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!

I should be working right now...

I should be working right now...

..... instead, I'm preoccupied with Irish Coffee and wondering whether he's ok (...he's obviously not!) and what I can do for him to help him along... A rational voice inside me says there's really nothing there for me to do. It's his baggage - whatever it is - and he will take his own time to get over this... situation. But the part that is unrespitilingly whiny me keeps hoping/thinking/wishing/wanting to do something... he has to know I love him, doesn't he? He seemed so fine on Monday, when he left, tooting his car-horn after me... and then, when I finally saw him on Friday, he told me he was alright now and he'd be fine... I guess that wasn't true, though. I don't know what to guess, really. All of it seems so... strange to me. Why do people get tired... why do they get depressed? It seems so idiotic of me to admit that I don't know... The other day, someone told me that people should learn from me how to "be happy"... or does he mean blissfully ignorant...? I'm wishing I could go right up to him, put my arms around him and tell him it's alright - whatever it is - but the sane part of me tells me he needs his space. Americans are like that - it's all about space. I still don't understand that concept completely... So this is what I've done: I've set a deadline; a deadline that is (kinda) of his own suggestion...

In the meantime, what I don't understand is this: how come I get to be the whine-pot of the century, and every one else gets away scot-free???

Low on heart

Low on heart...

Someone told me a couple of days back, that I was the kind of person who fell headlong into the "moment" - I did what I had to do within the situation I was in, carried forth and all that jazz, and usually did it well... and she was right, of course. I realized how right she was (is) so very acutely just now, when I leafed through face-book and saw Goa-pics one of my "boys" had posted... and I'm nowhere on the scene...

Penguin, Diamond Choker Baccha (who's soon leaving Bombay...!), Vivian, SnowWhite's Stepmother (who's smiling even!), Guppie, Helen of Troy, and some random chick... in front of the cake shop at Potpourri at Bandra... and I so miss my life.



Happy Birthday, TalkingClosets - you're now officially 3 years old... but Bombay sadly is so fcukin' far away that it breaks my heart.... :(

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?

In Need of a Refresher Course

In Need of a Refresher Course

I realized keenly how much I miss Bombay and 'the family' last night. Decided to hit the gay bar in town with the Sweet Older Guy who'd been showing me around and helping me get acquainted with the place, and so I got all dressed up - sexy Benetton tee, skinny jeans and a great cologne. I was ready to rock and roll. So we drove down there all the way, and I showed my passport to the bouncer (o yikes, yes, my passport!) and we were admitted. I think I expected it to be something like the Bombay bars, or at least a bit more chic, but what I got was this long saloon-like room, with a stage in the middle which had a drag show in progress over there. Yep, my first drag show. And I'm proud I didn't wince.

Actually, now that I remember, my first drag show was at a GB party - divas dancing at Velocity, and SnowWhite's Stepmother and I doing our little tango at the back, quite mollified that there were a sizeable number of people watching us boogey too! :) Last night, however, I didn't dance. I downed three beers, enough to get me sodden drunk, as my drinking buddies will tell you, but there I was - immobile and zenlike at one end of the saloon, cradling my BudLite.

What struck me the most was how casually most of the guys were dressed - so many of them were in three-quarters/ cargoes, and so many of them were (blech) fat. And by fat, I mean American overweight, not good ole Indian 'fat'. Possibly, I felt all standoffish in my sexy svelte outfit, but then I also started to feel a bit out-of-place. And then there were the women - loads of them. You don't get to see so many lesbians at an Indian gay party, so I suppose I was a bit taken aback by the presence of all the lesbians. And my own puzzlement regarding lesbians notwithstanding, I did find the large presence quite encouraging - cute, even. Finally, some good-looking guys did stream in, all well-turned out, buffed and great dancers. And yet, there I stood, all wallflower (Benetton wallflower, nonethless) with my bottles of BudLite.

