The first one

The first one

Let me tell you about my first love. Love is too strong a word, actually.

His name was Nikhil, and he was just one of the milky-white twenty-one year old Punjabi men who dot the landscape of Delhi. There's no way you can tell him apart from the other Nikhils. He was unique, though: the Nikhil of my folly. I met him online, in a chatroom that I have now come to despise for its sheer lack of depth, and we hit it off instantly. We were both staying in Central Delhi, and we decided to meet that evening. The Jaypee Hotel, in Rajendar Nagar, was the venue. He was wearing a black tshirt and jeans. I was wearing something similar.

I thought he was cute. We talked. We walked the half-hour walk back to my place. The landlord was in, so we sat outside on the pavement and carried on chatting. We spoke about his life, his college marks, his brother, his boyfriend, my job, my stint in Delhi, what we were both looking out for, crummy jokes, and the like. We talked. And talked. And talked. For six straight hours. We were immensely comfortable with each other. But because the landlord was still in the building, we parted - a quick hug, and a promise to meet soon. He messaged me within five minutes of leaving, how he was already missing me.

The first time I had sex doesn't seem momentous to me. It was just one of those things I'd been planning, and one of those things that felt necessary. The first time I made love to Nikhil was monumental. I had never kissed anyone like that before. Forgive my dramatics. We made love for seven hours. On and on and on. I never wanted to let him go. He was special. He had a boyfriend, and I told myself that Nikhil and I were only about sex, but... he was special.

That facade ended the next time we met. It was another stormy session. We met, we walked, we kissed, we kissed, we kissed, and we made love. And then he told me, he was in love with me. I balked. That's ridiculous! You have a boyfriend! We've only just met! It takes more than that to be in love! he shrugged, told me to take my time, but made it clear that he was in love with me.

I refused to believe it, then. But then, there are things that you... believe in, even when you know you shouldn't. There were phone calls, sms messages, meetings in my room, fantasies shared. I would travel in the Gurgaon bus, looking out at the rain, and wish I could make love to him there. He would call me at random hours, and say that he was missing me. He kept on telling me that he was in love with me. And while we did all these crazy, lovely things, I found myself needing more and more of him. I sent him poetry sms messsages. Ridiculous. I've never done that since.

And so I told myself: perhaps, just perhaps... this is love.

And one evening, as we lay on my bed, spent, exhausted, yet very much eager, I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I loved him.

Nikhil and I were together for five and a half months. They were glorious. They were tempestuous. I hated the fact that he refused to leave his boyfriend, simply because I don't want to hurt him - we've been together for four years! I found that silly. I decided that I would come back from Bombay, after my impending transfer, so that I could be with Nikhil. He would leave his boyfriend then, he said. We told ourselves that we must not get too attached to each other, because my transfer was coming closer and closer... three months, two months... But then, we would pant that we loved each other too much to take it slow. And the poetry sms' continued. Ridiculous.

We broke up twice. One weekend, he went away to Shimla with his boyfriend, and I was left behind in Delhi, hissing with jealousy. So, I went online in search of a mate. Just for spite. I found one. I cheated on Nikhil. Again and again. With a little affair on the side. I reasoned, if he could not leave his boyfriend, he had no right to demand fidelity from me. Nikhil found out. We fought, and he broke up with me. I cried then. The first time I'd ever cried for a boy. I bawled my heart out. I begged him to come back to me. I pleaded my case: jealousy. After a week, he decided that he would forgive me. But, he said, things would never be the same again. I knew they would, though.

And I was right. We were together again. But not for too long. I could not handle his boyfriend. I could not handle my own jealousy. So I still slept with my little sex interest. I still found other dalliances on the side. Sometimes, Nikhil called when I was with one of them, and I lied that I was out with my friends and I would call him back later. When I got back home, I would call, and Nikhil and I would chat on the phone for an hour or so. And then fall asleep. My phone bills skyrocketed.

I suppose he guessed what was happening. On one of those rare nights that he spent the whole night at my place, in my arms, he went through my cell phone while I was in the loo. he found some messages a dalliance had sent. He didn't say anything that night, while we made love, and only told me the next morning. How strange: I was furious. I'm not sure, at what. I was furious that he would go through my phone. In my book, that was a serious breach of trust... but then, I was sleeping around, too... but then... there were tioo many 'but's in my head. I stormed off. I told him that I wasn't ready to see him again. In some strange calm, I told him, I'd probably said the love word far too soon. I wasn't ready for him, for his complications, and he wasn't ready for his. I was willing to take it slow, if he wanted, but I would not want to say that I loved him anymore. Because I wasn't sure if I did...

The funny part: the sms that he saw was from a dalliance I hadn't actually slept with, as yet!

Another week passed by. I agonised over my decision. I tried to meet other people. And then, Nikhil called back. We argued, we fought, I never cried though. The old flame was over, he said, he would pay more attention to his boyfriend from now. But... he wanted to see me. He didn't want to lose me... as a friend. I was satisfied.

But in the gay world, friends are a funny creatures. The next time Nikhil and I met was stiffly formal. But then, we had a burger and we chatted, and we loosened up. The time after that, we ended up in bed together. None of the original passion was diminished. We kept meeting after that - once every week, and we would go straight to bed. It was a funny arrangement. I started dating someone else, but then, those once-a-week thingys carried on. Funny arrangement.

The time came for me to leave Delhi. Nikhil called, and said he would miss me. He said, perhaps, it was all for the best that we had broken up. Broken up. I laughed, and said, 'perhaps'. He wanted me back in Delhi, and I said, 'perhaps'. Three weeks later, while I was in Bombay, he called me to say that he didn't want to be in touch with me anymore, because he was totally committed to his boyfriend: he didn't want me to call.

I cried that night. It suddenly struck me that Nikhil was out of my life for good, now. Yes, I'm a pansy at times. I'm more cynical now, though.

The disillusionment came later. I had introduced Nikhil to some of my dalliances and friends, after that last break-up. He said, he wanted to meet other gay people, since he lived a fairly cloistered life, and so I introduced them. A week or so after the final phone call, I learnt that Nikhil was hardly being the devoted boyfriend - he was painting the gay town red with all of my dalliances, and many others of his own finding. My cloistered ex was the new party boy in saddi gay dilli! The clincher, however, came later: a close friend of mine refused to sleep with Nikhil, because of the boyfriend factor. And it was then, that the skeleton tumbled out of the closet: Nikhil didn't have a boyfriend. He never had one.

He never had one.

Why did he do it? I can't explain it, to this day. Some sick machinations to make me fall more in love with him? Feel more jealous about him? Could anyone be that depraved... or even pitiable? I found the whole thing loathesome. I was glad he was out of my life. I couldn't stand the idea of meeting the person who made an utter fool of me for so long.

And of course, I met him again. When I was in Delhi, in May. He heard that I was in town. He called me. He asked to meet me. I said yes.

A cafe in a Gurgaon mall. Nice and glitzy. I ordered a chocolate mousse and waited. He was late. When he finally came, I smiled at him. He smiled back. He was looking stretched. Pale. Thinner. There was acne on his face. I told him he looked tired, and he replied that he was. We talked about life in Bombay, life in Delhi, Pegs and PInts versus the GB parties, whether we were dating anyone, etc. I asked him about his boyfriend, and he said he had broken up with him. I smiled. I finally did what you wanted, he laughed, now you can come back to Delhi. I laughed. He was making a joke. A bad joke, but one that deserved a laugh.

It was a strained conversation. Not the seven-hour sparkle like when we first met. Too much history for that now. Too much agonising. We talked for about an hour, and then I got up. I had to meet an old friend, I told him, and he nodded. I have to go too, he said, keep in touch.

I will, I replied, and shook his hand. Patted it.

And walked out of the cafe. It was a hot Gurgaon afternoon.

Single, and Married

Single, and Married

Welcome to heartbreak hotel. Actually, it's not completely fair to say that. There are possibly thousands of people the world over, categorized as the 'other woman'. When you're gay, you're just 'the other man'. Same role, different gender, possibly more dramatic.

Case 1: You see tall, dark and handsome specimen stalking the room, and you amble over to introduce yourself. A couple of drinks and some seductive comments later, you find yourself smitten. A couple of nights later, you realize that the plain gold band on his finger has a deeper, darker significance: Welcome to the family, honey!

Case 2: You know he's married. But, what the hell, he's gay! If you can do it with a guy who's in a 'relationship', you can very well do it with a guy who's married. So, you ignore the picture of the little woman at home, and just have a mindless screw. Surprise, surprise: he's actually pretty good at what he does! ;-)

Case 3: You fall in love. You tell yourself that's not the way it should go, but you decide to live dangerously, anyway. You decide: (a) you'll make him realize his inner 'gay' self, so that he'll leave the wife and live forever with you, or (b) you're quite comfortable being the 'main man' in his life, and you can share him with the wife. You're one big, happy family, and it doesn't really matter that that the third leg of the triangle (namely, the wife) doesn't know that you exist.

Of course, all of the above cases are valid, only if you actually let yourself get involved, sexually or otherwise, with a married guy. In India, that happens all the time, since a number of men get married very early and very frequently. An acquaintance of mine has been in a 'relationship' with a married guy for the last three years. Hubby visits Acquaintance three days in the week, he goes back to his wife for three other days in the week, and then Hubby spends the last day of the week with a new gay boy: Fuck-of-the-Month. How's that for romance? While some of us may be tempted to sigh in despair and urge Acquaintance to get out of this tangle, he himself is very satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him the 'stability' of a relationship, he says, and time for his own pursuits, recreational or otherwise.

