Delhi Memoirs - Part Two

Delhi Memoirs - Part Two

So, the other day, I was online and after chatting with Boy, I bump into the Ponytail. Hey, says I, so what's happening with you? Still enconsced in your comfy 3-bhk-flat- in-Gurgaon-with-two-balconies?

Ponytail: "Naaa, dude, I moved out some time back. Decided to take a 6 month sabbatical from work, so I moved in with the parents."

CT, shock and awe at a handsome and virile young gay man being forced to live with parents: "I'm shocked and awed at the thought of a handsome and virile young gay man being forced to live with his parents!"

Aaa, well, the conversation wasn't exactly earth shaking, but he did tell me that Salsa Boy was also online at the same time, and I promptly buzzed him. Salsa Boy is currently living in the UAE, by the way, and I keep teasing him about the Arab Sheikhs on his plate, when I see him online.

CT: "*BUZZ* So how many gay Sheikhs are there now, hotstuff?"

Salsa Boy: "hehehe.. Waiting for you still."

CT, grinning: "Awww, you're a cute liar."

Salsa Boy and I first met up ages ago, at a private party in Delhi, hosted by this other gay man who was leaving for Sri Lanka the day after. I had gone to the party with this other guy on our second date, and my date knew Salsa Boy. My first impression of him, however, was when he snaked his way behind me suddenly, and tongued my ear, saying I was a juicy treat.

Aaa, well, interesting first impressions. I was a bit turned on (the vodka, the vodka!) but quite quite stunned, and retracted myself from his boa-like vice, aided suitably by the not-too-amused glare my date was flashing at me. But I did flash him back a grin. Three weeks later, when the thing with the date boy fizzled out, and Salsa Boy sent me an sms, saying he still remembered me and how was I doing these days, I decided to reply.



(Of course, I was majorly flattered that the guy had hunted down my phone number to sms me!) So I reply: Yes I remember you. You're the Friendly Neighbourhood Tongue Man from So-and-so's party.

Well, anyhow, we decided to catch up after that, and went to this nice place called the Big Chill in Khan Market. We talked, we laughed, we had a nice date, and no we didn't have sex on the first date. Of course, that was purely on his insistence: I would have jumped him in the car if he had allowed me to - Salsa Boy is marvellously hot! - but he insisted that we not do it then. Sex happened on the second date and it was mindblowing - and thereby began a two month journey with Salsa Boy.

The thing with Salsa Boy was different for me because of a variety of reasons. It wasn't the first time I was dating someone with such a huge reputation of being a Delhi slut, but it was unique, cuz he was still on excellent terms with everybody else - unlike the Slut No 1 I had dated earlier, who everyone bitched about later. So I was a mite nervous and it was gratifying to see the way he fawned over me. Also, it was clear that even though he cared for me, I was not his number one priority - there was his work, and there were his friends, and there was his family, and later, at the no 4 or 5 slot, there was me. He liked me, he wanted to date me, but there it was, the List.

Another funny thing was, Salsa Boy was an open relationship. I knew he was having sex with some other guys, and he never denied it when I asked him, but it was also clear that the other guys were one-night stands and I was the only guy he was dating. As for me, I was having one-night stands as well. The classic approach.

It ended though, one night at his place, after chocolate cake, when he told me he wanted to end the sex part with me, and remain only good friends. I understood why he was doing it: he didn't want the casual dating to progress onto a relationship, because he felt I wasn't the right guy for him then. And he knew that I was beginning to feel possessive, starting to get into the 'relationship mode'. This way, he reasoned, it would be a clean break.



It was. It was the most dignified split I have ever had, and I'm so glad, because after that, whenever we meet online, there's never any uncertainty or slight hesitancy like there is when I meet some of my other exes. That's why I avoid meeting my exes - with the exception (no puns intended) of Nature Boy, who I'm not sure can even be labelled an 'ex'. I appreciated the way he had broken it so neatly, and I told him that, months later online.

Then, the other night, while the jokes on Arab Sheikhs in the UAE had died down, and we were talking general stuff about his life and mine, and what we want from it, he sighs and says he wants to tell me something serious.

Salsa Boy: "I think, if you and I met up now, I woud want to have a relationship with you."

CT, goggles: "&*^#%*)&%@"

Salsa Boy laughs

CT: "This is a change... but I guess both of us have changed."

Salsa Boy: "Yea, we have. It's been such a great thing, chatting with you all this while, watching you change. You've become so much better equipped to handle things."

CT, musing: "Mmmm... perhaps. I've observed how much you've changed yourself. Still quiet as ever, but much more patient, I think. More open to things that don't work out the way you would like them too!"

Salsa Boy: "Too bad you're not in the UAE here with me. Wouldn't have let you go away this time, sexy!"

CT, laughing: "Aaa, well, tales from another day here... "

O, and yes, I told Boy later about this conversation, and we both mused how strange our relationships with our exes are, and how stranger they become with time.

Delhi Memoirs - Part One

Delhi Memoirs - Part One

Sniff out dry Delhi summers even in the middle of the sultry Bombay heat. Last year, I received a phone call from a Delhi ex, Salsa Boy, that his friend the Ponytail was hitting Bombay, and would I be nice enough to meet him and show him around a bit. Ponytail and Salsa Boy are close friends, but he was always too busy to catch up with the two months that Salsa Boy and I were dating, so we had never met. Being curious, therefore, I readily agreed.

I kept Ponytail waiting at the Marine Drive Barista for an hour before I finally showed up, and then his cute dimpled smile made my knees go weak. We walked down Marine Drive, I introduced him to green chilly ice cream at Bachelor's, and then capped the evening at Churchill's on Colaba. I escorted him back to the Gordon House, where he was staying, and as soon as the elevator doors closed on us, we were making out frantically.

;-) My first (and only, to date) time in an elevator!



Well, for the four days that he was here after that, Ponytail and I met up regularly, and not all of our escapades were in the elevator. There was the time when my then flatmate was not working, or when his travel partner was out partying, or some other such episodes. It got so hurried and so frantically beautiful, that by the time he was leaving, he was asking me to seriously consider taking a job in Delhi again, so that he and I could try a relationship.

(I was very, very, very serious about it.)

Well, after that, both Ponytail and I confided the story of our passion to mutual pal Salsa Boy, who found it all very funny.

Salsa Boy: "If you asked me, you guys are so not made for each other! I would never have thought that he would have fallen for you the way he has!"

CT, whiny: "Stop being so cold about it."

Salsa Boy, laughing: "I'm not being cold, just incredulous. Anyway, it really doesn't concern me at all. If it works out for you, I'm happy for you guys!"

There was to be a gap of one month before Ponytail would come back to Bombay on another business trip. During that interval, we were on the phone and online regularly, talking to each other and exchanging steamy scenarios and mushy plans about what might happen when we met the next time. And then, the fateful day came, Ponytail flew into Mumbai airport, and I was to meet him that night at the GB party organized at the Razz.



Zilch.

Not sure how it happened, really. Suddenly, there was Zero Chemistry. We met, we danced, we snogged, we went back to his hotel room and had sex. But, through it all, it felt like we were doing something orchestrated. The second time around, I just didn't feel anything for him, and I wondered whether he could see that. He was in town for just three days that time, and so it seemed natural that we never met up again after that first night.

The next week, when I confided this to Salsa Boy, the bastard burst out laughing.

Salsa Boy: "He told me the exact same thing!"

CT, surprised, "He felt the lack as well?"

Salsa Boy: "Yup, yup. It's not working, he said."

CT lets out a sigh of relief.

So, after that, Ponytail and I caught up online again and rather shyly confessed to each other that the 'magic' simply wasn't there any more, and so all further plans of moving to Delhi were shelved.

Thank God, because in December late last year, a certain Gujarati hottie called Boy stepped into my life.

*lopsided grin*

BREAKING NEWS: DNA opens The Closet

BREAKING NEWS: DNA opens The Closet

Happy Surprise.

Yours truly submitted an article to DNA on integrating the gay life with the straight in Bambai nagariya, and it got published yesterday, on the Sunday After Hrs. My apologies for not telling you guys in advance, but I wasn't too sure myself about whether it would show up, and I picked up my own copy only around 10 pm.

The article is titled Tag-a-long Party, and is featured as the anchor story (complete with cartoon and all) on a new inside page dedicated to menfolk, and is also teased on the front page of After Hrs. The byline is wrongly attributed to Talking Closets (d-uh: TC is the name of the blog, while Closetalk is the author!), but who cares, since they've also linked to the blog.

;-)

So, anyway, seeing that getting a copy of yesterday's paper may be difficult now, I decided to reproduce the original article here. The parts in red are what was edited and kept out of the article when it finally appeared...



Coming out to your friends and coming out to your family are two very different things, as any gay man (partly) in the closet will tell you. Somehow, it's easier with your friends. And its easier for you to initiate them into your 'other' life. True, when I tell them about this fantabulous guy I'm in love with, they may look strangely and wonder what on earth it feels like, to be in love with someone of the same sex, but they also nod sagely, smile with paternal/maternal affection and tell you that Love Is Great.

Amen: Love Is Great.

And gay parties? Well, they may not be Great (capital letters), but they're Fun (capital letters again).

How many of us gay men/women have taken our straight pals out with us to share a slice of Gay Abandon (I have a thing for capital letters when I'm explaining concepts, you see)... Well, most of us old hags. In so many cases, our straight friends are our companions when we've been around the block too many times without hitting jackpot, and we don't want to go for a party alone. I still remember the time I asked my first flatmate - a very straight and very liberal Punjabi young man who has since then moved to another city - to come with me to a gay party. He shrugged, grinned, and said in his characteristic Punju drawl, Why not?