*yech*

I'm not really sure what happened to me last night. CT came a-cropper. Here I was, all gung-ho about the outing, but there I stood all morose and silent in a corner. My friend found somebody closer to his own age to chat with, and I felt even more neglected and sullen. Drama Queen elements began to rule, and I was all 'out of it'. A cute guy, all tall and blond curls and a great dancing body (I know, cuz I'd spied him dancing by himself on the other side of the room), came and stood next to me for ages, before he got bored at my silence and walked away. Hell, even my older friend tried to hit on him and I didn't. Somehow, I was in this weird "I don't want to hit on people, let them hit on me" mode, and though it felt terribly constricting I couldn't snap myself out of it. I thought I'd feel better if I just got on the dance floor, but my older friend doesn't dance, and I didn't want to approach a stranger. (I'm strange that way.) Bumped into Goatee Guy from online, though, and the ten minutes we spent chatting was fun, but then he had to leave. Finally, I decided I would, too. So, I asked my older friend to let me take my jacket from his car and I'd walk home. He agreed, and I think that hit my ego again.

When his friend opened his car for me, so that I could retreive my jacket, she asked me why I wasn't going home with him. "He's a great guy!" she crooned, a bit drunk. I didn't know what to say. That he hadn't asked me? That I didn't want to? I knew that, at least, was a lie. I'd planned on spending the night with him, while heading out earlier that evening. The thing was... somehow, things just hadn't materialized between us. He'd been so helpful showing me around town and helping me get settled in, that I wasn't sure there was much else to talk about between us. We'd had a hurried sexual encounter at his place last week, but hadn't managed to get together privately again - he never asked, and I was too shy to. Last night, before heading to the gay bar, we watched two episodes of Will & Grace at his home in silence. I'm not sure whether we have enough to talk about, though I know he's been very sweet and everything, and I'm a bit attracted to him. Somehow, the attraction element has... faded.

I'm not exactly sure what this post is about. On my late night walk back home, I told myself I'm not going back to the bar unless I find a date/ friend who dances. I miss my dancing friends, I miss my group. I miss Penguin, who slides down onto his knees to do a weirdly funny dirty dance with me; I miss Diamond Choker Baccha, who goes all diva-like with his cigarette; I miss Guppie who's as mad and frentic a dancer as I am; I miss Vivian, who pretends to be all uppity but then gets down to do the steps for the most crass Hindi songs; I miss Flyboy who gets the attention from all the gay men in a ten-mile radius; and most of all, I miss my soulmate, SnowWhite's Stepmother and his jerky dance movements and his attempts (and failures) to not get drunk, and our very own brand of 'dirty dancing'. *sigh*

I need to dance at this place. And I can't dance alone.

So Long, Farewell

So Long, Farewell

There's a sad sort of clanging
From the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple, too
And up in the nursery
An absurd little bird
Is popping out to say coo-coo
(Coo-coo, coo-coo)

Regretfully they tell us,
But firmly they compel us,
to say goodnight...
To you

So long, farewell,
Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight



Hmmmm... I do seem to have a Sound of Music hangover...

The Object of My Eternal Affection

The Object of My Eternal Affection

Last night, I dropped SnowWhite's Stepmother to the airport, for his month-long Europe trip. Since I'll have left Bombay by the time he comes back, it was the last time we'd see each other for a long time. So, yes, it was hard. SS had refused to let me accompany him, because he was afraid the two of us would end up bawling at the airport, but we didn't. We went through the whole thing in a very non-bawling fashion, but on my way back home I did feel terribly alone and empty, knowing we wouldn't be having one of our loooong late-night phone chats for quite some time.



I first met SS almost two and a half years ago... at a GB party. A common friend introduced us, but I was too hung up on Natureboy whom I was seeing at the time, and even though he wasn't in town at the time, I wasn't really interested in meeting strange new gay guys. Then, a couple of weeks later or so, I met him again - for coffee - this time, through a blog buddy of mine, who turned out to be his best friend (small world!). We sipped coffee, decided there were no mutual sparks of attraction at all, and parted ways on amicable terms. I don't remember our second meeting though, or how we kept on meeting regularly... such that we quickly became good friends.

It was strange, that our friendship really started blooming after Natureboy and I broke up. That was a hard time for me, and somehow SS was there at the right time. It was also such a weird coincidence, that SS was dating a college friend of Natureboy at the time. It seemed so funny to both of us, that his relationship with the college friend took a progressively downhill path, just as my thing with Natureboy had. We joked, it must be the fault of that particular college they attended, that breeds these strange gay boys, and I laughed that his love life seemed to be following mine exactly, albeit with a one-month lapse.