There's the other extreme, of people who can't visualize even a wham-bam with a guy once they learn he's married. Take my friend the Decorator/Designer, for instance. Some weeks back, I'd met this 37-year old married guy (gorgeous!) with a five-year old kid, and while I had no qualms in making it a one-night thingy, Decorator/Designer found the whole affair quite scandalous. This is how the thing looked to me: 1) he's hot, 2) he's going to cheat around anyway, 3) this little one-night thingy is hardly going to break up a marriage, and 4) did I mention he's hot?

Of course, the thing that seems most ludicrous to me in all these cases of single/married men is how on earth their women (wives or girl friends, as the case may be) don't catch on, when (a) boy waxes body religiously, (b) boy is a drama queen straight out of Alice in Wonderland, (c) boy loves buying trinkets for his hands and various neckpieces from Colaba Causeway, (d) boy has too many out-of-town conferences on the weekends... I mean, how dumb can these women be, not catch on?!

Or, are they merely ignoring the 'single' part of the job description, while we gay lovers choose to ignore the 'married' part...?

In Black and White

In Black and White

I call them penguins. The birds, short and stumpy, cute and sweet, which like to live in the Antarctic, (but if Madagascar gets it right, they thrive in the tropics), can't fly and flip flop on the snow. Penguins. The nice, affable men you meet all the time when you're gay, with whom you get along fabulously with, have a great date or two, fantasize about a beautiful kiss or two with, and then they end up flip flopping on the... erm, snow, in front of you. Penguins. Nice guys, really, but you tell yourself that you can do without them. They just add to the muddled confusion in your head.

So let's count the penguins. There was Nature Boy, about whom enough has already been said, and since we're on good terms now, I shall refrain from being bitchy against (for some time at least!). There's my friend K, who recently found himself dumped by one more bird. Very lovable creature, fine plummage, great smile, and admirable intelligence factor. Two months later, however, the expected jitters came out. One fine morning my friend could hear the penguin squawks, and the writing was on the wall.

And then, of course, there's me. There was this tall, lissome bird I was seeing, and after around three weeks of dating, he turns around and says that he really didn't think we were 'seeing' each other: things had reached a very nice and comfortable 'platonic' stage for him, and he 'assumed' that things were the same at my end, too.

Penguin squawks.

I wonder if I'm being bitter. I wonder if it's a coincidence that the book I just finished reading was one which tries to describes why men leave women and women keep wanting more. Just substitute both 'women' and 'men' back there for 'gay men', and there you have it: the living proof of both why penguins thrive in subtropical Bombay, and how gay men are perpetual Old Cows looking to turn into New Cows.

But bitterness is frankly beyond me. Or perhaps, it empowers me. Isn't every gay man out there bitter to a certain extent? Every smart gay man? I know that my last penguin's a nice guy (heck, that's why he qualifies as a penguin in the first place, and not a jackal), and maybe I shouldn't really be so vocal about my disappointments, but hell, maybe that's just me - "bratty" and "childlike". Maybe I'm the stupid ass who needs his head cleaned of all the "intellectual blah" inside, because when one partner sees things all friendly, the other should certainly stop imagining the bedroom. Right?

Probably.

But then, I guess, I still let those damn penguins fool me.

"That don't impress me much....!"

"That don't impress me much....!"

So, we're discussing impressions today. What do people make of you? Yesterday, someone I'm dating currently told me that I'm either 'childish' or 'childlike'. I had a lump in my throat then, and wondered to myself whether he was a nutcase or not, but then I relaxed when he smiled and said I was probably the latter.

So that's impression number one for me: childlike.

Then there was the SourApple who called me many moons ago, and told me that I should go easy on the sleeping around and one-night thingy, because (heaven forbid!) I might just go ahead and get myself a reputation!... and that might be tricky, if I planned on getting into a relationship anytime in the future. It was basically the 'loose character' tag that our grandmothers had to protect themselves from, when they were being wooed, courted and generally being married off.

Impression number two for me: slut.

(And of course, there was Bombay Godmother who once affectionately called me slutteshwari. Sigh...!)

When we broke up and all, Natureboy once said that he couldn't handle being in a relationship with me, because I would want to be in the know of his whereabouts, and would want to be the centre of his universe, yadayadayada, and all that jazz.

So, impression number three for me: Narcisisstic prick.

(Of course, everything is quite fine now with Natureboy, and I plan to break an earthen vessel on his head sometime soon because of the comment he made.)

Walk into a party with me, and I'll be dancing merrily to some stupid hiphop tune, then stand sedately with my drink in hand when they play Kuan mein doob jaungi, but then do the John Travolta moves when ABBA squeals Voulez Vouz, and then head bang if they play the scarce U2 number. And of course, nobody ever approaches me at any of these parties. A number of queries to a number of friends have yielded the same result...

Impression number four for me: Wallflower-cum-sex god-cum-Diva.

Hmmmmm....

And what about the sweet little boy inside? The sheep in wolf's clothing in sheep's clothing? What about the great guy with a sense of humour and a sense of ease to match? Mmm.....

I think I like 'childlike' best. ;-)

The Ex Factor

The Ex Factor

So when do you decide that you can be 'friends' again? After going through a phase of wishing away your ex-lover, when do you actually start looking at him like a nice guy again - and it really doesn't matter that he's not got the hots for you at all.... mmmm, excuse me while I lick my lips, before proceeding to jump into a lengthy expplanation.

The trigger for this post is a recent event: I'm meeting Natureboy again. Strictly on a platonic basis, however. I'm talking to him, meeting him for lunch, and even discussing the cute firangs who traipse about South Bombay with him. Of course, my close friends think it's ludicruous. As far as they're concerned, Natureboy is still persona non grata, or at least, should be, around me. I agreed with them... till about a month back.

What happened a month back? I'm not sure - I think, it happened when I decided I want to look for date-material again - and not just the one-night stand variety. I think that signified: if I can look again, I must be over him. And of course, it's a farce to not indulge. We both crack lousy jokes, we're both sluts (I still am, he seems to have turned asexual now, though! heheheh), we both follow porn movies avidly (he never stopped, I've restarted), and we both love fatty food desserts. Hell, there was always chemistry there - I guess it depends on where you take that chemistry to.

But... getting back to the WHEN???? question at hand, I wonder if my answer ("When you're ready to date again") works. I have five exes, including Natureboy. The first was an asshole, and I'm never going to forgive him because of something particularly venomous he did, though I would smile at him if I ever meet him and would probably go to bed with him if he begged me - both of which have happened, since we broke up. (I said I was a slut!)

The second is a ghost in Delhi, whom I smile at, and exchange mouldy jokes with, but would never consider being friends with or even sleeping with again.

The third is a great friend of mine - one of the very few gay friends I have, and though we always make plans to have sex when we meet up next, that never happens - perhaps that's why we're still going strong! ;-)

The fourth is an angel, but I'm not in active touch with him. He called to wish me on my birthday, and I felt glad. We still call each other friends, but there's... distance. Somehow. Very little chemistry in the first place, I think.

And the fourth is Natureboy.

Yes, I never had a point to prove, really. Just wanted to talk about my lovely exes. ;-)

flashpoint:
You can vote against Article 377 online here. Just doing my bit for Gay Rights. Ahem, ahem... ;-)

Independent closet?

Independent closet?

Ok, so this post was written on August 15, and I delayed in getting it out... Also, the words/ phrases in blue below are corrected mentions, after my goof-ups were reported to me. Sorry :-)

I feel like Bill Pullman of Independence Day saying: Today.... is our Independence Day! August 15, and hello to all of you. Get your tricolour jhandaas out, for this is the day that your country achieved independence.

I'm at pains here to find some gay angle here to Indian independence. If this were the didactic kind of a blog, I could talk about the irrelevance of Artiucle 377 that still disallows homosexuality and other 'sexual acts outside the order of nature'. If I go out and proclaim that I'm gay, chances are, I may be put away in jail. Archaic laws remain in use.

That reminds me: there's a rally tomorrow, organised by some leading LGBT groups, including India's most famous gay man, Ashok Kavi, at what is arguably Bombay's second-most famous landmark after the Gateway of India, Flora Fountain, to protest Article 377. According to sources, more than 200 people are expected. Perhaps, the number would have been greater, had they organised the protest march on a weekend, rather than on a Tuesday afternoon. Then again, perhaps, the impact would have been greater, had they organised it today.

Now, that would have made headlines!

Being a gay Indian in the 58th year of Indian independence... hmmm... perhaps that merits a long winded essay or two. A friend of mine is going down for that march at Flora tomorrow, and I asked him why: there might be cameras there, they might take your picture, I cautioned, the typical closet talk. My friend hesitated, then said, "Well, if I see that it's getting very public, I might just hang around at the sidelines, and not join in the actual march, but I want to be there, all the same. If we don't stand up for our rights, who on earth is going to help us get them?"

My frend, by the way, is hardly reknowned for activism. He's just an ordinary gay man in Bombay, from a "decent" family, quite well-off, and prone to partying every other night. I would call him a Page 3 person, were it not for the negative hues associated with the term. And he's going to lend his voice against Article 377.

I'm going to confess something here: I told my friend that I'm not going along with him, because I have a fixed-hours job that I can't circumvent for a rally of any sorts... I'm actually glad I have that excuse. I guess, I'm still not ready to leave my closet. Not even to stand up for my rights.

Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe

Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe

This one is actually going to be about gay blogging, and not just me spewing out crap about my erratic and erotic escapades (though some would say, that's what I do best.). Indian gay blogging, to be precise. I've always wanted to find out some guys in India who blog about their homosexuality, whether openly or from within a closet, and I found a couple of them, the other day.