As easy as that.

And no, he didn't move to the other city because of the traumatic experience thereafter at the party. Actually, he had no experience noteworthy to speak of. He came, hung around at the bar with his beer, got introduced to my gay friends (with the stern warning that he was straight and not Fair Game, capital letters), and then after five beers, did the bhangra to a vastly amused gay crowd of onlookers. The next day, all sober and squeaky clean, he announced that he had had a 'fun' time.

What did I say about Fun?

Then, there was the time I took along this whole group of friends to one party. My best friend (female), and two others (one male, one female) and I. First observation: female friend 2 squealed in glee: "Ooo, they're so pretty!" Second observation: best friend nodding: "They dance so well!" All this, while I nodded in modest glee: yes, we're... umm.... pretty, and yes, we dance great. Not good, great!

Parting shots from that particular event? Loads more glee. Best friend got hit on by her very first lesbian, and couldn't stop gloating about it for a week. And male friend, who didn't have any first or second or third observations, got asked for a light by a Muscle Mary with shiny muscles and a taffetta scarf.


PS: Regulars at the closet are now expected to bombard DNA with responses, saying that they read the article, loved it, and want to know when the author will be invited to write a weekly/fortnightly column for the newspaper. *wistful expression*

High Chancellor Closetalk

High Chancellor Closetalk

So the other day, Flatmate and I were watching TV, and she balked at this cute guy onscreen wearing pink jeans. I balked as well, but quickly covered it up, when she groaned and declared that it was a horrendous case of Metrosexuality Mania.

CT, huffing: "So what's wrong with being metrosexual?"

FM, pulling her hair out in frustration: "Are you kidding me?! It's awful! All these guys are acting so horribly gay!"

CT, cold voice: "So, what's wrong in being gay?"

FM, calming down: "Sweety, nothing's wrong in being gay if you are gay, but why act gay when you're straight?! It just turns the women off!"

CT, with maniacal gleam in eye: "We should just get rid of all the women on the planet...!"

*Darth Vader background score*

I suppose some of the Frankensteinian zeal from the post before last still remained within me, because in that instant, I had this beautiful vision of the world before me. A carefree, Gay World, like nothing that has ever existed before. And with FM there to parry and thrust with, I worked out the details...

GayWorld will only have men. Gay men. All straight men will be subjected to homosexual experiences repeatedly, unless they finally turn gay (of their own free will), and lust at the sight of Facial Hair. The deviants who refuse to be converted will be made into slaves - scantily clad of course - and subjected to rigorous gymming so that they have Greek God like bodies for our daily pleasure.

The women, we don't need. So, they can be all shipped away to the moon.

FT, Voice of Reason incarnate: "Yea, and then all you gay men will die out within a generation!"

Ummm... ok, so we'll subject the women to homosexual encounters repeatedly also, so that we make lesbians out of most of them. The deviants who refuse to be converted witll be shipped to the moon and locked away in Reproduction Tanks. Measured artificial insemination will be used on them, and also on the lesbian volunteers, to create subsequent generations. The Star Children will obviously be those borne to a gay father and a lesbian mother, and by promoting artificial insemination of Star lesbians with Star gay men, the aim of society will be to isolate, harness and propagate the Gay Gene.

MUHHAHAHAHA!!!!

FT, amused now: "But what about your fag hags? How will you gay men exist without them?"

Ummm... ok. True. Not all the best fag hags are lesbians. Actually, very few lesbians are fag hags, and vice versa. So, the aim of artificial insemination will also be to create a line of straight Fag Hags. They will be rewarded for their puppy dog like friendliness with the choicest of the Straight Male Slaves that we will use for our pleasure.

Look at the advantages. The world is united under the Rainbow banner. With the sexuality issue out of the way, we will be free to pursue interstellar exploration and commerce. We can slave trade with other civilizations, with the excess Straight Deviants. There will be no separate country, so that you can have sex with someone from any ethnicity, and that will only bring all our gay brothers and sisters and lovers together. Yay! Never since Hitler has such a philanthropist like me been born.

FM, in awe: "You're a NUT!"

Happy Birthday, Talking Closets

Happy Birthday, Talking Closets



It's been a swell ride so far!

(No puns intended)

;-)

Closetalk plays Frankenstein

Closetalk plays Frankenstein

Never thought of myself as a mentor of sorts (though I will be applying for a graduate assistant position at an American university later this year) until the other day. The other day was intended to catch up with li'l Veed, of whom I have admittedly not seen much lately. So, after a lot of drama queen ishtyle moaning and groaning about how far his house is from mine and how I need to go to work the next day, I succumb and pack an overnight bag. The agenda for the night is Pizza and Spice Girls.

Veed's house is amazingly large. His computer desktop has a huge blow-up of himself with Emma Bunton, and when I enquired whether he had anything of Geri Halliwell ('It's Raining Men!') I got a scowl and a comment that he wasn't interested the least in Geri Whore-i-well.

*snigger*

Getting back to the task of mentoring. It was discovered that poor li'l Veed, who rarely goes to GB parties, and rarely meets suitable young gay men of a screwable age, didn't have an ID on that answer (and simultaneously, source) to all problems of young gay men of screwable age: Gay.com. It was his lucky day that I decided to play Fairy Godfather, and with his mouse doubling up as my wand, did the needful.

(By the way, there was absolutely no dirty joke implied in that last bit about mouses and wands. I just realised, upon re-reading this post, that it sounds funny. )



First, the hunt for a suitable name for our suitable boy. Thrown in the ring, were such hopefuls like 'Spice Boy', "Posh&Pecs", "Doc Veed", and finally we chose this slightly longer name that doesn't sound like a gay young man of screwable age at all. And no, we never even considered 'beautifullyintended'. ;-)

Fill up the form: Top/Btm? Ht? Wt? Wst? Eyes? Hair? Friendship/Fraandsip/Sex/Open Relationship/Closed relationship? Twink/Muscleman? Mumbai? Permutations and combinations, till we fnally reached the part that possibly is as far as most prospective profile watchers come to: the all-important Photo.

Choice 1 is the 'nanga' pic that li'l Veed is hyper about. Choice 2 is a tousle-haired bed-head look that took him 30 whole minutes to perfect. Choice 3 is the suited and spiked look. Choice 4 is something which is All Teeth. Veed is adamant that 'nanga' pic occupy pride of place as default pic, but the gay.com server didn't agree and refused to accept it. We stuck with the perfected bed-head look, instead.

Litmus test: hit the chatroom. Bated breath.

Sometime back, Veed and I had hit the chatroom under my user name, and I had shown the lad three different ways of chat in three different chat windows. 1. With the cute guy who lived in LA, try 'cute and sexy, flirty' chat. You want to keep him hooked. Veed was happy. 2. With guy no 2, who asked where you were in Bombay and whether you wanted to meet, try the 'out-and-out' sex chat, discuss fave positions and styles, and bedroom orientations and exchange numbers purely for game reasons. Veed was slightly horrified, but still fascinated. 3. Finally, with guys 3, 4 and 5, I used the 'go to hell' approach: no, you're ugly, and I don't wanna screw you, I don't wanna talk to you, so just jump in the well. Veed was "shocked and appalled".

He usually is. ;-)

But it was time now for the litmus test. This time, it wasn't me who would do the chatting. It wouldn't be my name or my pic. It would be the latest entrant in the India Countrywide chatroom of gay.com: Veed, with his ID and his not-so 'nanga' pic. Tension.

Later that day, when I told Boy over the phone how overwhelmed with parental pride I was when Veed got his first 'hits', he called me a psycho. I dare say, I am, at times. ;-) The boy got 5 hits in under 20 seconds. Five fucking hits. And imagine his drama-queen cheek, after chatting with them for eternity, he moans and groans that nobody liked him because he didn't have his 'nanga' pic.

I hugged my protege after that comment.

;-)

Update: The 'nanga' pic is up now, and li'l Veed has reportedly had loads more hits after uploading it. Gay.com has a new monster on the loose, and I feel like Dr Frankenstein now.

Sand in my swimsuit!

Sand in my swimsuit!

This is in response to the excitement of the question in the earlier post.

This is not an answer, however, because the answer still eludes me. Don't get me wrong: Goa is simply full of good looking, able bodied young men; unfortunately, they either happen to be followed (or led by) equally good looking able bodied young women, or roam in packs of some other not-so good looking, not-so able-bodied young men. For someone like me, who is clearly out of the Race, the entire situation was stimulating, but still frustrating.

Travelling with a straight man has its funny moments. The two of us were lounging on Anjuna Beach, gawking at the succession of hot bodies basking under the hot sun, and while his eyes were glazing over with lust at the ample display of breasts (strictly female for him!), he also found the time to encourage me to hit on good looking firang strangers walking by ahead of us or swimming in the waters nearby.



Straight Travelmate: "O, look, look... he's hot, he's hot. Go hit on him!"

CT, sheepish: "How? How? I don't know how to hit on people any more."

ST: "Just go up to him and say hi, and ask him whether he wants to have sex with you!"

CT, looking incredulous: "You remind me of the cheapos in a gay chatroom with that dialogue."

ST: "Don't be silly. He's hot, he's hot. You'll miss your chance now!"

CT: "Should I swim close by and flash him a stare?"

ST, agitated and excited as a topless woman floats past a metre from us: "Flash him, period!"

CT, turning red: "OMG!"

ST, excitement mercury rising higher: "O, look, look, that sexy bandana chick looked at me. I think she's coming here. Go away, go away, hit on someone, anyone!"