There were other men here and there, in between. We grew closer, and also realized how different we were, chalk and cheese. I was the guy who had sex with multiple guys, he was the one who believed in the "once a month is good enough" rule. He was the one with an exceptionally great eye and appreciation for style and beauty and elegance, whereas I was less inclined to the arts. I was the jabbermouth, while he valued softspoken people so highly. And yet, despite all that, we became the best of friends. We realized, despite all the differences, we were both silly gay men who longed for love and companionship. We each wanted that Mr. Right, and we joked that we managed to jeopardize our relationships faster than we could build them. And we each spouted such great relationship advice to the other, which was never followed - by either of us. :)



O, we had our bad moments too. Somewhere along the way, we drifted into a horrible impasse where he thought I never listened to anything he said, and I thought he never gave me enough credit for what I did say. So there was this decision to part ways. We stayed apart for almost three months... and then, I decided to write him an email saying why I felt so hurt the way I had. He answered back immediately, saying he was sorry, and then I made my apologies in turn. We'd missed each other so terribly that we knew we wanted to resolve our differences, and I'm glad that we did. I told him, I'd try to be a bit less of the rattletrap egoistic prick that I am, and he promised to take me a bit more seriously. O yes, I cried on the phone when we made up. :)

SS saw me through my relationship with the Boy - both while it was waxing and while it was waning. He helped me through a very bad phase when I didn't know what was happening in the relationship, and helped me to not let myself completely break down. Finally, towards the end, he helped me realize that I was so desperate to hold onto a relationship - any relationship - that I was letting myself get flattened emotionally by someone who had obviously lost interest in me a long time ago. And he gave me the strength, however indirectly, to let go. A month after the break-up, SS sms-ed me, "I never thought he was right for you. You deserve much better." I sent him back a smiley, and a retort, saying that if people got wind of his being so nice to me, he'd lose his reputation. *grin*

And that's the great thing about my best friend, SnowWhite's Stepmother. Despite all the remarks about fat people and poor people and tacky people and his fickle fickle nature, he is so clearly the softy in the gang. I gave him his blog-name here, because, as I explained to him, "You have everything - you're young, successful, talented, good-looking - everything! And yet, you stand in front of your imaginary mirror and do the whole 'Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...' bit, imagining there's some wily Snow White afoot, who will ensnare what you want and deserve, and I don't understand at all why you do that...!" I don't think he does, either. We sit back and watch Sex and The City dvds together and sigh for Carrie, and he tells me how he hates Mr. Big, but I know he's in love with his own Mr. Big and is waiting for him to show up. Both of us believe in that "all-consuming, can't-live-without-you" love Carrie clings onto, despite our cynical protests to the contrary, and both of us wait, knowing it'll come by, albeit a bit later than the 'sooner' we'd expected at first...

Because we are, without doubt, the Finest and Nicest Young Men in the City!



(Take a bow, baccha - they're clapping for us.)

Salaam-e-Ishq.. ishq... ishq Indeed. Bhenchod.

Salaam-e-Ishq.., ishq... ishq Indeed. Bhenchod.

I've been feeling kinda low for some time now - this past week. You could call it the mean reds. Strange, because I never thought I'd get them and stranger, because I wasn't very sure what they meant, till now that is. Thing is, I don't really have a Tiffany's to go to now that I have them (possibly), like Holly did. And Benetton doesn't have the same effect on me, as it does for SnowWhite's Stepmother.

Online right now, a friend messaged me with the usual 'What's up?" salutation, and my reply was: "I'm bored. B O R E D. 5 letters in all. C how bored I am?"And yet, boredom is just a part of the dilemma, a part that I can at least decipher. I'm terribly bored of my life right now, despite the hustle an bustle in my professional capacity. I'm terribly bored of men. And now you know I'm serious, don't you. Bored of men. *sigh*



Suddenly, they're all the same. The assholes who come online and speak bad English and call you 'dear' and want to bed you. The other assholes who ask you on dates and bore you to tears. The other assholes who never really reply when you buzz them and you're left wondering where you stand. The still other assholes who've gone past by without a care in the world for you, while you've stood there on the sidelines, feeling empty and... lost.