My favourite is Kris', to which I've added a link on the right hand side. Kris is a gay doctor somewhere in Bombay, who saves lives by day and dreams of men by night. Wow - a hot Baywatch hunk gone gay? hehehe.. I wish! (which doesn't mean that he's not, of course.....!) The reason I like Kris' posts? They're amazingly easy: they're about a life, and the fact that he's gay is not the be-all and end-all. There's no sermonizing about gay people - and that's great. In the last few days, I've come across a couple of gay blogs which are full of activism - and it simply leaves me cold.

And that begs an explanation. The critics would slam me for being a 'bad' gay person: I stay behind the closet, I write trivialties about my gay sex (and otherwise) life, and I try to stay as noncerebral as possible. I love the feeling of being unattached. I love the feeling of being independent. I hate to stand up for (and this demands capital letters) Gay Rights. I'm an awful (awful!) person.

That's one way of looking at it. ;-)

But I love the idea of meeting up people who talk about their gay lives online. It's a thrill, perhaps. Something like being a voyeur. Something also like seeing a mirror reflection. A gay person in another situation, in another city perhaps, talking about.....

Balderdash!

I can't explain it. I just love it. Sheesh! This is the last time I try to be all profound. Will stick to the sensational stuff from now on! Harrrrrummmph!

First Cut

First Cut

I'm in the mood for Irani these days. The other day, a colleague from work and I visited this Irani joint in the back alleys of Fort. Nestled there, close to the Bombay Stock Exchange, frequented by middle aged Patelbhais and fat Parsi ladies with striped skirts, sits this place called Cafe Military, which serves up the most divine kheema with egg. Picture a bowl full of horribly unhealthy oil-laced kheema fry, topped with a poached egg, and we have three rolls of bun-maska (bread-butter, in Mumbaiya Irani lingo) alongside. And, yes, two cups each of the strongest, sweetest tea. Irani ishtyle.

Irani Heaven.

I've always wanted to try food at one of these old-world Irani food joints, and especially after I read that much-hyped book The Boyfriend. While the book itself leaves a lot to be desired, its descriptions of the Irani cafes dotting South Bombay, with their unique marble topped tables, and their bearded servers in shalwar-kurtas tantalised me to no end. So, alright, Military has no shalwar-clad servers, but Cafe Olympia on Colaba Causeway does. In addition to an amazing kheema-omelette, Olympia whips up an utterly divine mango juice.

Irani heaven made sense again to me, later that day, when I bumped into A. He happens to be this particular young man I had indulged in some dirty dancing with ages ago, at one of the GB parties, and exchanged numbers as well. Three months later, after absolutely no correspondence from either side, we bump into each other again at last week's party, and exchange numbers for the second time. Finally, that evening, I get a buzz from Iranian A, and I meet him at a ticket counter at one of Western Railways' hyper-efficient stations. Picture 5'9'' tall, lovely tanned frame, biceps that make me salivate, strips of black hair that curl above the two top buttons of his shirt (which are undone, by the way), and a lovely bubble butt. Mmmm..... so.... we chatted, smiled, and walked back to my place. Shut the door, and let the fireworks begin.

Two hours later, after I closed the door behind him, and plopped down on my bed, I took another glug of the vodka bottle we'd uncapped, and smiled to myself.

Irani heaven!

Medicine isn't bitter, all the time

Medicine isn't bitter, all the time

Ta-da! There's a gay party on tonight, and I'm going! Of course, there have been lots of parties between now and then, though I haven't blogged about them. Most of them were fun, actually. I've been meeting a lot of interesting people. Like, at the last one, I bumped into Cute Doc, whom I haven't seen for ages, and it was wild! Cute Doc and I get along like a house on fire, we go at it hammer and tongs in the clever repartee front, and we're fabulous in bed! He wasn't in town for the last few months, though, so he fell away in limbo... but, the other night was great: we swung like crazy on the dance floor and even did a couple of make-out sessions. I've considered telling Cute Doc that we should date... but... not too sure about that. We're both sluts and we have great fun, but I'm not sure how great it would be like, to be together together!

Anyhow, Cute Doc had his friend from Hyderabad, Cute Punjabi Doc with him, and I rocked with CPD last time.

;-)

Flashback over now.

The party's in less than two hours, and Cute Doc is over at my place. (Yes, he still kisses divinely! hehehe) He's watching some silly music show on Sony with my flatmate, while I'm typing. We're gonna talk about what to wear and we're gonna get in a cab together. Flatmate will get all misty eyed and parenty and tell us to have a great time.

I'm hoping they play Aajaa balliye on the dance floor! tonight.

Closetalk goes to Gay Porn Land

CloseTalk goes to Gay Porn Land

I've been surfing the web, and talking to a lot of old friends. have been staying up late chatting in gay rooms and typically trying to hold on to the 'slut' tag. (Kidding!) But I did come across two very interesting blogs.

Warning: What you're about to see may just tantalise your tastebuds, so make sure you're well within your diet limit.

Also: There may be some nudity involved, so make sure your boss/ parents are far away when you're viweing this.

First on the list is Michael Lucas' blog. Lucas is one of those legendary gay porn stars with a killer smile and killer strokes to match. I have loads of pics of the guy in various states of undress/ copulation in my computer at home, and so it was a pleasant surprise to find out that he actually writes a blog. A well updated one, at that! What does he talk about? Well, obviously, porn (which is his profession!), but also almost everything under the sun. The man gets controversial at times, is opinionated always, but he puts his point across clearly. Hell, it's his blog, and he can do whatever he wants to on it! Love him, hate, love to hate him - whatever! - I think it's a cool place to wander by, if you want something fun and sexy.

Next up, is this other place called the Gay Porn Blog. Yes, it's about the gay porn industry. Everything about it you'd probably ever want to know, and a tad extra. Complete with all the spice and the gossip. Strictly for those into porn and the funnies associated with it. The gals who read this could find it hilarious, but I'm warning you guys that they have a lot of full frontal nudity posted on this place, so be careful to clear your history cache after you've gone to the site, if you're on a shared computer. But, generally, I think you should have fun with this one - the guys write very in a very pacy style, very bitchy sometimes, too. But hell, that's all part of being gay, right?

For the record, I've provided links to both blogs, under the right hand corner of this page.

Slut in my soul

Slut in my soul

A friend of mine is turning slutboy, and I'm wondering whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Being a slut appeals to me; in part, a lot because of the steady diet of porn I've been watching through my formative college years. I've got a very simple logic: like every other sensitive young man out there, I'm looking for the Love Of My Life (tall, dark, handsome, yadayadayada...), but till such time I actually bump into Mr Right, and both of us take the time off to understand and accept each other, I'd be an asexual dolt to refuse the free sex that comes my way. Strangely enough, that eminently principled logic serves to categorise me as 'slut', according to some people I knew.

All very well and good, since I really don't care a fig.

But... a friend of mine is turning slut. A friend of mine has decided that till such time in the unforeseeable future that he finds the Love Of His Life (he can't be tall, dark, handsome too, or else, the two of us would be at loggerheads!), he will go out there and look for the free sex that's always available in the Meat Market of Bombay. By all accounts, he's getting to be a pretty successful slut too - even by my high standards - and that's what sets me thinking. Perhaps, even something as drastic as soul-searching.

I don't want him to be a slut. It's as simple as that. Why? I'm not exactly sure. Something just... stings. I want him to be happy, and I don't think that slutting around is the best way to be happy. I want him to wait this one out, at least for some time, and be a teenyweeny bit patient. But I can't help thinking that I'm being hypocritical here: why on earth what's good for the goose not be equally fine for the gander? What on earth can I say to that? Does that old adage about people knowing how to live their pals' lives well enough, but not their own, hold good here? Will I be able to escape scrutiny with that line of argument?

Knowing my pigheaded friend, it's not bloody likely.

So, that's it then. This is my venting space. My space to sigh and hope that it all turns out good for him, hope that he doesn't take me in the wrong sense, and realize that I only want the very best for him - while he sluts around.

In the meantime, I have competition! ;-)

Bedtime story for the day: Townie and the Rains

Bedtime story for the day: Townie and the Rains

The city's still stuck, 48 hours after what the newspapers call Bombay's worst ever deluge in a single day. That means, sluts like me are left wishing for the existance of creatures called Mermen.



:-)

Strange fantasy. Straight captain (regular men-o-wars!) kept on hoping for gorgeous women with big boobs and long hair and collagen lips and fish tails. I wonder if their wenches on board (women-o-war?) ever harboured similar fantasies about hot hunks who'd look great in Speedos, but who can't wear them cuz their fish tales don't fit through... But then, those are the times when gay practicality sinks through, and you realize that you probably wouldn't want a gorgeous merman, however much he resembles Eric Bana, since the fishy appendage thing would rule out the existance of another... um... appendage.

Huh!

In reality terms, what happened is this: North Bombay was (and is) completely cut off from South Bombay, and that means there was (and is) no way for a cute suburban boy to come down south of Dadar. Damn! Especially since, Bandra Boys are considered quite a tasty treat. Of course, that also ruled out a cute twenty-something from Napean Sea Road to travel all the way up to Juhu, but hell, Townies don't like to travel anyhow, so that really didn't affect anyone's sex drive much. Townies like suburbites to come/cum to them - and rarely the other way around.

So, what we had, therefore, was a case of Townie discovering his gay neighbour - "O, you're gay too! I never would have guessed! Now, I can explain away your leopard print pants - I thought it was just due to the fact that you're Punjabi!" And that resulted in a host of gay Townie boys hitting a whole lot of straight Townie bars and discs across South Bombay and Colaba. Legs splayed or crossed, ears pricked, drinks clinked, cigars puffed, and hands probing below tables Gay life comes to town.

Whatever GB could not manage, despite the rocking parties, Mother Rain did.

I spy with my li'l eye...

I spy with my li'l eye...