That wasn't the last of it, of course. Walking on Fort Aguado and he points out pot bellied man sunbathing in printed electric blue swimsuit, and tells me that the guy is from his home town, is very VERY gay, and I should go and have sex with him. I looked at ST incredulously, and say, "I don't sleep with anything with a dick, you know!"

To which, ST looks happily at me, and says, "Of course you do, you're a slut!"

CT: "And you're beyond help!"

The only time I ventured alone on the beach was at Baga. I sat there, on a deck chair, reading, when out of nowhere this slimy guy comes up and starts touching my ankles.

Slimy Guy: "Massage sir? I give you good massage?"

CT, stunned: "No, no, NO!"

SG, groping some more: "I very good with hands... I give good massage, you like what I do!"

CT, almost hysteric: "NO! NO! NO!"

SG, looking hurt but hands still roving, despite CT's thrashing about, "You sure? I very good...!"



I finally managed to convince him I had no use for his 'good' hands, and he left. The sad part was that Baga Beach, where I lay down, marvellously stripped down to my bare essentials, was entirely populated by fat grannies and gramps, but no sooner had I put my clothes back on and walked up the lane to the hotel, I see a succession of hot guys on hot bikes whizzing past. As usual, I have bad luck.

But, hey, actually, I have very good luck. I have a boyfriend who loves me very much.

(Repeat chant twice more and feel better.)

In Goa

Ok, I'm in Goa.

Now WHERE ARE ALL THE HOT FIRANG GAY MEN???

;-)

Worli

Worli

I remember sitting out on Worli Sea Face with Boy one night. Back from a movie and dinner and suddenly he gets the urge to drink something 'cold' (always something cold) and since I don't have a fridge at home, the only two options are 5 star hotel or Worli Sea Face: already did 5 star hotel the night before, so my miserly brain urges the case for Worli.

One of our happiest times together. ;-)



Sitting and counting the silly rats scampering about below the sea facing balustrade. Boy refused to sit there and we found a bench for ourself. Holding hands. Singing songs. He loves this one in particular: Piya tose naina laage re, and I sit, listening, spellbound, as he sings to me. He makes me feel special. He always does. I've downloaded the song onto my computer system now, to listen to, when he's not here. And I kiss his photograph on my shelf. I wonder what I'll say to bro if he ever comes visiting and sees that photograph atop the shelf: Boy and I hugging, in front of the door.

And then there was the paanipuris. Even that late in the night. Boy is crazy about them, and now, whenever I see a paanipuri wallah, I feel tempted to eat some - and then I decide to wait till he comes back. I told him about this urge I get the other night on the phone, and he laughed. I love the sound of his laughter. He says I giggle. Damn. I was hoping I have a chuckle. (Old joke.)

And the vendor girl, too. There was this young girl who kept on walking up and down the path. We had come to Worli Seaface earlier in the evening as well, and she was there, and when we came back late at night, it was the same. Boy was interested and we motioned her over, and bought his 'cold' drinks from her. We chatted about her job and her life. How she had given a Rs 100 note to a guy by mistake, when she had had to give him Rs 10, and how her mum would scold her because of that. We felt very sorry and offered her our condolences, and she grinned and walked away. We saw her again twice more, and then walking away to cross the road to a woman on the other side. Must be her mum, Boy whispered, holding my hand.

Straight-laced?!

Straight-laced?!

Every gay man alive will tell you about that strange phenomenon that is a cross between a straight man and a gay man... that epitome of brilliance that is (at times) lauded to the skies and every gay man aspires to be, and (at others) is condemned as the lowest form of hypocrisy a homosexual can be capable of. On his own part, however, that Subject of Much Debate thinks not in the least that he is anything spectacular or unnatural - merely that he is what he is, and he tries to make the best of an unfortunately embarrassing situation - the ubiquitous Straight Acting Gay Man.

Take a case in point. Online chat happening between Strapping Young Hunk With Muscles And A Call Centre Job - let's call him Man A, as it's much easier than referring to him continuously as SYHWMAACCJ - and Younger Hunk With Not Too Many Muscles And Just Passed Out Of College, who can be Man B. Man A feels that he's quite God's gift to gay men and so he flirts his virtual muscles online with much elan, to the delight of an enamoured Man B on the other end:

A: So... I'm hot. I hope you're hot too. I work out regularly.

B: Really? You work out? That's great. I love well built guys. Wanna have hot fun?

A: I dunno. What do you do in bed?

B rattles of a number of interesting activities that would make a biker bear blush!

A, slightly interested now: OK.

B: So? You wanna hook up and have fun?

A, now getting ready for the kill: Maybe. Are you feminine?

B, a bit confused now, as to what would make A think he was (gasp!) feminine: No. why?

A, sticking his virtual nose up in the air: I don't go for feminine guys, ok. I'm very straight acting.

B is, at this line, completely bowled over. He must have A in bed with him this very night, or his life till now has been a complete waste, so he hurriedly proceeds to tell A that he is as straight acting as straight men can possibly get, and no one would even guess that he was gay (if he didn't give it all away by opening his mouth and talking in his sing-song drawl). A match is made, and the happy couple has (presumably) good sex.

Actually, let's not jump the gun here: the Straight Acting Gay Man is not completely shallow, nor completely obsessed with Muscles (capitals, please!), nor even ashamed of his homosexuality. He just doesn't find it necessary to act gay even if he is gay,... and we all know that being gay isn't just about what gender you're humping against the wall. But in most cases, the Straight Acting Gay Man takes his act a tad too far: while even the most straightlaced (no pun intended) of us Gay Acting Gay Men would make a concession for not acting overtly gay in a predominantly heterosexual work/personal environment, sometimes it smarts when you come across someone in the gay environ who simply refuses to acknowledge his gay-ness as anything other than his sexual orientation.



The question is: why does it smart? Why do I snicker when I come across a person on the chatroom who asks around whether his chat partner is 'straight acting'? Why, on earth, do I find the term so ludicrous? Is it because that I happen to be one of them who tried acting Straight and just gave up, (I mean: cricket???!!!), deciding instead to just be myself? If that's the case, then why do I also snicker when I see the Decidedly Pansy Gay Man at my office flounce past in his coloured scarf and tight t-shirt?

I would be one of those dainty people sitting on the fence, advocating moderation: not the Bobby Darling way, and not the Gruff Man Who Refuses to Be Gay way, either. But then, that's my point of view. No Straight Acting Gay Man I know of has a blog to argue out his case.

Pity.

Roundup

Roundup

So, I was googling randomly this morning, and decided to see what the Great God Google (News) says about 'gay'. Here, in a nutshell, is what's been sparking across the globe in the last 24 hours...

Church walkout on gay marriage issue
In Toledo, Ohio, US, the local chapter of the Cleveland-based United Church of Christ voted to break ties with the parent organisation. Last July, the UCC endorsed same sex marriage and this prompted several local chapters to review their ties. Since then, 43 congregations have left the UCC, while others are still reviewing the situation, and have stopped sending in funds.

Leprechauns allowed, but no gay men please
St Patrick's Day parade in The Big Apple, and the chairman of the parade reportedly said that allowing gay groups to march in it would be like inviting the Nazis to a Jewish parade. The NYC mayor has apparently asked the parade organisers to lift the ban on gay groups. Not much hope of it, though.

HSBC says NO! to gay traders
HSBC is in the news, and the London courts are due to give a ruling on whether the bank is in the wrong for firing its former global head of equity trading, Peter Lewis. A coworker of Lewis says, he tried to 'come on' to him, but Lewis says, the allegations are a case of pure homophobia. The trial has been going on for the last 2 weeks now.

What is it about gay men and sailors?!
Also from London, the Royal Navy may go in for special classes to sensitise its personnel even more towards their gay colleagues. In 2000, the British armed forces lifted a ban on allowing gay men/women in, and since then, gay rights pressure group Stonewall says that the Navy ranks 75th in tems of gay-friendly employers! Happy change of affairs?!

Will and Grace?
In South Africa, the Pretoria courts will deliver judgement on a case where a gay man has challenged that he should be allowed to inherit the estate of his dead lover. The two men lived together since 2003, built the house together, and after the death of one of them, his parents have moved in and removed items from the house.

Homophobic riots vs Football
Football is hoped to ease some tensions between gay and Muslim groups, according to a Dutch multicultural group. Am sure we all know the colours of the home team!

I, Audience

I, Audience

The funny thing is, my straight older brother saw Brokeback Mountain before I did. He called me on the phone to kill time while waiting for his colleagues from work to come by, and informed me that he had sold off some extra tickets to "some very gay looking chaps". I smiled on the other end of the phone while he said so, and the really hilarious part was that, on Saturday, when The Gang and I went to see the same movie, this utterly delectable boy comes over to us and asks o-so-confidently, "Hey guys, you're going to see Brokeback, right? Would you have an extra ticket?"

Flabbergasted, but the situation was wildly funny. Guppie kept nudging me and asking "Why? Why? Why is he asking us?" Emily giggled and snickered, Penguin chortled and it was left to ex-d/d to grin back and say, "No, we want another one, actually", following which Utterly Delectable Boy smiled sheepishly and went back to join his (male) friend waiting for him on a bike.

CT: "Who did you want the extra ticket for?"

Ex-d/d, preening: "For him - to join us, of course!"

Anyhow, how was the movie? Not bad , actually. But no, not the great monument it was billed to be. Not what all the hoopla and hype promised. Some have praised its simplicity, saying that it's all a Simple Love Story, which incidentally happens to be about two men. But then, if you take away the 'two men' thingy, what exactly is so great about the movie? I'm not exactly sure on that score.