I don't think I'm feeling particularly lost right now. A tad uninspired, dejected, frustrated, stricken, limited perhaps. Sunday night was spent on a solitary soup-n-salad dinner listening to sad love songs on my ipod. Saturday evening saw me at Barista with my diet sistah exhorting me: "It's all right, all men are bastards and we're only going to end up alone with no one to love us, so eat, eat. Go ahead and eat all you want." And Friday evening saw me meet two men for dates, have sex with one of them, coffee with the other, and really wish I'd spent my time instead watching a movie.

So yes, I'm bored.

I come online out of sheer force of habit, and and I open my inbox. Damn, the messages have the usual shit, hell, even the damn pictures look the same as the next profile, and I'm much too irritated to bother replying, so I delete, delete, delete, and groan that men are the most bumbling, inept, blind, disloyal, brainless, tactless, beauty-less creatures on the face of the planet. Here I am, on my expansive double bed, resting on squishy pillows, listening to Sway on the music system, with my laptop open to guys4men. Fume, simmer.

Yesterday, I was a great big fan of Salaam-e-Ishq. Today, I want to say: Cheeni Kum, please.

***

Time for some SATC viewing.

Passover

Passover

Viraf of F-Cubed passed away last night. The news of his death came only hours after news of his hospitalization first reached me. A mutual friend was sending sms' out, asking people for blood donations for Viraf, and I'd asked what his blood-type was. This was at around 7 p.m., and around 10.30 p.m., I got news that it was far too late.

Rest in peace, Viraf.

In part, I feel a bit strange writing this. Because I'd never met the man. Never even talked to him on the phone. He sauntered over to this blog many moons ago, and I called on his blog in response. We kept commenting on each other's bogs and it was fun. It seems like ages ago, when the gay boys of Bombay first started writing their bitchy blogs - and we groaned, moaned, ranted, vented et al, about boys, life, boys, weight issues, boys, beautiful things, boys... :) O gosh, it does seem ages ago!

And though we chatted through our comment boxes and bantered via our posts, and knew that we had some mutual friends, we never really tried to meet up offline. I'd heard about his legendary cook-ins/outs for GB and really wanted to attend one of those, but something always came up at the last moment.

It's strange, that when you go over his last few posts, there's so much... enthusiasm for what he's hoping will open up for him ahead. And, while I wondered to myself why he hadn't posted for quite some time before that, I never considered that there might be a very serious reason, really - just the sort of blogger fatigue one encounters so much.

I shall stop talking now. Goodbye, Mad Bawa.

Struck Out

Struck Out

So I've been debating with myself for some time whether or not to mention here that I was (kinda) seeing this guy, and matters have somehow come to a head with him dumping me. Because of the blog. Apparently, my "lifestyle", as eschewed in the blog, does not appeal to him.

I'm showing a thousand middle fingers to him in my head right now.



What gets me is the summarary judgement. I mean, hell, get to know me, go out with me some more, and then if you think I'm not the right guy for you, that's fine, I'll fade away as gracefully as I can. Instead, the guy goes through my blog, and decides that it's the Ultimate Story of My Life, and I'm just way too something for him...! So he'd love to have me as a "friend" but hey, it's gonna take a miracle (his word, not mine) for things to work out otherwise between us. This, a day after he's merrily holding hands with me in a dark movie hall.

This, after a conversation I have with him, explaining to him why I hadn't wanted him to read my blog earlier. Because I was afraid that he might think the blog was 100% me, and vice versa, and that might affect how he saw me. But he argued he wouldn't judge me on that basis, and I somehow thought he might actually be the 'mature one', who would not make that fatal mistake, so I said 'yes'. My mistake, really. He's not the only ass as far as judgement is concerned - I'm obviously not much better, for thinking he'd be mature enough.

His reaction kinda got me thinking: are all guys like this, prone to judgemenalism, and incapable of being open-minded and neutral, when they read a blog that they think reflects 'me'? I mean, though I started out with this grand pseudonym and all, I was idiotic somewhere along the way, and became close friends with some readers, with the side effect that some of their friends, etc, know who it is pushing the mouse here, without knowing absolutely anything else about me. Is that a recipe for disaster, with people like this guy I'm talking about, who knew me through not one, but two, readers of this blog? In short, is this blog a serious hazard to me meeting sensible guys, and should I perhaps scrap it and restart it somewhere else?