Let's get back to the gay lexicon, and one particularly brilliant word. To all the uninitiated yearlings, gaydar is a clver enough combination of two words gay + radar = gaydar. Talk about homo ingenuity. It's a term meant to signify how good (or bad) your sixth sense is, regarding any odd man on the street being gay or straight. There are some members of the Family who are keen bloodhounds, with a nose and gaydar so strong that they can sniff the gay soul through the straightest and drabbest of grey clothes. And then, of course, there's me.

:-)

Me of the flabbergasted expressions and woeful sighs, who can never decide or decipher a man's gaze. Of course, I could excuse myself by saying that it's all the more harder these days because straight men tend to act and dress very gay these days - but that argument pales fast, against the track record of the greatest gay bloodhounds of Bombay. In my case, I bumble about, and if I actually ever bump into someone on the street who is gay, it's a blue moon in China.

So, there was Martini the other day, who was reading a book on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire in a neat little bookshop in Kemps Corner. At which time, a certain tall and strapping young man saunters over and casually asks him whether he might pass him a magazine. Martini and Strapping Young Man start chatting, and laughing, and of course, because both their gaydars are attuned to a high pitch, they walk out of the bookshop with each other's numbers in their cell phones and a dinner date the forthcoming Friday. I've been to that bloody shop umpteen times, and never has any Strapping/Unstrapping Young/Old man ever come sauntering up to me, though.

Then, there's this department shop in Bandra, six stories of retail therapy, which is supposed to be frequented by Family members. Whenever I visit the place, I try my utmost to look ultra chic and casual, taking my time in the trousers and casual shirts sections, lingering over the innerwear floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of, or perhaps interlock fingers with, a faceless young man with oodles of charisma. Never happens. But I always hear tales later of how so-and-so bumped into such-and-such on the damn third floor, while I was busy canoodling on the fourth.

Anyone know of a cheap place which overhauls antennae?

Money for nothing, and [BEEP] for free...

Money for nothing, and [BEEP] for free...

This is funny, so pay attention now, children. There is a certain young (well, not so young any more) man on the net with a gaydar id and pictures that would shock the mildest mannered and titillate the craziest guy out there. Let's call him Savage. So, I meet Savage on the net and am titillated (quite naturally!) and ask to meet up sometime. He says, he'll call me.

The other day, I get a message.

(Yes, this one is in dialogue form again. All spellings below are as typed out originally.)

Savage: Hi, I'll come over to your place. I also do aromatherapy, by the way, for which I charge.

CT: Ummm.. okies. I don't want the aromatherapy, thanks. Just the sex will do. :-)

Savage: Tell me when you need both.

CT (slightly outraged): Sorry dude, I don't pay for sex. If you wanna have a great time, then that's cool - if you want money for it, then I'm sorry.

Savage: The charge is for the aromatherapy, not for the sex.

CT: I don't want the aromatherapy. I only want the sex. Does that mean you'll only come over if I want both?

Savage: Tell me when you want both.

CT (amused now): So how much is the charge?

Savage: Rs 1000 for the aromatherapy.

CT (wicked smile on face, delicious game in mind): I'm sorry, I can only spare Rs 200.

(after a gap of five minutes) Savage: Ok, for you, I'll charge Rs 400.

CT (wicked smile widening): Sorry, I can't do that. Rs 200 is the max I can spare.

(after two minutes) Savage: OK, then, Rs 300 it is.

CT (giggling maliciously now): Hey dude, I think uve got me confused with some of the rich guys out there who pay for sex. a) I don't do that. b) I don't have the cash for that. So, sorry for everything and bbye.

Savage: Not a question of being rich. Don't think me as prostitit. I need money for my computer course.

CT (rolling on floor in hysteria now): I'm sorry for you. But, I can't do better than that. Rs 200.

(after five minutes) Savage: OK, for you Rs 200. Cuz I like you.

***

Yes, yes, yes, yes - I'm evil. But it's just sooooo much fun!

On Your marks, Get Set,... Go!

On Your marks, Get Set,... Go!

Apologies are due, first and foremost. Applemartini had mailed me the other day, complaining that my attitude towards speed-dating and those who take part in it seemed condescending and hypocritical. While I responded with several protests and disclaimers, it is also true that I still continued to regard speed dating as one of those strange phenomena that one indulges in, when one hits a mid/quarter life crisis.

That's where the apologies are due. To all of the people who have ever participated in it, and all those who plan to. Speed dating is fun. Exhausting, yes - but, undeniably, fun.

;-)

Welcome to this quaint little lounge bar in Andheri, where fifty-odd gay men are gathered. There's music playing in the air, and most of the guys are hanging around in their groups, yakking and eyeing other gay men in other groups. Enter CloseTalk and Kunal, who take their glasses of sherbet and stand at one corner, keeping to themselves. CT spies Cute Marwari With Goatee and they hug; then there's Dilli Bong. Ex-Ex Boyfriend is also there, and CT does the hugging and apologizes for missing XX's birthday, earlier this month. And, there's also Bangalore Doctor, whom CT had forgotten to call back on an earlier occassion. Outrageous flirting follows, in the downright wicked style that only Blore Doc is capable of, and CT promises to call back next time, when they meet for a rollicking hook up session. Air kissing is done. It's time to meet the 'acquaintances' now, and finally, CT summons up the courage to go over to the counter and register his name for the speed-dating exercise.

Gujju Man: "O, CT, how are you doing?"

CT: "Hey, Gujju Man, how's life? I haven't seen you around for ages! How's your Gujju Marriage Bureau for Gay Gujju Boys going?"

Gujju Man: "Just perfect! We have a wedding set up ahead for the [CT's birthday]."

CT: "Really? That's my birthday, you know!"

Gujju Man: "OMG! That's amazing!"

CT: "So, erm, erm.... I was wondering... how does this speed dating thingy work, Gujju Man?"

CT : "I mean - I was wondering about it and all, and you know that I can get plenty of guys anyhow, but I was still wondering, and Cute Marwari With Goatee was telling me about this thing and telling me to come, and though I find the whole idea very stupid - because there's no way I need to do something silly like speed dating! - I was curious - plus, I also wanted to help GB, and wondered whether there was anything to do, so I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could come by, I'm not serious about it of course or anything, it's all for fun and games, and so I thought I'd do it, but then it's silly, but then, do you have a form or something?"

So, I was embarassed. But then, you wouldn't have thought that, to listen to me talk to the boys/men/old men arranged before me. I was eloquency personified. One of the sexaholics touched his crotch when I sunnily asked him "What's up?", but then I rolled my eyes up at his gesture, and he got the point after that. By and large, it was decent, the guys were ok-types, and I was quite glad to see, when the results were declared, that seven of them had 'hit' on me, that is, wanted to know my phone number. Of them, there was one that I had wanted to get to know better as well, so according to the rules of the game, the two of us got each other's numbers. Cute smile, strong grip while shaking hands, nice voice, and wisps of chest hair curling at his throat.

*Slurp*

Fast and furious!

Fast and furious!

This is an entry that depends on the feedback I get from my discerning readers/voyeurs, and it will influence a decision that I may/ may not make. I've been asked to do something, by a friend, that I've always thought of as very silly, quite desperate, and very deserving of the LOSAH tag on a forehead.

But now... I'm actually considering it.

There are reasons for this:

1) My friend will also be doing it.

2) My friend says, don't go with any expectations - just do it for the fun and the experience!

3) My friend says, I'll meet a lot of nice (hopefully) people, who may simply be there for the experience - like me - and they'll be at their most natural self, in the morning.

4) There's a supposedly fabulous lunch buffet at Rs 250 per head.

And now, we come to what the decision is:

On Sunday, GB is organising a Speed-date thingy, the third such event it has had in Bombay. What happens is this: twenty guys face each other, and have three minutes with each other to ask questions etc... at the end of the full time, if any of them have expressed mutual interest, GB gives their numbers to each other. Simple. Precise.

And then, there are the cons:

a) It sounds soooooo desparate. Heaven forbid should any of Nature Boy's friends see it!

b) Are all the guys going to come up and ask, "have place? have sex?" Yuck!

And I have to wonder: why the fuck am I doing this? For a fling, I tell myself. And for fun. So far, I'm actually 75% in favour of it... mainly due to the fact that I'll have another bakra friend in the ring.

So, now... the circus ring is open: tell me your suggestions. Help CT win the game.

Fling me a lifeline

Fling me a lifeline

I need a fling. A mindless fling to get over someone, once and for all. A time-pass thing. Something to be happy about, for a couple of weeks, and then to discard in the basket labeled Happy Memories. One night stands are okay, but they're not good enough. I need a no-strings-attached, no-nonsense fling, that leaves neither of us in doubt as to what we have here.

I'm in the hate-you phase. Not hate. Not hate. Hate is too strong a word. But the phase where any sight of him gets me thinking about us, and gets me seething at him. I think he was a coward. I'm angry, yes. Not hate. Just pissed off. I'm sorry, I can't be a friend. I thought I could. I promised him I could. But I can't. It's still too hard, and sometimes I wonder why. It was only a month or so: why on earth should I feel like this? Someone told me, it was because of the potential - because I felt the potential there. If we prolonged it, and then it didn't work out, I would have beeen okay - I wouldn't have thought so badly off him. What gets me is his refusal to try. And now, I can't be his friend. Not now. Someone told me, I have to hate him first, in order to be his friend. I'm not sure about that. I can't be in contact with him now. I can't see him. I can't hear him. If I do, I despise both of us.

So, I need a fling.

This wasn't the way this post was supposed to turn out. This post was supposed to be something light and breezy about me needing a casual fling with a casual guy... I wasn't supposed to talk about Nature Boy. I suppose I could delete this, but I won't. He may see this, but no, I won't. This is my space. It always has been. I invited him here, and even when things started unravelling, I told him that I may vent, that he should understand it. I think he does. And that's what makes things more irritating - the fact that he's a nice guy and I (kinda) like him. 'Kinda', because I'm in that phase now.