I mean: yes, the movie has all these great inputs from gay life. Like the fact that "a couple of high altitude fucks aren't enough", or having sex with a hooker in Mexico, or not being sure about living together and what it entails, or even Coming Out... All great stuff, but as a gay person watching the film, I wouldn't think of any of it as really huge stuff which is inspiring... just something which I've been through, and which so many other gay men have lived through.

But then, an afterthought: maybe the really inspiring part is the fact that Jack and Ennis sustain their relationship (in whatever form) for twenty years. Now, how many gay men can boast that?
Suddenly, I do feel inspired.

***

And then, the weekend also saw me finishing the debut novel by gay author Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi, The Last Song of Dusk. Both Emily and ex-d/d went ga-ga over the book, and so I picked it up at the Strand Book Fair. While I found the beginning of the book quite Mills-and-Boon-ish, I've eaten my words since then, because it ends on a beautiful note. It progresses on a beautiful note as well. Poetic? Yes. Lyrical? Yes. But perhaps the most endearing fact of all: eccenteric.



Of course, I can't deny that I found myself giggling every time Shanghvi describes a male character in the book. The best description was of course the first:

As he ran the white cloth around the bend of his muscled calves, the limp leg hair rose again. Then he daubed the delicious dimples of his buttocks, the incline of his back, the coltish nape of his neck, and with every movement over his lovely form, bath water found itself slowly exiled to the lobes of his ears. The mirror revealed a fine specimen: a tall, muscular specimen with broad shoulders and a gallant puff of chest, a jaggery-brown skin, and a member between his legs that was lonely and strong willed and uttery gorgeous inside its own confusion. (pg 10)

I mean: now, really! ;-) But the man is brilliant also in his conclusions of life:

We'll probably never save our souls - but hell, at least we'll get our hair sorted. (pg 247)

And, o yes, the man is cute.

Cut and Run

Cut and Run

I've never smoked up. How strange that makes me seem sometimes. Never even had a puff of the stuff. No one at school or college ever offered me a take, and I came through to my twenty-second year quite free of narcotic infuence. That seems a mite absurd now, when I listen to some of my friends rave about how great the occassional puff is, and I sit silly, smiling ignorant.



I've had a brush with the stuff, of course. One of the people I used to date was quite an addict. The Peacock (all puns intended here - meaow!) was quite addicted to the stuff. I found that out, the very first time I met him. In the PVR Saket complex, behind the McDonald's store, with some other wild and whacky friends of his. I'd met him online just that evening and he'd told me to rush over for a night out - I was bored, horny and bored, so I went. Went and met The Peacock and his gaggle of 'pals' whom he bitched about at length after they'd gone.

The Peacock was a beautiful specimen in those days - tall and strutting, fair and pink lips, pretty pout, beautiful smile, and I was smitten. So I didn't really care when he puffed up in front of me. He was the first person who ever offered me a puff, but I refused. I refused over and over, for the three or so weeks that he and I dated.

One night, I asked him, why he took the stuff.

Peacock: *snigger*

CT: "No, really... why?"

Peacock: "Well, babe, I'm just staying healthy, you know!"

CT, stops dead and shoots a highly skeptical look: "You stay healthy by smoking weed?"

Peacock: "Of course! I don't do cigarettes anymore now, do I?!"

And that was followed by a gentle tug and tumble in bed, so I dropped the subject then and there. Eventually, though, we broke up, rather, drifted apart, and I could never get over his need for the weed. After a while, it hurt the Ego in me, and we all know how big that thing is...! It kinda stung that this guy would be morose and moody before he took the weed, and after a coupla pulls of the stuff, he'd be amazingly mellow and romantic and cutesy. I found him funny and sexy and cute, but I also found him demented at a level. And not the kind of dementia that Boy and I share...!

(Thank God, or else, I'd have to be wed to a fading, aging gay Peacock in Delhi!)

;-)

My second brush with narcotics was in Delhi again, but this time on a visit, after I had moved to Bombay. The guy in question was this acquaintance of Architect Ex-cum-Friend, and we met up at his absobloominutely amazing apartment in Greater Kailash, sprawling rooms, huge verandahs, yards and yards of fabric everywhere, and we had this very amazing session in the middle of a hot sweltering Delhi afternoon. And that's when he took them out, the Poppers. hell, Poppers are considered baby stuff by those in the know, but to me, they seemed wild and exotic... and when I got them offered to me by this hot naked guy on a hot afternoon, I decided to shrug off my prejudices and take a snort.

Ummm... nothing.

Not even a teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, polka-dotted or even bar-striped little relative of a high. While he went gaga over the stuff and took loads more snorts, dissolving in orgasmic groans after each sniff, I thought Vicks inhaler was probably ten times stronger than the Poppers, and I kept on wondering how such a great looking, hurly-burly Punjabi dude could turn out to be such a... umm.. pansy!

;-)

I mean, hell, even The Peacock behaved with far more self-respect for a tiny little snort!

Pshhhhaaaaaawwww!

Pshhhhaaaaaawwww!

I think I have a fever coming on. That's the good news. Because that means, I'll be able to bunk work tomorrow because of a valid reason. Not very nice an ambition to have, but at least that's better than bunking work on a not-really-valid reason, something which I did just last week. Boy has given up on me: he says, both my flatmate and I are itching to get fired from our jobs, because we have this penchant for not showing up at work, or showing up very late. That's easy for Boy to say, though: his work is dancing!

Damn, I'm jealous.

;-)

Not really any bad news in this setup of things. I haven't been blogging for ages now (not really ages, but it just seems so!) because quite honestly, not much has been happening. Keep making plans and castles in the air about somehow making it to live with Boy within three years. Strange stuff like GREs and GMATs, about which I'm a completely dunderheaded gay Alice in Wonderland. Don't even have a Cheshire Cat to show me around. D/d grins like one, true, but he's completely no help. O, by the way, that's another thing: d/d and I talked about it earlier, and he must be given a new name. Something nicer and truer. The persona of d/d is so... cliched, and we both agreed that my best friend is anything but.

So the hunt for a new name for D/d is on.

Yay: Activity!

PS: I'm also thinking of options like moving to Dubai, heaven forbid, to be closer to Boy. Now, while the idea of those yummy Arab princes is quite, quite, quite seductive, I won't have ex-d/d and Emily breathing down my neck all the time, like they do here, as soon as they spy me getting along nicely with a goodlooking boy: "O, hello, isn't the weather nice today, O and CloseTalk, you have a boyfriend!"

I know: let's call d/d BitchyWitch!

What's a bird in the hand worth, really?

What's a bird in the hand worth, really?

Infidelity is probably as old as love. Back to when the caveman dragged his cavegirl out by the hair, then came back and decided that her mother was pretty hot too, and so he decided to go fetch his club again.

;-)

And infidelity in the gay world is often taken for granted. Hence, the very convenient definition of an 'open relationship'. That's when you get to tell yourself that hell, he's gonna cheat on me anyway, so at least this way, I know who he's screwing, and I get to have some fun on the side, too. Seems simple enough.

And then, there are those poor sods who think that cheating is a grievous sin, and of course, it could never happen to them. And when they discover that Adam has also been screwing the snake behind Evan's back, there's a fountain of tears. Naive, naive tears.

(Step back: Adam and Evan? I like that!)

Personally, I've never been cheated on, either physically or emotionally, though I've been in the role of the cheater. I like to tell myself that being a physical cheat is much better than being an emotional cheat, but that's the MAN side of me talking, and not necessarily the gay side. Most men think it's cool to fcuk, as long as you don't spend the whole night in bed. Most men think cheating is quite, quite inevitable. I've felt that myself, and when I have, I've realized that I'm not in love with this person, as I profess to be. Who were the people I cheated on? Mmmmm... Well, there was The First One, after the first break-up we had; then Architect Ex-cum-Friend who's now in the Middle East chasing Arab princes; and Cute but Unattractive (d/d's name, not mine!). But that's all. No other cheating. No cheating on Nature Boy, for instance. And I don't plan to cheat with Boy, either.



Not knowing how it's like being cheated on, though, I have little idea what it actually feels like. That is, apart from my conversation with some friends. I mean: was a situation when I had a great date with Airline Boy and expected good things to follow, but then he slept with someone else and not me, was that a situation that qualified as being cheated on?

I see you shakes your heads to the contrary.

Aaa well, I tried.

My love stays in a beautiful city on a river, surrounded by lakes.

My love stays in a beautiful city on a river, surrounded by lakes. He goes walking in forests covered with snow drops. He sighs at the window glass and it frosts over. He drives past the boats and the sails. He smiles when he knows I think of him every moment.



My love stays in a beautiful city on a river, surrounded by lakes.

It's our Two Month Anniversary!

It's our Two Month Anniversary!

Not too long a time really, when you think about it, but I guess every milestone counts. Especially, when you're in one of those hated LDRs. What have we done in the two months? Been through a lot, Boy and I. Extraordinarily special moments, where we've shared and understood so much about each other. Good things, and also the bad things. Like me being egoistic, impatient, slow to move, slow to wake up etc etc etc. Like him being stubborn (so stubborn!), whiny, manipulative, impulsive etc etc etc. But in the end, it doesn't seem to matter.

I love him.

And he loves me.

And to all those silly, silly people out there who don't think it's going to last: Go Jump Off A Cliff.

It's going to take work. A lot of work. A lot of effort. A lot of patience. A lot of love. But we have all that. And what we don't have, we'll muddle through. We'll understand so much more about each other. We have hope.