While I did consider the pros and cons of that, I decided otherwise. I'm being optimistic here (perhaps unduly so, but nevertheless...) and recalling that I want to end up with a 'sensible' person, as I said up there. And, I'm still hoping that a sensible person will realize where Closetalk the pseudonym ends and where I begin. I'm not ashamed of who I am and what I am. I love my life and the way I live it. I'm trying everything I can to be better, to do better, and I'm hoping that I find the love of my life somewhere along the way, and I'm having fun. If you can't handle it, it's not my fault. And no, I don't want to be fiends with someone who can't see beyond a blog.

Anniversary

Anniversary

Twenty four hours earlier, I sat here at my computer and watched time tick away slowly, till the day arrived that would have marked one whole year with Boy. And now, I sat here again, waiting and watching till the clock announced the day was finally over. A part of me was dreading if he called or messaged, wondering what my reaction would have been - I know, though: anger and irritation, coupled with a lot of relief. But he didn't call. Or message. Maybe he was waiting for me. Maybe I'm just pathetic.

It's been two weeks now, or something like that. And today, of all days, they played Strangers In The Night so many times in the world - once at the five star hotel lobby where I waited for my client to arrive, and then at dinner, when the family and I went out. And despite myself, despite my resolve to not let myself delve on him or the past or my version of the possible future, I allowed myself to get melancholic. For the record, both the dates I mentioned in the previous post went rather well - I thought I struck a great connection with the Party Guy, and even Cute Doc was terribly sweet on our date last night. And while I'm looking forward to meeting both of them again... especially Party Guy... I also know that none of them are... Boy.

*sigh*

None of them are that cute Gujarati guy with the long nose and the stupid American accent who came over to my house for afternoon sex, and then stopped in the middle, asking if he could come back later in the evening to take me out for a 'real' date because he wanted to 'know' me... I remember, I made him wait that first time - he was waiting patiently, while I was hurrying up in the shower, throwing on a shirt, a pair of jeans, and then when we finally stepped out, he got into the elevator with me, and whispered, eyes gleaming, 'You look stunning...!'

That first date, we went to Bombay Blues and he wanted me to order. He looked cockily at me, and said, 'You can tell a lot about a person from the way and things that he orders for dinner,' and I grinned back at him. That was when I learnt he doesn't eat sea food or prawns or mutton, and only has boneless chicken. Your typical Non vegetarian Gujju.

On December 30, we went to this Punjabi restaurant in Dadar, which had the full ethnic look, complete with shamiana and sitar-strumming musicians, and the NRI in him loved that stuff. And then he surprised me by saying he knew a Bengali song, cuz he'd performed to it once, and then he proceeded to sing it. I still have that recording of him singing 'Aay re aay' on my phone.

On December 31, we went to Bandra, shopping for the New Year's Eve GB party. We went to this shop on Hill Road, where he tried on these outrageously shiny shirts, and I dissolved into laughter and took snaps of him on my cell phone. He protested his innocence, saying that he needed shiny shirts for when he performed with his dance troupe on stage, but I refused to buy it. Then, later on, when we came back to my place to dress, I tried one of them one, and he had his moment of 'I told you so!'.

I remember the party - Karma, the lower level. I was waiting for Chimneypot to arrive, and was heading out to check for her repeatedly. Then coming back and dancing with my date for the night, who was looking so amazing. There was a stupid Hindi song playing, and he liked my dance moves so much, he hugged me and called it my 'dhishum dhishum' dance steps... and then, that one time when I went out again to check for Chimneypot, I received an sms on my phone from inside: I think I'm fallin in luv... I went right in and kissed him long and hard, without a word. I was stupid. My flatmate said I looked terribly happy that night, and we made a wonderful pair. We did. I was stupid.

When I kept him waiting for four hours at Bandra some weeks later, I knew he'd be livid, so I bought a bunch of daisies for him and thrust them at him as soon as I saw him, before he could say a word. His face changed... completely...!

Why am I writing all of this down? Because I know, if I don't, I'm going to reach for my phone, punch in the US numbers that I know by heart now, and type something stupid I will hate myself for, tomorrow. The blog helps. The blog helps in giving me the space to write what I really wish I could say, but know would be disastrous to. When I have to sit through two sessions of Strangers In The Night, there is not much even Gloria Gaynor can do to get rid of the butterflies in my stomach. And I thought she was foolproof.

