when I come back and complain to SnowWhite's Stepmother that the American refused to have sex with me, he gets all alarmed and exclaims: "O, don't tell me you're falling in love with another foreigner, I'll smack you!", while I wonder what the big deal is about. Of course I'm not in love with anybody - but can't a guy just wish that he'd been laid when he wanted it so bad? Is that so difficult to understand? *food for thought*

That explains my utter lack of relationship chemistry with the Cute Doc, whom I went out with on a date a couple of weeks back and spent (by all accounts) a very enjoyable coffee and conversation, minus the sex. But we never met up again, and though we bumped into each other online later many a time, neither of us broached the topic of a second date. The verdict is clear: we share great sexual chemistry, sizzle the dance floor together as if it's all just an elaborate bedroom set for us performing pornstars, but as far as the dating thing goes... we had better find other people.

And then there's the other case: TinselTown Man. Not really the type I'm physically attracted to, but so much fun to talk to. So much fun to drink coffee with for hours. Yet, when I received a weekend invitation to a seaside resort, I turned it down. I know he'll ask me again sometime soon, and the strange part is: I don't know whether I'll say yes this time or not. Am I that desperate for romantic companionship that I'll get into bed with a man I'm not very attracted to, but who makes great flambe? Uncomfortable question.

But who am I fooling? I know myself, and I know sex is a very important part of my life. I may overdo it a bit, compared to most other guys in the city/planet, but I can't get into anything in which the sex is bad.

...As Tina says, it's only logical.

Closetalk Conquers Delhi

Closetalk Conquers Delhi

After all the sobbing about misplaced anniversaries , I decided I needed a break. So I packed my bags, convinced my boss there was urgent work required at our Delhi office and I was the only superhero who could handle it, and left for the capitol.

There were days of preparations prior to the trip: most tourists scour the travel websites for places to visit, while I, having lived in saddi dilli and well versed with its lanes and by-lanes, decided to embark on tourism of another kind. So there was Closetalk in the chatrooms of gay.com, gaydar, guys4men and all the rest, buzzing the Delhi boys, informing them of an impending cyclone and a torrid lust affair with Bombay that was soon to hit them. I compiled a list of 11 hopefuls.



The idea was to go about my conquest of Delhi in an orderly fashion. That was how the Rajputs conquered Delhi. That was how the Aibaks and the ud-Dins conquered Delhi. That was how the Mughals conquered Delhi. That was how the Brits conquered Delhi. And that was how Closetalk was going to conquer Delhi.

So I started at Central Delhi, called up my old friend/lover, the Ponytail Boy and got to work. We had an excellent date at this quiet restaurant in Connaught Place, got suitably high on red wine and knee-rubs against the table, and then drove over to his place. As the cold biting wind cut through the open window I muttered how Delhiites ever get the urge to procreate in the cold - to which Ponytail Boy came up with the simple truth: never heard of body heat?

Ooo, he showed me enough of body heat, though, as we copulated all night. The fact that we left the next day for some utterly sweet pancakes with dollops of maple syrup on top for a late brunch just made the episode more memorable.

I bumped into Ponytail Boy again a couple days later when my friends and I hit Pegs 'N' Pints, Delhi's answer to GB parties, and of course we did loads of grinding on the dance floor. But I had my eyes fixed on the American that night, so I didn't go back home with Ponytail Boy again. And though I got busy with work/socializing/regular sightseeing for the next few days, I decided to resume my exploration of Delhi with quaint little Hauz Khas and a sturdy as-burly-as-you-can-get Punjabi Doc.



Punjabi Doc comes from a rich merchant family who own shops in Hauz Khas, and after the infamous Delhi sealing drive, they were forced to let these premises lie unused. Well, not exactly unused, since they now constituted Punjabi Doc's love nest. So, while I was supposed to meet Lil Mizfit later that night at South Extension, I decided to make a stopover at the Punjabi Doc's love nest.

The thrill was quite exhibitionist really: picture a basement shopping space below a very busy complex on top, and we climb down, where the windows are quite apart, with only glass panes, so that if anyone walking on the road overhead knelt down and peered through, they would be able to see the two of us panting and groaning. Body heat came to the rescue again, as Punjabi Doc unrolled some bedding onto the cold floor, and before long the doctor was giving me some much-needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After a couple of hours, flushed and happy with a great after-sex glow, I meet the Mizfit for coffee and soon we're discussing the lesbian ways of entrapment. Fascinating discussion...

Round three in Delhi, and I sms my first love: hey, strange to think I'm living in your neighbourhood here for awhile. Don't really know what I was thinking, when I messaged him, but he replied back and said he was out with pals, but would like to meet up for a walk later that night. So, while a party was in full swing at the Chimneypot's place, I took a short hop to the park where he was waiting for me.

Surprise surprise, he was actually looking damn cute since the last time I saw him, and we started walking over and over and over around the block. Walked through the park, got chased by stray dogs, kissed in the shadows passionately while hiding from the lurking neighbourhood watchmen, till he finally got the bright idea to take me to his building. It's 3 am at night now, and the two of us climb up the stairs to his landing and go ballistic. This is Exhibitionist Thrill in capitol letters, as we got buck naked on the landing and were soon hot and heavy at it. Fond memories of making love to each other for hours at a stretch earlier, but then those kind of memories don't really have much of a place when you're that aroused and excited, so we took our own sweet time, careful not to grunt or moan too much, highly excited at the thought of discovery and scared too, and I finally make my way back to the Chimneypot's place in the wee hours of the morning, my legs still rubbery. He said, I was the first one he ever loved, and while it all felt good to hear that, I'm not walking down that path again.



Finally, my last day in Delhi came knocking, and I had a brunch date with a cute Spanish guy from Manila at Costa Coffee. Coffee was excellent, and it was better because I knew things were soon going to get steamy...! Thrashed around in the Spanish guy's hotel room for what seemed like ages, till we were both satisfied and then we were out sightseeing - time to watch another great erection: the Qutub Minar. Maybe it was the subject or maybe it was the company, but by the end of of our sightseeing trip, I was up for a second round, and we hightailed it back to his hotel for a quickie before I caught my flight. And while we hurried it up this time, an hour later I was left ruing why we did, because my flight was declared two hours late at the airport.

Waiting at the airport, I sms NatureBoy the woes of my life: only four different guys from a list of 11! The dear boy told me I mustn't be too hard on myself and my standards tend to be much too high for normal mortals like him to follow suit and well, that made me feel marginally better. And like a good little boy who's completely innocent, I decided I must come back and prop up this poor little neglected blog of mine.

Lest anyone think from the whiny post earlier, as was told by a blog reader to a close friends that The Closet is "bottomish and ditsy". (Private joke revealed)

I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus...

I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus...

So I get all happy and high every year when Christmas comes knocking, and I'm excited cuz we have this great party planned tonight at the Guppie's place. Thought I'd write a suitable christmasy post, but then changed my mind and decided to collect some XXXmas eye candy instead. So here goes...