So, BigNose, I love you.

Another Old Favourite

Another Old Favourite

Don't go breaking my heart
I couldn't if I tried
Honey if I get restless
Baby you're not that kind

Don't go breaking my heart
You take the weight off me
Honey when you knock on my door
I gave you my key

Nobody knows it
When I was down
I was your clown
Nobody knows it
Right from the start
I gave you my heart
I gave you my heart

So don't go breaking my heart
I won't go breaking your heart
Don't go breaking my heart

And nobody told us
'Cause nobody showed us
And now it's up to us babe
I think we can make it

So don't misunderstand me
You put the light in my life
You put the sparks to the flame
I've got your heart in my sights

Don't Go Breaking My Heart
Elton John - Duet with Kiki Dee (1976)

Role-play

Role-play

My first undercover blog had a lot of sleaze. It started with a basic introduction of who I was: Young Turk Closetalk with a swagger, in another city and with no Boy, randomly picking up afternoon mates, and recording them in typical debonair style. Ummm.... so that blog lasted about five posts. After a while, I was quite lost, because... ummm... I got bored. Prematurely. And no pun intended there.

I mean, I found myself at a loss: I got bored of talking dirty talk and sordid tales of sticky afternoons while no one was at home. I got bored of stories of eyebrows rising, and eye balls playing games and cruising in parks. I got bored of the same old fcukbuddies and (possibly) the same positions.

So the blog died its inevitable death.

So, when I keep hearing people ask me to have some more sleaze in Talking Closets, I can't help but wonder why. Can I do sleaze? Of course I can. You only had to see the sketches at the back of my Class 8 exercise copies to see that! ;-) But I also know I would get horribly bored of sleaze. Maybe, I also need to keep on having different sexual expereinces to be really accomplished and eternally hungry for more sleaze: recently, I was going through a couple of international gay sleaze blogs, and the amount of gay bar, sex bar, sauna, steam room etc etc etc experiences there is simply mind-boggling! Mindboggling, to imagine the possibilities, once GB and Humsafar and other noble-minded organisations break Sec 377...

;-)

But of course, there's Boy here now, so all those kitchy little fantasies have disappeared in thin air. Instead, I dust off the cowboy hats, and stick to role play...

Cry Me A River

Cry Me A River

Overheard: The so-called baap of Bombay gay blogging (thanks to FFF, that name has stuck now!) telling budding young professional: OMG, Closetalk and d/d are the biggest women I've known!

;-)

Well, we never denied it, d/d and I, but our issue was the frank airing of such a view behind our collective backs. Yesterday, I realized, just how womanish we really are: The Tapworks.

I cry. Terribly. Hopelessly. And I've realised, I use it as an unconscious defence mechanism. With all due respect to the so-called fairer sex, how womanly is that?!

Imagine scene: Closetalk is cornered into a situation where he's been made to confess. He's scared shitless about ensuing circumstances, and so the bawling starts. The blinking of eyes start. The nose screwing and sniffing starts. And the teardrops form. And roll. Down the cheeks. The hands rise up to wipe away in a futile gesture. It's a beautifully crafted, splendidly orchestrated performance. Only problem that makes me turn blue in protestations: it's not really crafted, and there's no conscious performance: it's just... natural.

Now who on earth would not believe me when I say that?

A quick survey of the Bombay gay world proves that most gay men are pansies, however, so I have misery in company (whatever that means). Emily cries after reading my mushy posts about Boy. He'll probably bawl buckets after seeing Brokeback Mountain. Veed cries at the drop of a hat to get his way at college, and escape having to study too hard. D/d cries as a defence mechanism, like me. Pansies, hankies at the ready... now.... blow!

Oops, did that sound obscene?

;-)

Tying in a bit of current world politics, in an effort to make this blog seem intelligent:

'Me Hearties!'

'Me Hearties!'

Valentine's Day without Boy and I survived somehow. More than survived, actually. It was great fun, as The Gang and I headed out to GB's annual V-Day bash. Minus Two: Emily was in Hyderabad, and The Penguin was overworked and tired. Instead, Veed joined the ranks, much against his initial protests, and there were Gupshup, D/d and yours truly.

Fun!

Veed had given a very clear cut diktat: Get me drunk, as soon as I enter, or I shall whine so much that the sky will fall down on your head. I decided that I had my job cut out for me, what with the extremely diluted drinks that GB parties serve, so on the third glass I instructed the bartender to skip most of the Sprite and go mostly with the vodka. Within minutes, li'l Veed was grinding on the dance floor.

;-)

Of course, d/d and I didn't need any alcoholic fortifications to grind ourselves, and we were soon practising the rainbow rendition of Dirty Dancing, which is way more dirty and has way less of dancing that impersonating copulation. Spotted loads of ex-one night stands, and blew kisses at them. Strange to think that Funny Parsi Guy, whom I'd gone out with on all of two dates, with not a single piece of hanky-panky between us, should be at the party with Delhiwalla Media Man, who's notorious for his sexual hook-ups. But they actually looked happy with each other, and I was happy when d/d agreed that Media Man, despite being much older than I, was reasonably hot, so that my sleeping with him once upon a time ago was quite justified, apart from the free hotel room stay and free hotel room booze.

Then there was Gulf Muscle Boy, who used to live in Thane ages ago, and who felt me up in a local train, when we were out on our one-and-only date. I'd seen GMB for the first time at this very same place, when he'd been dancing very sexily, and I'd sidled up and hit on him shamelessly. I did so again last night, and then danced my way away. I'm evil.

But not as evil as I was with Flighty Flight Attendant, who'd come over from Juhu for a date with me and said he wanted to date date me, but never called back again, preferring to have sex with someone I know well, instead. So, FFA was there last night, getting a drink when I was getting one myself, so I decided to play a game. So I smiled, and teased, and toyed, and soon we were close dancing on the floor, till I felt him 'rising' to the occasion... and then I abruptly turned around and left.

Sweet, delicious revenge.

Other GB regular freakoids? Orkut Muscle, who goes to every GB party in the same white tight tee, and always takes it off after five minutes, preferring to have unknown creatures pet him all night, and always gets slutty but never goes back home with anyone. Ummmm... and of course, the Mandatory Pair of Foreigners in their 'open' relationship, who come and dance and kiss for the first two dances and then flirt/dance/kiss/make out with as many other people as possible, all the while exchanging sweet smiles at each other, in competition. And the Short Bald Pot-bellied Man who hopped his way across the floor, feeling up and pinching as many hottie butts as he could manage, and was actually dancing with one of the Mandatory Pair of Foreigners, who was actually grinding back in turn.

By the way, in case you didn't get the message, I had a GREAT time last night at GB's!


PS: Boy called me up in the middle of the party and we chatted for a good 20 minutes, going mushy while I sat on the steps outside the disc. Came back home at 2 am, to discover that he'd sent me a V-Day Package, and it was waiting for me on my bed, so I chatted with him again at night online. I'm completely in love with this ethereal creature, and I can't believe he loves me this much.

*grin*

My Fair Lady

I've decided that My Fair Lady was made for a gay audience.



Straight people just won't get it!

Knocking on doors

Knocking on doors

Veed and I were sitting at Kaala Ghodaa, eating candyfloss. Pink and deliciously sticky. And discussing coming out. While I may be still very much in the closet, despite my mum's buying me silver bracelets and my brother buying me skin-tight tees, Veed pretty much broke his way out through the wood ages ago. Something which I've admired, but not managed to emulate as yet.



But Veed hates going to parties.

"Why is that?" I asked him, between bits of pink candyfloss, "How come you've never been to GB parties or Voodoo's or anything at all?"

Veed, shrugging shoulders and whining: "I don't knooooowwww. I went to a GB party once... but walked out after ten minutes."

CT: "Why? Someone grabbed your crotch? Or because no one grabbed your crotch? (grin) That's what happens to me, usually!"

Veed, glaring sarcastically: "NOOOOO!!!"

CT: "Then what?"

Veed: "It's just... not my scene. I'm out to my parents and all... I've always known I was gay and everything... but... I'm just not comfortable with seeing all those men out there, openly rubbing and grinding and kissing each other!"

CT burts into laughter and Veed glares some more.

Veed, in icy avatar: "I'm sorry if I make you laugh, Mr Been-There-Done-Them..."

CT, sobering: "Naaa, that's not it at all. It's just that... well, that's what makes GB so special for me... the thought that, here's the place where I can go with a guy and actually do all that rubbing and grinding and kissing!"

Veed, disbelievingly: "Really?"

CT: "U-huh! That's why Boy and I frequented Voodoo's so much, when GB parties were not happening. And now, with all that silly bar license issue, GB parties may be royally fucked even more!"

Well, apart from how GB parties may end up getting screwed/skewered, it seemed strange to me: the dichotomy in what Coming Out means. There was Veed, who came 'out' to his parents at the tender age of fifteen/sixteen, but who hates the idea of public gay affection, even in a gay forum... and there's me, who still likes to believe that my family doesn't know I'm gay (though, my family probably hopes for it more than I do!), but loves to boogey at GB parties in full Pink Gear nonetheless. I'm not completely sure which one is the real 'coming out', and I'm not sure I would be right, even if I thought I did. Veed's parents know he's gay, but his bringing guys back home is completely absurd... and while my mum may buy me a chunky silver bracelet, she still blanches in horror when she sees the orange pants I bought for myself.

;-)

Closets are made of sterner stuff than wood, methinks.

Pink is not the only colour that looks good on me, you know?!

Pink is not the only colour that looks good on me, you know?!