Strangers in the night, exchanging glances,
Wondering in the night
What were the chances we'd be sharing love
Before the night was through.

Something in your eyes was so inviting,
Something in your smile was so exciting,
Something in my heart
Told me I must have you.

The verdict: Frank Sinatra wins, hands down.

The verdict: I hate you, Boy. I hate you because despite everything I've tried to do, I realize in my saddest moments that I feel terribly alone without you. I love you still, damnit.

And I'm glad you never came by to read this blog.

Closetalk-Boy

Closetalk-Boy
(December 29, 2005-December 15, 2006)



It's strange being single again. I thought I'd post some song lyrics here - maybe Don't Go Breaking My Heart, or even I Will Survive (god knows my flatmate is tired of hearing me play that song over and over again), but I thought, everybody already knows I'm 'histrionic', courtesy the last post, so there's really no point in being that extra OTT, is there?

Suffice to say: it didn't work out. It hasn't been working out for almost a month now, and I've been trying to hope it does. But we had a conversation the other day, and I realized I'm not ready to keep on waiting like this, hoping for some miracle. Suffice to say: it feels strange being single again.

Untitled and Unknown

Untitled and Unknown

A party the other night, and the drink of the order was hibiscus juice protracted from Pondicherry, laced with vodka. The Penguin made a face, but the young gay interior designer/decorator was in no mood to take criticism about his beloved drink and made a face back, while I was threatening Emily that I'd bone him in the kitchen, Flight Attendant was mesmerized by the number of people who wanted to get into his pants online, and Gupshup surveyed all, in the serene knowledge that in a day or two he would be jet-setting it to the Maldives, away from all the chaos.

What troubled lives we do lead!

It always feels very nice when you go to a new website and make a new profile, and see how quickly the other carnivores online rush towards you in the heat of 'new meat'. One gets flattered by all the attention, and it gets heady. You tend to spend more and more time in front of the screen then, a modern-day Mirror, Mirror... not without its own pitfalls.

I have no idea why this post took the line it has taken. I must be troubled. This was supposed to be a fun post about the party the other night, the beautiful people, and the laughs and the jokes. It was supposed to be a post about watching Sex and the City episodes on the computer non-stop, and wondering which of them, or which combination of all of them, I would slot myself as. It was supposed to be a fun post.

And instead, it's turned out to be this. I must not be in a writing mood. Or if I am, I must not be in a mood for writing fluff. Serious yet divine, and I wonder why on earth I use these mouldy words. No, I'm not troubled. Not really. Not anything. Blank.

Close the closet doors hurriedly, lest anyone walk in.

Screwed

Screwed

It's been a long day, and I don't feel like being witty. I don't feel like being snipey, snarfy, or half a dozen other things that my alter ego gay queen is so good at. I wonder if hyperactive gay boys are ever allowed to feel tired, and yet this one is going through just that phenomenon now. I feel hungry, as well.

So this is a tired post. The one where I look and hope that in ten years' time, my life is infinitely more settled than it is now. I would actually not like to wait the full ten years. Even a couple of them would suffice. I don't need to still be standing at the crossroads, still chatting in the chatrooms, still f*&%ing like a jackrabbit, still exchanging one-night stands, still bemoaning the lack of a love life. It's... tedious. Almost as tedious as being in love.

O, wait. Now, how would I know that?

Let me manage a weak smile now. A tired smile.

The funny part is this: I'm probably going to forget all this tomorrow morning. After I go home, have a bath, order take-out, switch on the music, curl up in bed with a book, and drift away to sleep, I shall wake up the next day late for work, as usual. There will be a whirlwind of activity the next day, which shall see my exercise my attempts at humour, I shall go on a date with a sweet young man in the evening in whom my interest has waned after the first date, and I shall come home slightly tipsy. Time for music and book again. Maybe, scratch the book. Just the music and bed will suffice. And I may tell myself now that I don't want to bring the boring young man back home to bed tomorrow, but something tells me I still probably will.

God, I sound pathetic. And whiny. And gay.

I guess now you understand why the green apple at the left has all those screws. ;-)