Dus (actually, four) bahaane for AB Baby

Dus (actually, four) bahaane for AB Baby

So it's official: Akshay Kumar has been rather unceremoniously dumped from the Gay Bollywood Icon's pedestal, in favour of the One and Only, the Junior with the Killer Smile, the Baby from AB,... (drumrolls)... Abhishek Bacchan.

About time, too!

I, for one, could never understand the strange fascination India's gay populace had for Akki, especially, since there were guys in the ring with both better attitude (SRK) and better beefcake (Hrithik). They said, surmised and conjectured, that it was all about the Great Bear Theory - so, it should have been inevitable that the 'charm' would begin to fade, as soon as Akki decided to get 'trendy' and wax off his chest hair. (Personally, though, I actually prefer the new look! hehehe ) And, just when it seemed that the new contenders for the slot would be the Old Actors' Brigade (probably one of the Khans), in came romping AB Baby with his dus bahaane!

And the world was never the same again.

Suddenly, women across the country were swooning over him, and trade pundits were predicting a meteoric rise in blockbuster terms. So, why on earth should any of this mean AB's climb to the top of the Gay Charts - given the stringent Family Standards? Well, let me attempt to give you a basic look-see:

1. Amazing Body. Ummm... That glimpse of toned tummy in the Nach le song of Bunty-Bubbly had me panting for more!

2. Amazing Smile. 400 watts. The nearest competitition I've ever had! ;-)

3. Amazing Moves. The man dances like the devil. A very, very, very sexy devil.

4. Amazing Eyes. Well, yes, this one is the classic lie that men have been fooling women with over the centuries ("Your eyes are like the deepest pools I could drown in...", followed by Gone with Wind score!), but I actually go for them. AB has the most intense pair, like smouldering cigarette butts. Ouch.

Yesterday, (or the day before, I'm not sure), a TOI suppliment carried a piece on AB's rising star. Among other reasons, it mentions his daddy's name, but honestly, that doesn't mean a thing to me - the Big B is quite ancient, and any mention of a Big B in conjunction with AB Baby makes me think of totally different things!

*cat-who-licked-the-cream's smile*

Akki who?

Jean-luc Gay

Jean-luc Gay

Men, in general, have a thing for jeans. Gay men take that a step further. Recently, at Mondy's, while the girls were drooling over a hunk in tight black tees and jeans, a certain pragmatic but brilliant young gay interior decorator/designer sitting next to me, observed with a nonchalant face, "O, he's got to be gay. Have you ever seen any self-respecting straight guy wear jeans that low?"

The point was valid, and the girls stopped drooling, ordering another pitcher of beer instead.

I know of another extreme case: I met this one particular specimen (a hook-up, naturally!) who's quite a great guy otherwise, working in an ad agency, but he just prefers to wear womens' jeans. When I inquired why, he replied, just as pragmatically as the decorator/ designer, "It just enhances my bulge."

Perfectly natural. (Why do you think they call us queer, anyway?)

I used to think this was absurd, though, till I told this tale to a close friend of mine, while visiting Delhi. This friend, who happens to be a talented architect and also moonlights as a fiesty salsa dancer, shrugged and says, "O, well, that happens a lot here in Delhi. Some people just aren't as equipped as we are, babes." Okay, so I made that last line up, but that just goes to show that saddi dilli is miles ahead!

Carrying on the jeans tale, I seem to have a penchant for going out jeans shopping with gay men. There have been so far, three occasions, the last being only Monday, when I was asked to do so. One has been a hook-up, one a fuck-buddy, and the last was Natureboy, who thought it would be good to meet up. In all three occasions, I followed the boys around, while they hemmed and hawed over styles, colours, textures and fits, and tried on 5-6 pairs each.

And of course, I peeked. I mean: how could you possibly expect me not to? It's ridiculous, especially for a hotblooded young man like me, who has no need to wear womens' jeans to show off his bulge(!!!). Changing rooms have the most convenient mirrors, if you're the peeping tom kind, and that's exactly what I did, catching a glimpse of sometimes a back, or a hairy chest, or a pair of strong legs, or a brief-encased butt, or even the telltale bulge!

I'm a jean-ie in a bottle: so come, come, let me be free! ;-)

Live free?

Live free?

Living in the big bad city has its problems. Especially if you're one of the rainbow crowd. What's the ideal? I'm still not sure. So let me jot down a couple of experiences and a couple of complaints.

Case 1: Boy lives with family. Horrible situation (a) if you have a boyfriend, and (b) worse, if you're single and ready to mingle. That means you have all the drive, but no space in the car whatsoever. Tonnes of Bombay boys are waiting in the wings to move out of daddy's pad.

Variation of Case 1: Boy lives with extended family. So, while there's no momma and poppa in close proximity to dictate timings and people brought home, there's still someone who may leak back word, and there's still no hope of walking around the flat in your birthday suit. You call that freedom?

Case 2: Boy lives with straight room-mate. That essentially means a curb on things. The motto is: I must act butch at all times. I must drink beer at all times. I must make sure hook-ups are gone by the time roomie gets back home. I must make sure to have sex twice in a blue moon. (Just once is simply inhuman!)

Variation of Case 2: Boy lives in hostel. This is simply a stricter form of Case 2. There's a warden here as well, who, if gay fantasies are to be believed, is probably waiting to bed you as well! Scary thought.

Case 3: The Will and Grace scenario. Excellent, if TV is to be believed. But it gets awkward. Apart from the normal fact that gay guys get more sex than their straight female flatmates do (which may also lead to a fair share of jealousy!), there is the added complication that two sets of closeted parents are probably not at ease with the relationship, which is sometimes hidden from them. So, when Grace's parents come visiting from Jhumritalayya, Will may have to spend a week at an odd friend's house. Ghastly. There's also the strangeness in bonking, while knowing that Grace is probably chewing gum staring at the door, in the room next door.

Variation of Case 3: Some count this worse. Grace is now Gabriel, but Gabriel, the straight guy flatmate, knows Will is gay. That seems great for friendship and all that jazz, and perhaps is, with no sudden moving out required when Gabriel's parents come visiting, - but having sex with Gabriel in the next room is definitely weird. Plus, there's the worse scenario if Gabriel happens to be a real cutie, which means that Will may have a teeny-weeny (read: HUGE) crush on his flatmate. Soap opera begins.

Case 4: Will is living in with Jack. Two drama queens in place of one? That sounds like a recipe for madness, and it usually is. It helps, if Will and Jack have totally different tastes in men, but are completely in agreement about everything else, like crockery, curtains and condom types. It may get very strange for Will to introduce Jack to his conservative parents, though, if Jack is the flouncy type. Also, a formula for havoc, if Will and Jack fall in love together.

So, I've done my homework. So, I've overshot my target from "a couple of experiences" to four cases with three subcases. So, there's also the additional case of living in with your boyfriend. But, admittedly, I have to do more research on that front, before getting back to you.

Cinequeens

Cinequeens

There's a movie festival organised by GB on Sunday, and I plan to go for this one. I've only been to one other festival like this in Bombay, and from what I've seen, it promises to be good. The reason why I've only been to one other movie do, though I profess to have been impressed by it? Well, blame it on my completely helter-skelter Page 3 life-ishtyle.

(I'm trying to crack a joke here, but my sense of humour has fallen quite flat. Even I, with my inflated head, didn't find that funny.)

But I was trying to make a point here, and I shall go back to trying now. The point was on the difference in demeanor of the crowd that attends these dos, the same crowd that also parties like crazy at the GB Saturday night extravaganzas. There's a difference: a very palpable difference: it's the idea of divas who suddenly feel they must transform themselves into enigmatic Sophia Lorens in the mornings.

Not that they succeed, entirely. A flashy gay man/ queen will remain a flashy gay man/ queen, come what may: flood, pestilence, disease or even worse: calories. The clothes remain flouncy, by and large, or ache to be kitschy, as my esteemed brilliant young gay interior decorator (sorry, designer!) will tell you. (He has an amazing yellow shirt with roses all over it, which he wears with these little Ramayan style chappals!) But it's in the air.... the air!

The air forbids interference. The air speaks: This is my air, this is the air of the cronies around me, and don't you dare breathe it! As long as you're with a gang of your own, you're safe. It's a very quaint syetem where inter-group hellos and how-do-you-do's are exchanged - something which reminds you of Ascot, complete with (in the most extreme cases) the bizzare hats! But, it's hell if you're alone there. You could probably get away with going to a party alone: hitting back a couple of drinks, and getting a hook-up for the night, - but that does not work at the movie festival. Because, by day, our divas are stony-faced, stiff-lipped, upper class empresses. All of which dissolves quite suddenly, when there's a tender moment in one of the brilliant films onscreen, and there's a collective gasp of ooohs and aaahs, like children watching Beauty finally kiss the Beast.

;-)

Yes, yes, of course I exaggerate: it's my prerogative to do so, dah-ling!

Three fags and a hag

Three fags and a hag

The agenda for the week is furniture hunting. And that's why a motley crew found its way cruising SV Road, Jogeshwari, looking for cheap pieces of cane and wood. An introduction is in order: I have recently changed my apartment to one much closer to my workplace, and I need the requisite pieces of wood/cane to hold my clothes, books, shoes, toiletries, yadayadayada.

Enter brilliant young gay interior decorator who is a self-professed freelancer at the moment. Brilliant young gay interior decorator is a friend, twice removed/connected, and I called in my contacts with him, so that he was to wait at SNDT College and await the excursion.