The idea of meeting friends is to chill out. It was, the last time I checked. What do you do, however, when you bump into friends with whom a meeting inevitably means a descent to Gay Blabbering one-on-one? A bit irritating at times. Funny at others, but a bit irritating at times.

Two ways of looking at it. Like the situation a month or so back, when Flatmate said that I've completely allowed the gay part of my life to overshadow me. I retorted, that wasn't true, and even if it were, it was justified. All that ended ages ago, a lot of conversations with a lot of friends went into all that, and yadayada. It all came back however, the other day, in a conversation with Friend X, when he said he needed to maintain a fair degree of distance from one of the people he's out to. The reason? It was clear that To-be Distanced Friend could not get beyond X's homosexuality.



"It's as if he can't get beyond the fact that I think men are cute, and not women," X said, sipping coffee at his place.

I was examining his dark blue linen curtains and smiled, and said I knew what he was saying. I'd been down that road myself, and was still walking along, signposts and all.

"I mean," X struggled to explain, "It's not that I don't appreciate with how nice he is about the whole gay thing .... but it's not COMPLETELY who I am!"

Objectification. Reductionism. Words I do not understand. Words that some artistic or pretentious artistic friends wish I did, but that's another matter altogether. Closetalk is gay. Closetalk is not only gay, however. Drawing lines possibly never seemed so... important, before.

And then, there was Friend Y, who recently came out to his brother's girlfriend, who's quite an established fag hag in her own right, and he's come to the horrible conclusion that he's just become her latest 'project'.

I have a lot of coffee conversations with these people, it seems, for the other day, Y put his feet up in the coffee couch, and moaned about how she was asking him insistent questions about his love life (or lack of it), sex life (or lack of it), and continuously asking him out to watch arty-farty plays, because "...you're gay and clever, so I'm sure you'll love it, Y!..." I burst out laughing at Y's bosom-breaking groan, at the end of his story.

Extremes, really. The world at large knows of how homosexuals are not accepted in mainstream society. Little does it know, that where there is acceptance, there is often a nasty habit of obssessive occupation. Perhaps, Flatmate was right, after all.

Getting homely here

Getting homely here

I've spent three days now, without Boy. I cried on day 1. Day 2 was better. Chatted with d/d on Day 1, and Emily on day 2, and both of them were sweethearts. There's a GB party on tonight at Velocity, and a part of me wants to go and dance. Another part of me feels awful that I'm not going to be dancing with Boy for a very long time. Conundrum. And I'm getting whiny again, so maybe it's time to take a break.

I went to this fabulous home last night. Related to work, and I wondered what it would be like, to live together with Boy. I think ahead, I know. It would be a strange experience. I asked him, when he was here, whether he was as messy a home-keeper as my Flatmate, and his reponse? "Well, I could be."

"Fine," I responded, "Then with me, you'll get both a lover and a housekeeper!"

He laughed and lifted me in the air.



Living with someone always seems so much of a strange adjustment to make. Before I met Boy, d/d and I had decided to move in together if we were still alone by the time we were 45 years old. We would have separate bedrooms, of course, and separate drinks in the bar: port wine for me, and white for him. A corner full of arty-farty stuff for him, and a corner full of books for me. The kitchen would be spotlessly clean. There would be a room somewhere, where we could each enjoy one-night stands. All precisely worked out.

Thank God I met Boy! ;-)

In the more immediate term, I've toyed with the idea of moving out, when my current lease expires. Move out on my own. One of the main reasons why I moved in my current apartment with my current Flatmate was that I didn't want to live alone. That came during the break-up with NatureBoy, and I hated the idea of being in a flat all by myself, and obsessing over heartaches and heartbreaks and being alone in general. So, I moved in, and my mum was alarmed at the thought of me living with a girl, poor naive Bengali mum that she is! ;-) But, of late (and this is even before Boy days) I've been itching to get my own place - not just a room of my own, but a bathroom and a kitchen and a second room kept neat and tidy and spic-and-span, the way I like it. My flattie, God bless her, is a very understanding soul, but she's messy as probably no one else can be!

And now, there's Boy. And dreams of living together someday. Anywhere. Either here in Bombay, if he moves back, after his Green Card. Or in Ohio with him, if I finally become a published author, and can quit my crummy Bombay-centric job, so that I can write/earn from anywhere in the world. And I wonder what that will be like.

I mean: what kind of hitch can there be after all?!

The mother-in-law? Mmmm... well, Boy says she's easy to get along with!

Packed for the Long Haul

Packed for the Long Haul

When Boy came back from Dubai last Friday, he came in to my apartment with a gigantic red suitcase and a couple of other smaller bags. On observing my stunned face - he was supposed to be staying over for just two days - he grinned and announced, "I'm moving in!"

He ended up staying over at my place since then, for almost nine of the ten days he's been here on the second shift, and that red suitcase has occupied pride of place in my room. He's moved in, into my life and my room, both. I know that so sorely now, when he's due to leave back for the US tonight.

I will sound mushy now. Terribly so. I will sound maudlin now. Horribly so. Last night, he was supposed to spend the night with his extended family, and so he left around eight o' clock. And I felt awful. Gut wrenching. Dependent. Cast aside. I sent him a message, telling him I didn't know how I would deal with his leaving... and twenty minutes later, my doorbell rang.

At eleven thirty pm, he had packed an overnight bag and rushed over, and I stood at the door, shell-shocked, bewildered, but o-so terribly happy.

(Emily might be crying now, but it's ok, because I was weeping buckets myself...!)

It's passed by so quickly, my time with him. I've fallen in love, within a month. Have I ever allowed myself to be this maudlin this fast? Actually, not. It took me five days to realise that I was hooked, line and sinker, by this tall Gujju who came with this fantastic Parsi imitation, a smile that could put Helen to shame, and a set of red luggage that would make d/d green with envy. He's special, and I know that. It's going to be awful, dealing with his going away tonight... but his coming back last night may have actually helped to make things better. Perhaps, I shall deal with it better now. I'll still mope and whine and moan... but I guess it's all part of the LDR phenomenon. I'm not a big fan of this... I never was... But I fell into love with him with my eyes open.

The song I picked for him was "Can't smile without you", Barry Manilow.

You know I Can't Smile Without You,
I Can't Smile Without You,
I can't laugh and I can't sing,
I'm findin' it hard to do anything.

And then, I decided, someone as beautiful as Boy doesn't deserve to have a song with such depressing lyrics as this... however catchy the tune may be. But then, there's one line there in the song which does ring true...

You came along, just like a song,
And brightened my day...

All my days. ;-)

I could do black magic

I could do black magic

Boy is back. *Big Grin*

Decided we needed to dance, the other night, so we found ourselves at Voodoo's, the one and only, in Colaba. Dressed for the night, of course. Boy looked amazing in a black sleeveless T and red cord pants, and I was drooling. I sound like a dolt at times, talking about him. D/d would say that I sound like a dolt most of the time, but I'm in a good mood, too good a one to respond in kind for.

;-)

The last (and only other) time I went to Voodoo's was with this Friend With Benefits from Calcutta. FWB and I had hit the club, and promptly hit the shots after that. He wasn't the kind to dance on the floor though, so he mostly hung around at the bar with his drink, while I boogeyed my ass. Came back after an hour and told him I had good news and bad news.

FWB: "What's the good news?"

CT, grinning: "Made out with thise completely sexy hottie on the floor, and took his number."

FWB, back slapping and vodka guzzling: "Well done, CT! So what's the bad news?"

CT, looking shamefaced, or as much of it as he could manage after three shots: "Not sure if he's a hooker or not!"

Well, that's always ben the case with me at Voodoo's. Can never be quite sure who's above board and who's under the wallet. Wasn't sure last Saturday either, when Boy and I hit the floor... There was big brawny and blond Muscle Mary, in a black ganji and blue jeans, red-and-white Calvins way higher than the jeans, and I could have sworn that he was a pay-boy, but when his wet hair smacked Boy's arm, and Boy responded with an angry aside about '".. the wretched pros", MM looked quite offended.

Boy likes to dance. He loves to dance. He dances in the back of the cab, when the old Punjabi cabbie puts on deedaar de, deedaar de on the ride. And when he hits a disc, he's the one who pulls me out on the floor, vis-a-vis the other way round, like it used to be with my exes. Boy's hips swivel, his eyes sparkle, and his lips smirk, because he's a fantastic dancer. (And yes, I'm gushing now.) So we danced to a number of silly songs, and quite a few of the good ones as well. Strange thing to say, but I actually prefer Voodoo's music to GB music. And of course, last Saturday, there was much of the same crowd. Recognized Punjabi Muscle Top, dancing with several nubile youing boys... Then, Iranian A was there as well, in a tight full sleeve shirt, concentrating on a tall gangly creature, and I beamed a polite smile at him. Also present was Muscle Ad Guy, with his little coterie of friends, and I shook his hand as well. Butterfly, butterfly....

My wings are clipped, but I'm not complaining.

;-)

Funny point of the evening: This ABCD who's chatted with Boy online ages also turned up in Voodoo's , and was apparently quite smitten. He kept hanging around us, trying to make polite small talk and in general trying to get rid of me. There was even that silly message later in the night about him being alone and drunk at the hotel, and whether Boy could slip away. I want to snip off ABCD's balls.

O, wait, he doesn't have any.

Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!

Reading? Out of fashion? How droll!

Drumrolls accompanied Emily as he stepped into the Tea Centre. And I followed meekly behind. Actually, I played quite the insolent cur, and made the Maharani of Worli wait for an hour before I showed up. And of course, it was quite inevitable that when Closetalk meets up with Emily/Maharani, the two of us would gather over a cuppa tea and shiver in our shawls like two old English grannys.