Enter designer-in-the-making, whom I'd met in the gay.com chatroom the night before. Lovely young boy, with a hawknose that could either chill you to tears or have you in splits of laughter, depending on where your tastes lie. It was supposed to be a coffee date, but on hearing that I was obsessed with furniture at this time, he resolved to go on a cane/wood date with me. I told him to stand at the ticket counter, and that I would recognize him by his nose. Of course I did - Hawknose boy was sitting perched on the balustrade next to the counter, and I promptly went over and said 'hi'.

Then there was my new flatmate: the fag hag, for whom meeting nice gay boys is quite the new thing, but she's handling it marvelously, I think - especially the part where I have a casual screw in the next room, while her nose is buried in Douglas Adams. She was suitably impressed by both brilliant young gay interior decorator and hawknose designer-in-the-making, and the four of us set off, in our little escapade. Cane/wood furniture is our prey.

Admittedly, I have miles to go as far as acquiring taste is concerned. That was amply demonstrated by both brilliant young gay interior decorator and hawknose designer-in-the-making, who scoffed and sneered at my suggestions. But the evening was fun. Piles of lovely old furniture with a smell and flavour that makes me think of myself as a wood-slut (if ever one existed), and cups of garma-garam chai in the middle of a rainy Bombay evening. The consensus: we never ended with one. But brilliant young gay interior decorator has been persuaded, nevertheless, to help with the decoration of the new apartment - in return for some Bong food when flatmate's mum comes visiting. Hawknose has begged out of the project, on the plea that it was just a first date, after all! (I'm inclined to be kind and let him go.)

The house warming party is set for August 15. Do drop by, if you're in town then!

A Natural(?) End

A Natural(?) End

I planned on making this another Delhi post. I had all the lines written in my head. I would talk about the different parts of Delhi, the different boys found there, the different tactics to use in order to get them - your average Do-it-yourself guide to saddi gay dilli, if you please.

And then, the break-up happened.

All the old dialogue comes hurtling back at me. The understood and unspoken nuances. The hopes. The idea that, hey, Ross and Rachel did get back together in the end, right? And some such stuff... But it's over, and I'm not really sure why. Nature Boy said, he's not ready. And I'm not really sure why. O yes, I heard the explanations. But I can't understand them: they're like all those other nuances. Was I too forceful in wanting a relationship? I'm not sure. Perhaps. I can say 'perhaps' to a lot of things. Perhaps he was a coward. Perhaps he should have tried to sort things out, rather than thrusting his tail between his legs and running...

Perhaps, it's just the sour grapes talking.

This evening, a friend asked me whether I was in love with Nature Boy. I don't think so. Can a month or thereabouts be enough to fall in love with someone? I don't believe in love at first sight, though lust-at-first-sight is a perfectly plausible phenomenon. I don't think I was in love with Nature Boy - but I think, I could find myself being. And that's the hardest thing of all. To think that another potential is flushed down the toilet... and like every other tortured gay man on the planet, I inevitably look into the mirror and ask that same question: was it me?

And like every other gay man on the planet, I tell myself that it's his loss.

Saddi Gay Dilli

Saddi Gay Dilli

I'm in Delhi right now, and everybody seems to think I'm having a rollicking good time bedding all sorts of cute and hunky Punju dhikchiks. Well, I refuse to divulge whether or not I indeed am, but what's important to note here is the sheer readiness with which it is assumed that a gay guy has more fun in Delhi than anywhere else...

Sigh... in spite of my self proclaimed and widely acknowledged Delhimania, I have to differ on this point. This is definitely where amchi Mumbai scores over saddi Dilli!

Why? Well, there are a number of reasons.

(1) There's only Pegs and Pints and a very shoddy Wokorama in Dilli, where you can go for those weekly parties. As opposed to the Mumbai gay nightlife, which straddles places like Zouk, Velocity, Chat Masala, and Karma, while old-timers like Zinc, Razzberry Rhinoceros and Copa Cabana still serve as beacons of a glorious past of bonking and hooking.

(2) You get more value for money in Mumbai - four drinks for Rs 400, as opposed to a measly two for Rs 300 in Dilli.

(3) The locations in Mumbai are much more easily approachable than the two in Delhi. (distance wise)

(4) You get a lot more variety in Mumbai, rather than the usual Punjabi, Jat, Bengali or South Indian fare in Dilli. Mumbai offers all these four, plus: Marathi, Coorgi, Kannnadiga, Goan, Kashmiri, Gujarati, apart from the regular foreigners at the consulates, and the ubiqititous Bombayites, who form a breed of their own! ;-)

(I'm pretty sure I'm missing many more Mumbai breeds, so feel free to add more if you can think of any!)

(5) Most important: Mumbai is subtler when it wants even a casual hook-up. The approach is: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? how about a coffee some time? i'll call you then, take care, till next we meet."

In Dilli, you have: "hey there, you look good enough to eat, would you like to exchange numbers? ok then, let's fuck now at my place, you'll be able to leave for your home immediatelly after, i hope?"

Concise, yes... but not very profound.

A point of similarity I have to concede, though, is this: both cities have their share of Muscle Marys, Dirty Harrys and Old Unclejis, who purr at you: "hello, dear", as if they expect you to start performing fellatio with great enthusiasm in the very next instant.

Surprisingly, they actually find some takers. sigh.

"It's called Exercise"

"It's called Exercise"

Last night, after the customary fortnightly GB party, the four of us sat splayed in a suburban living room, downing orange juice spiked liberally with vodka, and discussed a phenomenon called The Walk of Shame.

Practically every gay man alive has done the Walk, and the others are just big fat liars. So, what's the Walk all about? What's so absorbing and hateful about it, yet so tantalising and crucial, that no man can ever truly want to dissolve his ties with it? It has to do with the unmistakeable thrill of that other phenomenon called a Hook Up.

So, it's The Morning After. Party's over and done with. Hurried and garbled sex in the middle of the night is over and done with. Morning comes, rise and shine, - so yawn, and squint your eyes, and reach out to give your Hook Up a quick hug. But, of course, it is nothing more than a mere lustful coupling, a hook up, so that little hug cannot exceed a few seconds, and within five minutes, you're out of the door.

This is where all the defining characteristics of the Walk come into sharp focus:

1. There hasn't been time to brush your teeth or (probably) wash your face at the Hook Up's place, so you are walking in a decidedly sour mood, with a decidedly rancid feel in your mouth.

2. Inexplicably, there's always blinding sunlight whenever a Walk is on the cards, and since you have't bathed or anything since last night's frenetic coupling, you're feeling quite sticky and dirty.

3. Remember the wardrobe: last night, you were dressed in something suitably camp and glitzy, with perhaps shining and tight material. This morning, you realise, as you walk down the road to fetch the auto, that people are giving you the filthiest of looks. Not only are you stinking and sticky, you're also dressed like a cheap Gigolo Joe.

4. The voice is usually broken as well, from a night of partying and begging the DJ to play your favourite songs - so you've been singing on the dance floor and you've been moaning in bed after that - so that, by the time you're supposed to instruct the auto rickshaw guy where to take you in the morning, your voice makes a mouse squeak look like a baritone.

Does anyone remember that song called The Walk of Life now?

He feels... natural

He feels... natural

So, Nature Boy and I are on a break. It still feels strange to say so; to think so. This is the first time I'm talking about the break here, on this space, though it's been on for almost a week now. When we decided on the break, I asked him not to come by this space - as this was mine. My own very little backyard to vent. The other day, he asks me when he can come back: he says, he's used to the idea of watching me talk here, he's used to reading my sms' and hearing my voice on the phone, too.

What can I say to that?

I'm used to him, too.

So I told him, he can come back. I don't know whether he has, already. I don't know whether he's still staying away. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, and I told him that. I've already told him how I feel about him, and what I feel about us - and I doubt that I shall express anything extra in this space, that I already have not told him, face to face. What matters is this: the realisation that I am used to him, as well.

I wish it works out for us, at the end. Is this a Ross-Rachel break? I don't know. (Didn't those two end up, in the end, again?!) This is going to be difficult for me, because I was falling... into something that I thought could last. But if it doesn't... well, if it doesn't, I will move on. I know that. I'm strong that way. I may be cold that way. Does strength feel cold? I'm not very sure. But I'll get through it, either way.

Perhaps it's because I want him in my life. Perhaps, it's because, regardless of whether or not he can understand me and reconnect with me, I am used to him. I am used to his silly ways and his silly words. I am used to knowing that he is there for me, when I need him. I like him. I would like to fall in love with him, but if that doesn't work out - I would still like to keep him in my life. Hence the degree of coldness that I deem necessary.

Hence the need to avoid listening to Nat King Cole for some time.

;-)

Have place? Have Sex?

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Playing PING pong

Playing PING pong

Meeting some one new is like making a financial investment. There's the same amount of initial lift, the same amount of trepidation, the same amount of uncertainty when you're considering the various options, the same amount of "will I, or won't I?" that plagues you while your finger hovers around the choice, and the same amount of happy surprise (mingled with still-niggling second and third and fourth thoughts) when you realise that you probably chose to chat up the right person.

Welcome to the gay chat room, and yes, I'm a capitalist pig. Whatever gave me away, I wonder.

;-)

I've been a chatroom afficiando for a long time now. I don't subscribe to that by-now-famous picture of gay men circling and circling each other in deserted parks, till they finally lock eyes with the hot-bod of the night and take him home for a screw. Ever since I discovered the internet, and such things called chat rooms, my opening lines have been "asl?", and the intended (if he likes me) gives me his age, sex and location. True, the 'sex?' part is a bit inconsequential in a gay chat room, but that's just part of the baggage we gay men have to live with, in order to survive in a heterosexual world. I'm not complaining. That much.

But, despite the better quality men and the less hassle involved in finding a match via cyberland rather than circle-circle-park-situation, the trepidation/ nervousness/ intricacies never lose their shape. They're all there. Perhaps, reinforced, because in this situation, you're meeting a person online, so you really have no idea how he will behave, whether he walks funny, whether he talks funny and a host of other IMPORTANT items, till that coffee date or that sex hook-up actually turns up. And that's where you decide and say: "Yes, please, sir, two lumps of sugar for me" or "Ewww! Too bitter!"

Which probably makes the internet chat all the more important as a First Date (Of Sorts).

Next issue: What actually happens in an internet gay chat date? Don't miss it!

Note to Self

Note to Self

Virginity does not agree with me.

Venting Ire

Venting Ire

I'm bored. Nature Boy has been elusive for quite some time. Work does that to you. So, yes, I'm venting here. I'm venting like the typical love-sick moony ass you read about in Shakespeare and the Dancing Dimwits. I'm venting. I'm sighing. I would love to be doing a whole lot of other stuff. But I'm not. I'm going to have biryani at Noorani's in a short while with some friends, but I would rather be sitting on Marine Drive locking fingers with Nature Boy.

Damn. Never thought I'd be in this situation. Scary to think he should ever come in here and see this post and get the jitters because I'm going gaga over him. But I'm going to risk that. Because I'm me. Wow. And, I'm bored. And I'm moony.

Excellent flow of logic. Would flunk the simplest flow chart examination.

I want the royal treatment. I want the seat by Marine Drive. I want the wind through my hair. I want the twinkling lights in the distance. I want the music magically drifting in from somewhere, singing words that mean the universe. I want the lingering kiss. I want the subtle wink, shy and embarassed at what we're feeling. I want the idea that so many things are, at the end, possible.

I want to sound flippant about it all, and seeing that I'm not managing that at all, I want to control myself.

Chug-a-long

Chug-a-long

I had an interesting converation with an interesting duo yesterday, on a local train that sped its way at a moderate pace from Bandra to Charni Road. It was about people and being shallow and being drama queens and even whiners. So, as the theory goes:

Character 1: Deep down, all of us are shallow.

Me: Hear, hear!

Character 2: Shallow, I tell you!

Character 2: Hear, hear!

Me: But I thought, deep down, we're all drama queens.

Character 1: No, no. That's a layer below 'shallow'. Deep down we're all shallow, and then we're all DQs.

Character 2, scratching head: So, that's 'deeper down'?

Me: D-uh!

Character 2: O, I get that theory. That's a smart theory.

Character 1, pleased as punch: I must patent it.

Me, maniacal gleam in eye: We'll all be rich!

Me, slightly confused: Hold on -

Me, confusion levels mounting: But, what about being whiners? Do you whine? I whine.

Me, proud now: I whine a lot!

Character 1 and Character 2 look bug-eyed at me.

Character 2: That could also be a layer.

Character 1: Between 'shallow' and 'DQ'.

Me: Scratch the surface?

Character 2: Yes, yes. First, there's 'shallow'; then there's "OMG!!! Why am I shallow???!!!" That's the 'whiner'...

Character 1, triumphant: And then there's "OMG!!! This always happens to ME!!!" That's DQ.

Me, confusion replaced by maniacal gleam again: We really must patent this now!

Train lumbers on.

The story of Optimism

The story of Optimism

Walking down a road and wondering what the time is. Is it time for him to arrive? Or am I the one who's so spaced out of my wits that I got here early? I can think of a zillion things to say or do, but none to occupy myself. So I stop: beside a book shop, peering through the glass, or at a coffee shop, and contemplate a mocha, or just lean against the wall of a grey building and watch the traffic lights change.

I hate waiting, and I keep wondering whether I got here too early, or whether he's late.

I'm done with cracking jokes. I'm done with playing the fool. I do that, day in and day out. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And think of all the things I could be doing now. With him. Without him. I can't make sense now. Waiting does that to you. Waiting makes you ramble, and doubt. That's the hard part.

The easy part is imagining. Imagining that he's next to you. The silent conversations, the laughs, the held hands, the fingers connecting, the hair twirling. I'm in love. Or could I be? Doubt never leaves you by. But I'm still living high.

Raindrops and roses

Raindrops and roses

Let's get bitchy. It's time to list five of the most ludicrous/ dumbass/ psycho/ loseARR people I've slept with. But I'll be kind and use pseudonyms.

1. Tall gawk factor boy: with voice cracked and a penchant for womens' jeans, working in a Gurgawa call centre - sigh, how typical! He hemmed and hawed his way to me, and finally ended up seducing me one night, when I was drunk and quite... happy. Sigh, thank god, I never saw him again after that.

2. Muscle boy with shy lisp: kept on muttering "I'm soooooo attracted to you", and when we finally got into bed, he was "Oooo, how can I do this to my boyfriend? What do I dooooo?" I have little patience with such irritating dawdlers, but you can hardly accuse me of date rape. I mean: the guy led me on, officer! And, besides, he left my flat with a very happy grin on his face.

3. Another shy and closeted queen: who kept on looking back over his shoulder while walking on the road, and muttering in a sinister voice, "I hope I can trust you enough to bring you here, [closetalk], everyone here knows me very well." Well, somehow or the other, no one managed to recognise Michael Jackson and his bonk-for-the-day (me) and when it was over, I ran... fast. I have no desire to be a witness at another high-profile trial.

4. Older man with fat belly: almost all gay men have had this specimen. He's like an institution: the kind of bonk-mate every gay guy starts off with, when he's unsure about himself and just where he stands on the 'oomph' scale. So he goes and succumbs to the fat, older, married man, just because he's desperate to have somebody touch him. sigh...

5. Balding bear with tight abs, who kept on muttering 'yeah' in a horrible imitation of porno stars while we did it: was stand-offish at first, and then suddenly leapt on me, when I had my back turned. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, and the whole room is echoing with YEEAAA!!! YEAAAAA!!! Only for a one-night stand, and only if you're desperate for a bonk.

Shit - are five over already?

frEEEEAAAAK

The Apple factor

A lot of people have asked me about the image on this site: the screwed apple. Some have found it 'screwy', and some have found it 'nervous', while others say it's just plain 'terrifying'! Of course, I'm not exactly sure how you could find an apple, of all things, terrifying...!

Yes, I wanted to get a half-open closet as the image, at first. But I couldn't find the right picture, or one of the right size, and I gave up. Then, I found this cool template in blogskins, when I typed a search under 'screw' (or something of the kind). I like the apple. I think it's perfect for this blog. I think it sends a message about what being gay is all about. It's about being a guy who sees what's happening in the world around you and within you, the perfect observer who's very much a part of the crowd. You're an ordinary bloke, the guy with whom everyone is chummy with.

And then, you're also the gay guy. The one that they write documentaries about. Gay rights: the ones that you still do not enjoy in the country you live in. The stigma and the fear that prevents you from coming out to your parents - at least, until you gain a substantial amount of confidence in yourself. The idea that you cannot hold hands in public, kiss your boyfriend in public, and must keep your eyes averted if you find yourself in a crowded public loo. That's what the screws are all about.

It's about the good and the bad. Let's be honest: I like being gay. I like the men that I am attracted to, the men that I have fallen in love with. I wouldn't change that for the world. Would I give this all up to be straight? No. I made that choice a long time back, and I'm happy to be the way I am. I love my family, but if pleasing them means giving all this up, I wouldn't do it.

The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself.


frEEEEAAAAK:

OK, Nature Boy - quizzes LIE!!!! ;-)
...But I'm a 'sucker' for them, anyway...!

I Am a Size Queen!

I love big dick, and am not afraid to let the world know it.
I constantly impress my friends by sniffing out big cocks in the most unlikely places.
"Size doesn't matter" is SO not a phrase in my vocabulary.

Paranoid pansy

Paranoid pansy

How much is too much? Where on earth do you draw the line between being gay and being too gay, so that you would refuse to acknowledge a person.

The other day, someone I met told me about this other young man he came across: beautiful, smart, trendy, and otherwise very attractive indeed - but with a tone of voice that screamed out loud his tendency to bare his bottom for hunky men with huge pricks. And that's what drove this person I met to run for cover. Because, (as the logic goes), though everybody may know that I'm camp, I don't want everybody to know that I sashay my hips when I walk, and say lines that resemble Queenie Dodhy's, and spread my legs out wide like Maureen Wadia's. Being a bitch is otherwise quite fine.

Sigh.

This morning, I was on a family excursion, so to speak, in Juhu, when this not-so pretty, not-so young thing traipses by. Red, cream and brown striped shirt that clung tightly to his body, striped trousers, and a jute bag that was held precariously locked by an elbow. As soon as I spied him, I knew he was a queen. An obvious one.

Not a Muscle Mary, like the ones in the gym who go huffing and puffing on iron barbells and protein shakes but long to get fucked nice and hard with their asses up in the air (did I mention earlier this blog is rated PG?) - but the more extroverted queen. The sort of queen that is every narrow-minded heterosexual's picture of a homosexual: with all the lisps in speech, and hand gestures, and awful taste in clothes and hair, and the trademark promiscuity second only to fictional rabbits...! He was one of those... and I balked.

Damn. So much for being an enlightened gay person, huh? So much for thinking, that every one has a right to self expression. Shit: when it comes to the crunch, I fear I may be like one of those narrow-minded hetero assholes who snigger at the passing pansy.

And that is scary.

Meet the Gal-friend

Meet the Gal-friend

I adore Ben Stiller. I actually find him sexy. He has a great smile, and a killer bod, complete with a six-pack to match. So, I don't mind that he acts mildly (read: very) goofy in most of his films. I love the fact that he's caught on the backfoot in Meet The Parents. I was in his position today. And I would like to think, though I mumbled and I bumbled, I was at least half as sexy as Stiller always strikes me as being.