This was part of the Bonding Exercise, you see. Enough of sleaze, I'd decided, it was time I met up with old chaddi-buddies and hung around, discussed men and hung around, sipped tea and hung around. So, we started off with garlic bread and tea, and since we were both famished (both of us being on killer diets), I ordered a mushroom salad and Emily had soup. He put dollops of butter in the soup, but I pretended not to notice.

Soup and salad over, hungry as ever, the two of us decided to amble over to where the Strand Book sale was being held. For the record, the Strand is quite an institution in Bombay. It opened yesterday, and the sale will last till February 5. You get discounts ranging from 40-80% on the books, so if you're new in the city and want to know where to pick up some great books, hit Churchgate station for the sale. There, that was the advertorial. Emily and I did the rounds, up and down the aisles, looking for new books. Saw this collection of gay short stories that Emily trashed, so i put it down again. He picked up a completely hilarious book for a mutual gay friend, and then we started reading unabashedly from the 'adult' section. Excerpts from the story of a guy who goes to a gay gogo bar for the first time. A Parsi aunty passing by glares at us, and Emily hoots in laughter.

I end up buying Dhanvi's Last Song of Dusk, because that's been highly recommended by both d/d and Emily. Then, another book about two gay men that Emily sobbed over. And finally, Bapsi Sidhwa's The Crow Eaters. True, Boy's no Parsi, but he does a Parsi Gujarai imitation that always gets me in splits!

Of course, I had to end this post with something about Boy! He's coming back to Bombay tonight, and I shall do cartwheels now.

;-)

How gay is my life?!

How gay is my life?!

Came home the other night from work, and switched on the radio. GO92.5 FM, the best-est radio station in India, was playing some really nice songs. The Nightshift with Glenn... and nothing remotely seedy about it, though it sounds decidedly so. Tossed my shoes, hung up clothes, changed, glugged some Pepsi from Flatmate, and begged her to let me use her laptop. She agreed, cuz she was on the phone with mum and dad. So I sat. And I blog-surfed. And did some more of that.

And that's when I ended up typing 'gay blog' in the search option of Blogger. Then in Gmail. Then in other search engines, all the while listening to Karma Chameleon on the computer. By this time, Flatmate had finished her phone call and wanted her paws back on the laptop, and fumed when I told her it would take some time. Many more rants later, and glares at the contents onscreen, she huffed and puffed and said that I was completely hopeless and was obsessed with all things gay these days: my life was completely dominated by the gay part of me now!

Shocking news.



Because, maybe it's true.

Do gay men tend to ignore most other facets of their lives, in favour of harping on that one little homosexual difference between them and society at large? I hate to sound like a Harvard prof gone survey-collecting in Mumbai, but I broached the conversation later with d/d and a couple of other pals. D/d replied in the affirmative, and said, it's important for us, and straight people just don't get that, however well-intended they may be. It's a kind of charm then - a fairy charm (if you will) which you simply can't see.

Of course, it's about much more than just looking for a new gay blog... Hell, there's the whole phenomenon about gay bonding-shonding that's there. Somehow, a fag and his hag are great, but the fag needs a couple of other fags around him, to complete the full look. However pathetic that sounds, it's actually very true. All this demands a post dedicated wholly to Gay Bonding, but that comes later. Knowing my penchant for procrastination,... much, much later...

So maybe it's a kind of search. Even though you know you're not the only gay guy in the city/world/universe, and probably not even in your building complex, you still want to search out and see whether there are other gay guys like you that write blogs like you. I remember a post from Jalaj, where he listed some gay bloggers he liked. There was Famous Gay Journo who called me the other day, doing an article on gay Indian blogs, who asked me whether I'd come across many others of the sort. And I remember hunting the net myself, looking for new guys, Indian or otherwise, who're gay and who blog. Affirmation? Or just plain insecurity? Or maybe, it's to prove a point that gay men write best!

;-)

Chilli Special

Chilli Special

Sunday, if old songs from the 60s are to be believed, is supposed to be a day of rest. Not true at all, last Sunday for me. Hurried and harried socialising, really, truly, madly, as I dashed off from d/d's house in the armpit of Andheri, after spending the night there, to the apartment of a lovely little lady.

Well, not really very little, but her room mate's boyfriend is quite yummy, and so I'm inclined to be kind to the Insane Bitch. All on account of the cute roomie's boyfriend who comes out of the room sleepy eyed and tousle-haired.

(Viji, stop laughing. Yes, I'm joking. I hate straight men, and everyone knows that.)

I'm not sure what I had in mind, about meeting Vijayeta before meeting Vijayeta. I expected a dynamo That Woman who would regale me with stories of asshole exes and show me her closet full of sharp black stillettoes. I thought I would fade away in the background of a plethora of rich and whacky gay men, and since I'm neither rich nor very whacky, I must admit that I was a bit apprehensive about meeting Viji.

Of course, Insane Bitch will probably hate me for stripping apart her online armour, but Viji's one of the sanest people I know. She does have an insane hankering after shoes, the expensive ones, but she also wears the tackiest rubber chappals at home. We chatted about saddi dilli, and how we both love it, and though that may not exactly sound very endearing to this audience which is decidedly Bombay-biased, we had a really great time yakking. Bitching. Moaning (about servants, mind you!). And Mooning over good looking men on the telly. Quite a normal fag-meets-hag kind of a situation. I'm so thrilled she's not the Rich Bitch With Attitude kind of a person. Whew!

And then there was lunch with family. Very nice, atop Shoppers Stop in Bandra, ginger honey chicken for starters, fried rice and devilled pork for main course. Time for hair cut, so right now, I really DO have that buzzed cut that the famous pic in black shorts boasts of!



Time to meet Wicked Witch of the West (Bandra). WWW is Nature Boy's original fag hag - sorry, da-ling, I forgot how you hate that word - and I treated her reverentially as The In-law at one point of time. Of course, with age, the old witch has thawed her cold tits, and the two of us went to St Peter's for a bout of six o'clock evening mass. That dispensed with, it was time to meet Pansy Straight Boy at JATC's. WWW painstakingly sharpened her claws for the meeting.

For the record, PSB is a friend of a friend, whom I'd met in saddi dilli when I was living there. He's moved to Bombay now, and we decided to meet up. It was his bad luck that WWW came along with me. The more charitable ones would say that PSB is pansy because he was born in a year of the Goat, according to the Chinese calendar, and such people are expected to be effeminate. WWW, of course, is not very charitable, so she couldn't resist trying to prove every few minutes to PSB that he was a confused twenty-seven year old who wanted to screw the cute waiter serving us. Poor PSB stammered, stuttered, tried to flirt, was quite unsure of where he stood, and stammered again. It was quite hilarious, of course, watching from the sidelines, but then I decided to step in, because after all, I had called him myself, na?

CT: "Don't mind her, she's a witch!"

WWW, pouting: "Yes, I am."

PSB, grinning but not feeling the grin: "Hahaha, you guys are a riot! You're so funny!"

WWW, silkily: "Not half as funny as you are, da-ling!"

CT: "Hush!"

WWW: "So, what do you think of that boy there?"

PSB, flustered: "Huh? Wha-?"

WWW: "I think he's looking at the two of you."

CT, diverted now: "O, he's cute! Green shirt, long nose, but cute."

WWW, cattily: "You have a boyfriend now."

CT sighs but agrees to behave.

PSB: "I don't think he's gay, though. I have a very good gaydar."

WWW slits her eyes and purrs: "I have an excellent gaydar too, da-ling, and I know you're squirming to get in his pants right now!"

PSB stutters and sips his Coke.

Well, I did order Devilled Pork at lunch.

Black cats and superstitions...

Black cats and superstitions...

Friday the Thirteenth happened to me today. So,

1. I was stuck in a meeting for four hours at Cuffe Parade, but couldn't get to meet the person I wanted to. (Strictly work related, you understand.)

2. I dashed away from the four-hour long wait without lunch to wait again for another hoity-toity floozie, and had to wade through a maniac mob in order to get him to say the things I wanted to hear. (Again, strictly work-related, you see.)

3. Missed Boy's phone calls twice, while I was waiting/dashing, so I felt guilty about that, since the poor dear is taking time away from his soddy relatives in Dubai to call me every day.

4. Finally, after getting my floozies to open their mouths (no puns intended, really!) I had lunch. Which basically means, my diet resolution flew to the winds. German strudles with dollops of fresh whipped cream. Boy will murder me if I compare it to sex, so I won't.

5. Came back to the office with a murderous headache.

6. Realized there was an emergency event in the evening, so I couldn't go back home by six as I had planned.

Buuuuuuuuuuuutttttttt....

There's an angel watching over me up there (or in Dubai!) after all, cuz,

1. My handling of the emergency evening event went off very well.

2. Boy finally got through to me on the third try, and we exchanged the usual mushy stuff. (Excuse me while I giggle in appropriate coquetish terms now.)

3. Staying back at work meant that I went though all the blogs in my chain at the left, something which I haven't been able to do in a very long time!

4. And yes, I found this simply delectable pic of Ricky Martin on the net.



Shush, and don't breathe a word of this to Boy!

Pink trings

Pink trings

Telephone conversations with that purple panther of the gay blogger world, d/d, is quite entertaining. But then, anyone with half a brain who reads The Closet knows that. (Anyone with less than half a brain is easily amused by my prattle, so all of you're welcome, too.) What do we talk about? Everything, really. He insists that he wants to slap me hard when we meet next at Toto's or wherever, because of the way I carry on and on about Boy. He's already bracing himself for the solid wall of whining headed his way when Boy finally leaves for the US of A.