I'm not sure what the gay version of Meet The parents should be. Meet The Aged Queen Who Has Now Taken Me Under Her Wing? Meet The Pile Of Six Friends With Whom I Do Everything (Except Have Sex, Because That's What You And I Do)? Meet The Actual Parents (Who Seem Supportive Enough About My Gay Lifestyle, But Cry Themselves To Sleep Every Night For A Dutiful Daughter-in-law, And Who Are Hoping That You Drop Dead As Soon As You Leave The House)?

Or, Meet The Girl Friend With Whom I Share Talks About Men, Styles, Divas And Other Intricate Matters Of The Soul? Throw in a boyfriend for the girlfriend, and there you have me, the desi version of Ben Stiller, minus the six-pack, wondering what kind of coffee I should have in front of the Momma and the Poppa.

California Dreaming...

On the whole, it wasn't so bad. Momma turned out to be a lot of fun, with a penchant for running her hand through my closely cropped hair. Infinitely better than a gang of six friends who would laugh at their own jokes and gawk at their own queeniness, while I would roll my eyes skyward and ask God why on earth my man had to know these imbeciles 0 and yes, I've been through that hell, so I know what I'm talking about! There was no six-pile of dumb friends; there was a sweet and intelligent Momma and Poppa, who were very cool with Nature Boy and me snogging in the loo.

We wouldn't have minded, if Stiller had joined in, actually.

Close to Nature

Close to Nature

There was this lovely old house, built by an old Parsi who's long dead now, but who's name still remains on the shining brass plate at the gate. Lovely old house, tall ceilings that make me want to become Spiderman, gardens that make me want to roll in them, a swimming pool that shimmers, a portico where I spent afternoons, a swing that gave me the heebie-jeebies.

I spent my time in Lonavla reading on the portico, swaying on the swing, and dreaming of Nature Boy.

We had made a pact not to interact for those two days: no messages, no phone calls. I'm smiling right now, as I think of the imperious message he sent shortly: Ok, pact's over. Missing ya. Call NOW! I would have loved to: only, my damn balance was down, and I had -Rs 15.65 on my phone. Talk about being precise. Awful.

So there I was, reading a chapter, then looking at the pool, and wishing I was splashing about with Nature Boy. Wishing he was there on the other swing, both of us reading books, looking up now and then to smile at each other, strolling around the Khandala backwoods, and doing a myriad other things, except stare profoundly at my cell phone and wish that I could sms him back.

And yes, I kept imagining those Endless Nights of Passion (Richard Marx).

Sing a song of six-pence

Sing a song of six-pence

One of my favourite songs is Nature Boy. The first time I heard it, was in Moulen Rouge: and after that, I tracked the song down to its original version by Nat King Cole. There was something about it that attracted me. Something that spoke about a beautiful boy with cherry-red lips that I would want to kiss, and soft curly hair I would run my hands through. No, it's not a gay song, not in the sense that so many other songs have suddenly become enshrined as 'anthems' for the gay community - it is a sensuous song.

The greatest thing you can ever learn is to love and be loved in return...

I'm not sure if I got the lyrics right, but there it is.

Strange how a song can make you remember things and think of things. This picture that I just drew of this beautiful Nature Boy will forever be associated with this person I'm seeing currently. (Complete with cherry lips and Medusa curls, and corny one-liners.) Then there was this other song, from a Hindi movie, which was suddenly the rage in all the discs around town - but for me it's linked to a boy in Delhi - whom I was sharing SMS' with, while driving back from Noida, rain crashing down on the car windows, road lit up with head lamps, music blaring through the radio, and I was messaging him - telling him how much I would love to kiss him in the rain.

Then there was the Jazz creature. I wanted to get him a going-away gift, when I was leaving Delhi, and so I entered this shop in downtown Patel Nagar - not the most fashionable district at all, and teeming with Punjabis of all shapes and sizes. I asked for a Jazz collection - and was promptly shown a CD of Jazzy B's latest bhangra numbers. I gawked, said "I'm sorry, I don't think you have what I need", as politely as I could, and scooted out as fast as I could before dissolving into maniacal, snooty gay laughter. I got my CD after that, and I got a special evening in my boy's flat, complete with music, tall candles, and rich chocolate cake. I remember Louis Armstrong from that night.

No - they're not quite a 'I want to break free' or a 'I will survive' - but they stand for some of the most melodious moments of my gay life.

Surprise, Surprise (yawn)

Surprise, Surprise (yawn)

So I took another quiz, out of sheer boredom.

You scored as Penis. You are attracted to the: penis. You are a penis man/woman. Penis 92% Abs/Stomach 83% Face 75% Butt 58% Boobs 25% What body part are YOU attracted to?

What's funniest is the rank offered for the last category in the list! hehehehehehahahahohohohohummmmmmmmm.
;-)

Hunting

Hunting*

There's the MacDonald's in Connaught Place, New Delhi, where Tarun and I used to hang out a lot. Sundays, because that was when that stretch of tarmac would come alive with Gay Delhi.

It's an engaging sight. My first time there was with this other guy I was seeing, and we sat around on the railings that separated the pavement from the rest of the circle, and my guy was greeting these other guys he knew. Some of them looked through me, some of them grinned at me, some of them stroked their fingers on the insides of my palm suggestively as we shook hands,... and I lusted after most of them. This was Delhi's gay life out in the open - out on CP, in broad view of everyone who was around.

And yes, there were people aound - loads of them. Families. Hetero couples. Normal friends' gangs. And in the middle of all that, a varied gathering of the city's gay community - cruising, chilling, laughing, and even, like Tarun and I, eating.

The two of us would sit at a window seat at MacD's, so that we would face the tarmac and be able to see the circus that paraded up and down, outside. We would get our burgers, and play songs on the juke box. Superstar was my favourite. There was a lot of Kylie as well - that was the time that she released Chocolate, which Tarun found terribly sexy. So we would sit, he and I, eat burgers, talk about our lives and our loves, and ogle at the men passing by.

Sometimes, some of them walked in and sat at a table inside MacD's too, and then we would exchange glances. It was nothing serious. Neither Tarun nor I would go to bed with any of them, but we would grin and twirl, and walk up towards the juke box, to try to get a better view and see if any tell-tale eyes followed us.

In economics, that's called Game Theory.

*In Delhi gay slang, hunting = cruising

Psssst!

Psssst!

I finally did it. Confessed. Part of coming out of the closet... one teeny weeny foot out. Told my straight and male flatmate, with whom I've lived with for the past eight months, and known for the past two-years-two months, that I'm... bated breath... gay.

I'm overjoyed at his response.

"And I don't care!"

In a split second.

With a smile.

I love the guy! ;-)

Actually, I have quite a crush on him. Have had one, for the past six months! I think it's because of the proximity. But then - now, it's gone to a completely higher level! I am simply HAPPY that he responded like that! I expected no less, true - but I was... fearful. Closet freaks always are.

There were hints, of course.

He once asked me if I were going to Pegs and Pints, when we were in Delhi - it's a gay bar. At the time, I pretended not to know what he meant.

He's read Allan Hollinghurst from me.

He's told me, he thinks my shades are much too gay.

He thinks the way I hitch my walkman onto my jeans screams out GAY a 1000 decibels loud.

But he doesn't care. For any of that. He's still cool with me. So, I'm happy.

Standing In

Standing In

The idea behind finding a lover is very, very selfish indeed. I'm not telling you anything new. What's it primarily for? Well, let's be unsentimental, honest and tell it like it is: time-pass.

Yes, I want to go to a move hall and touch fingers in the dark.

Yes, I want to go to a restaurant and sip red wine together.

Yes, I want to come home at night from work, and collapse in bed with my very own Don Juan.

Time-pass.

So, when you don't have a lover, friends become very important. It's despicable, in a sense, but very, very true again. When you want to go to party and don't know who with, you search your directory. 'Hey - watcha up to? Fancy a coffee?' What you're actually dying to do is catch a mocha with a special someone, but hell, since that's not really happening any time soon, you don't mind bitching about that other queen who lives in Andheri and has a face like a pug's.

It's heathy, therapeautic, and so lovingly, time-pass.

But I'm confused now - who exactly is a stand-in for who? Lover, friend or alter-ego?

Hot news!

Hot news!

Your Seduction Style: Ideal Lover

I seduce people by tapping into their dreams and desires.And because of this sensitivity, I can be the ideal lover for anyone I seek. I am a shapeshifter - bringing romance, adventure, spirituality to relationships.It all depends on who I'm with, and what their vision of a perfect relationship is.

What Is Your Seduction Style?

Now, if only the pic showed two hot guys instead of the darned soap opera couple!?!

Amreeki Goings-on

Amreeki Goings-on

I recently popped into an old online friend of mine from San Francisco. There are two things about that city I immediately think of, when I hear its name. One is this particular song called I left my heart in San Franciso, by I-don't-know-who, in the backdrop of a vista of the Golden Gate, and the second is the fact that it's supposed to be Gay Paradise on Earth.

My friend, however, is not out. Strange. And I thought, it was only silly twenty-four year olds living in the Indian subcontinent who were afraid to rap on the closet doors. Will wonders never cease...

Then, there's this other friend, who has recently returned from Boston. He's this uber-cool person who flashes his gayness very clearly, if you're interested. No, he doesn't have the cliched sing-song voice and hand gestures that are typically associated with 'out' gay people, but he won't deny he's gay if you ask him. He came 'out' in Boston, and he's 'out' here in Mumbai as well, even though he lives with his family. Strange, because the only thing that comes to mind when I think of Boston are the law courts and sexy (but strict!) silver-haired judges!

And, o yes, according to my friend, Boston is the only American city that has light switches outside the bathroom and not inside. (trivia)