And of course, there are the memorable quotes: "Straight men are also normal, you know", "Of course I must have a merc, a platinum ring, and a boat by the time I'm 30! Only essentials, da-ling!", etc etc etc. All very entertaining.



Phal, on the other hand, is mad on the phone. Fiendish cackles, outrageous ideas to do things to people. Clever schemes to make them cry for mama, and many more fiendish cackles on the way. She's on a perpetual high. Not too many quotable quotes here - I'm usually left in a daze after she's done.

The other day, I received calls from two other pink pals, people who I thought had quite forgotten me. One was Emily (fondly known as Worli ka Maharani) and the Penguin. Both had heard about the Boy, and they called to learn details and make general coochie-coo noises. Sweethearts, both of them.

There was also Nature Boy who called, and we chatted for quite some time. We talked about Boy, and how he can't recall him at all, from the time I introduced them at the GB party on 31st, and then we moved on to other topics. Food, killing work skeds, mutual friends, haircuts and shopping agendas, coffee as well. Promises were made to meet up - soon - and pleasantries exchanged.

So that made me decide on a resolution: I need more close gay friends. Not just d/d, who is and forever will be, Special. I need more sounding boards to whine about Boy to. I need more 'girls' to have fun with. Somehow, along the way, what with work and carnal drives, I lost touch with these guys. Lost touch with the phenomenon called Gay Bonding. And that's sad. It's sad, if Gay Bonding is relegated only to once-in-a-fortnight parties at d/d or Gupshup's place or GB. How ironic: when Older Ex In Delhi broke up with me, I sniffled and told him that it would be very hard for him to find love because he always clung to the apron strings of his gay pals - and here I am, looking for pals to get gay with. But then, I'm a different person now, than I was in Delhi. And if, more cynical, also more optimistic. Strange combination.

So, as a first step towards my resolution, I'm asking Veed out for that cup of coffee. Veed, you have been formally/informally invited. Just give me the date and time.

CAVEAT: Boy comes back to town on the 20th, so after that I'm probably going to be mooning about him all over again.

So can you hear the bell around my neck?

So can you hear the bell around my neck?

Was chatting with Sam the other day online, and after about five minutes, he huffed and puffed and told me that now that I was part of a Couple (capital letters), I was no fun any more. Damn, I swore, really? It seems that Singletons are much more fun. Especially when you're online and talking to brawny beefcakes like Sam, who lives in Sydney Down Under. He said, it was very sad that he couldn't flirt with me any more, and when I responded with a surprised why? he said that flirting with me just wasn't enough fun any more.

Yikes!

It's like I'm now officially Owned Cattle.



Now while that may give me a warm glow whenever I recall Boy and me on Kashid beach over the weekend, it also amuses the hell out of me. I mean, there I was in a stage about three weeks back, where the Coupletons always seemed to have the very best of things, revered by all the lowly Singletons, and suddenly, you realize that at least as far as online chatting is concerned, the Coupleton is akin to a pariah.

It reminds me of that memorable line which my flatmate says whenever she meets a good looking gay person - and with me around, she meets lots of those - "What a colossal waste!" In Singleton terms, I suppose a Coupleton could be termed that: a complete loss of assets that could otherwise have been theirs. (Of course, this is also a fantastic way of looking at things to massage your own ego.)

Nevertheless, on this particular online conversation with Sydney Sam, I laughed and tried to flirt with him as much as possible in a naughty kind of vein, but he was not very satisfied. Especially not when I told him that even though I was 'hitched', we could still carry on with 'harmless' flirting. "And what the hell is harmful flirting then?" he growled back, and I honestly didn't have an answer to that. So I gave him an online smile and a great big hug (online again), and exited the conversation.

***

On an unrelated stream, Boy and I spent the weekend at Kashid. We had a glorious time together, and I'm going to cherish those memories forever. He's left for his Dubai trip now, though, and I can't wait till he gets back to Bombay next week. I'm praying hard that I get swamped at work now, so that it takes my mind off him for some time at least, but look at me now - smile on my face as I type this out, remembering him and the moonlight strolls on the beach and the grilled prawns on the hotel patio.

Mush. I apologise.

Sleazy Me

Sleazy Me

So the gang came back from Goa, and they heard the news about Boy. In fact, some of them are having dinner with Boy and myself tonight. Prithvi at Juhu. If you're there and you see a table with raucous laughter and lotsa good looking young men, come over and say hi to the closet king and his new love.

I did say KING there, you notice.

;-)

Of course, D/d will be there as well, and he promises to give me the lowdown on my new love. He heard me go all mooney-eyed and -voiced on the phone the other day, and said that regulars to the closet might not take too kindly to the shift in gears here.

D/d - chomping on pasta at the other end: "You know, your readers might not like this change in your tone all too much."

CT, dreamy: "Huh, what?"

D/d, smacking lips: "Yea, I mean, everyone comes to your place for sleaze, you know. That Jalaj chap and all."

CT, perplexed: "Really? They come to me for the sleaze?"

D/d: "U-huh."

CT, whining now: "But that's awful! I'm about more than just sleaze. I'm about love and gay issues and boys hurting and love blooming and so many other noble things in life..."

D/d, filing nails: "I'm filing nails now."

CT stops, screwing up lips. Then: "Of course, sleaze is good, too."

D/d, blowing on nails: "Sleaze is the best."

CT, thinking hard: "Jalaj did say somewhere in a comment that he would stop coming to my blog if he sees me get all cerebral."

D/d: "There you go. Is this Jalaj chap cute? I like boys who don't want cerebral things."

CT: "I don't know whether you'd think him cute, but he's not rich, I think. You only want rich guys, anyway."

D/d, putting away file: "Rich boys are convenient, yes."

CT: "I think it's all a show you put on. A little show to pretend you're all shallow, you're really looking for loooooooove. Like me and Boy. In love. I think so, I really do. So, if you just close your eyes and think about falling in love..."

D/d, abruptly: "I'm never going to read your blog again, if you carry on in this vein."

Stone cold silence.

;-)

For the record, I'm NOT going to stop gushing about Boy... not till he breaks my heart at least (hope that never happens!) and even in that eventuality, you know I'm going to blog about him in a scathing terms. So, yes, I suppose I shall be talking about Boy for some time.

And also for the record, D/d has decided not to comment on my blog again, because he feels people don't take too kindly to his naturally bitchy comments. I hate that. So everyone please join in my plea in making D/d comment again.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year

Wise men say, Only fools rush things
But I can't help falling in Love
With You...

And I always thought this was one of Elvis' mushiest songs. Look at me now: I'm about to embark on something I've traditionally scorned. Your typical Long Distance Relationship, complete with capital letters. To get you up to date:

Last week, I met someone quite by chance. I've got a million names for him right now, ranging from Glitter Boy and Big Nose to Mushy Snot Pot and Fang. It's come to that now: silly nicknames. We met, we met again, and by the second date, it was quite clear to both of us that things were poised to look really great. I think I'm falling in love. It's as simple as that.

And as complicated as that, too.

Because I have to face the fact that come next Tuesday, my boy will not be in Bombay. He'll be somewhere in Dubai. He'll be back again, at the end of January but only for a few days, and then he's gone once more. After that... there's a gap of six months. At least. And I will then moan to my friends about how I miss my boy. Damn.

I always tell people that LDRs don't work. I tell them, that's the surefire route to heartache. If for no other reason, then than that old excuse: libido. I told my Boy the other day, it was silly to expect me to be celibate for the six months he would not be there, and he ruffled my hair in response. He hopes I won't fall in love with someone else, though he says he understands my point of view. I hate acting like the slut that swallowed Bombay, but it's best to get things cleared up, right from the beginning. And I've always hated LDRs because I've found it as a silly excuse to have wanton sex while you're in a so-called relationship. Yikes. I should've bit my tongue at least a thousand times while I told all those people all those things. I feel like biting my own tongue now. Because, honestly speaking, I'm terrified. I'm terrified that what I'm getting into with Boy will leave me shaken and horribly stirred when he leaves and I'm left alone in Bombay again.

...

But does it sound maudlin to say that it seems just so... right? To say that when he smiles at me, I feel so frikkin' happy? To say that I want to dance with him all night long, not just those sexy salsas and those romantic clasps, but also the silly stuff, where we're both experimenting and not really sure of what we're doing? To say that we laugh like clowns at our stupid (and some good) jokes? To say that I smile to myself in the mirror, when I see the hickeys on my neck and shoulders? To say that I believe him when he says he'll be back for me? To say that I believe him when he says that all we need is some patience and focus to make this work, against all the odds? He makes it seem so easy... and though I know it's not going to be quite that way, does it make sense to say that his confidence is enough to bolster my own?

I've asked myself so many times if we're rushing into this too soon. There's the experience with so many earlier exes telling me that I may be setting myself up for disaster again... and there's the little hope that maybe I'm not.

I love his smile. I love the way his eyes crackle with repressed mischief. I love his big nose, which I like to touch in a baby's grip. I love his elfin ears, almost devoid of earlobes. I love the contrast his six foot frame poses to my five foot six-or-seven. I love the way he cackles in glee. I love his cross between a cough and a burp. I love his generosity and kindness. I love the way he winks at me across the dinner table. I love the way he holds me in his arms, and turns me towards the mirror, so that I can see us both in it, and when he whispers in my ears: See how great we look together?!

And so I have my fingers crossed.