Is it a Bird? A Plane? No, it's... SuperCloset!

Is it a Bird? A Plane? No, it's... SuperCloset!

Before losing my top on the Blog Ban by the Indian government, I was going to post about Superman Returns, which I saw last night at a decrepit South Bombay theatre. Horrible sound system and seats, but all that was more than compensated for by the movie. And yes, if you want to barf now, go right ahead, but I'm not changing my mind: Superman Returns rocks! And Routh is a SuperStar!



And for all those geriatric dumbfcuks out there who think Chris Reeves was hotter: puh-leeeeeezze, get a libido! With all due respect to the Original Alien, he may have been cute for his day and age, but if you just compare him down there to the Greek God up there, it's clear that Routh has the goods where it counts!



So, admittedly, this is going to be a Slurpy post. I'm going to slurp on and on about Brandon: his eyes, his smile, the way he amply fills out the blue tights, and how beautifully proportionate his red bulge is. O, God! and that chest. That chest and that insignia is enough to get a grown man swooning. (Which is basically what I'm doing right now.) Though the movie failed to live up to its expectations, box-office wise in the US, Playgirl magazine has offered Brandon $500,000 to expose his Buns of Steel. The really cute part is, how his publicist says he's a good li'l Midwestern boy and not very 'comfortable' with nudity - grrrrrrooowwf! All that gorgeous humility on such a gorgeous boy is breathtaking. ;-)



Admittedly, I went into this movie with loads of inhibitions in my head. Almost everyone who'd seen it had warned me that it was overhyped. Midnight's Child cackled on the phone, "He should be called Superbaby, and not Superman! He's crying all the time!" And though I argued myself hoarse, that maybe the cry-baby impression was there simply because director Bryan Singer (of X-Men fame, another sexy hunk movie!) is gay, no one bought the argument. Even the newspaper reviews proclaimed: SR is not an action movie about Supe saving the world, it's about Super Trooper in blue tights crying after his lost love.

;-)

So, I made the jokes. Superman goes to save Metropolis, and what would happen if he gave a Super-Sneeze, eh? Bye bye, Lois Lane and city she lives in! Then there was the scene where Supe flies away after not kissing Lois: imagine how horny he must have been then - I guess that's what you call... a Super-jerk!

But apart from the silly jokes, it was a movie that I really liked. Not for its cerebral skills, but hell, if you're in the mood for a fun movie, a taste for popcorn and time to kill, head over to the chindi (Bombay slang for tiny/ miserly) old-world hall I went to, and spend 2 1/2 hours in the AC. And drool.

Mush Moment #1: Of course, it has to be the scene where Supe wafts up feather-light with Lois in the sky. That's been one of the all-time romantic moments ever since Superman movies were made, and Singer uses it so brilliantly here that even the straightest straight man goes oooooooohhhhhh! like a 13-year old gal with pigtails. Ask me. I watched the movie with one. *grin*

Moment that gave me Sadistic Satisfaction: Directly after the Mush Moment, actually. Lois the Hussy brazenly pushes her face forward to kiss Supe, and my favourite man in tights pulls away. Awwwww... that little scene warmed the cock-les of my heart. I love Bryan Singer.

So, this morning, when I spoke to the Boy on our daily long-distance phone call, I told him, his extra-corny boyfriend would henceforth add SuperBoy to his already-long list of nicknames, and would hunt for a blue thong with the S insignia upfront, to be ready and waiting for his next trip down to Bombay.

Boy's reply was standard: "You're nuts!"

So was mine: "You're super!"

Finger!

Barely a few days back, I used this symbol to express my anger at the arseholes who bombed Bombay.

Today, it's my answer to the arseholes who run the government in Delhi.

You screwballs, you just can't get away with removing our freedom of speech because of what you perceive as 'security concerns'! Blogs are not the cause of the Mumbai blasts, nor of the so-called religious extremism. You wanna act tough? Shut down the Hindu shakhas, shut down the Muslim madrasas, and then act tough.

All you get from the closet here is a vigorous BITCHSLAP!

Hangover

Announcing the Talking Closets Nobel for anyone who discovers the Hangover Cure.

I need that elixir badly even now, a day after an all-too tumultuous GB party. The venue was Velocity, and Closetalk was Sloshed. Inundated. Drowning. Happy as a monk who has had sex after eighty-fcuking years. Come hell and high water. Boy calls me his Bevda Boyfriend, and I feel as if I finally lived up to all the hype.

All without touching a drop of liquor at the actual party, by the way. (Except a coupla glugs of beer maybe from SnowWhite's Stepmother, but that's piddling!)

For me, the fun started at 9. 30 p.m. Get the bath water ready, get the shirt out - a sexy number in pink with tiny pink flowers, which actually looks much better than it sounds! - matching red socks and ultra-low waist jeans teamed up with a red belt. And then I decide that it's time to start getting a bit high. CT searches his fast-depleted liquor stock and comes up with a bottle of Old Monk with some 1/6 th still left in it. O well, since no one except me likes the stuff, I may as well finish it off, I think, and so starts the adventure. Switch on the stereo and boogy to Hung Up!, swish of neat Monk, head into the shower, swish, come out of the shower, swish, debate whether or not to shave and decide on the stubble look, swish, put on shirt, swish... you get the idea. By the time I'm taking the shortcut to the ATM to pick up moolah for the party cover charge, I'm dancing on my feet. I get into the cab, and call up Late Kates SS, Gupshup and Penguin, and tell them I'm very, very, VERY drunk. I reach Velocity, the venue of the party, and I call Gupshup, telling him, "You guys - I'm friggin sloshed here! So pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaazzee get here fast, or I'll have my tongue down someone's throat in ten more minutes and then my broken relationship will be on your head!", before dissolving into cackles. Worried silence on the other end!



The rest demands third person narration:

Closetalk stands at the queue, smiling his pearly whites at the cute guys around him. Recognizes Long Nose Guy from the online community they're both a part of, and slides over. Puts an arm around him and smooches him on the cheek, while his boyfriend is right next to him. "You've been a stranger for too long, sexy," purrs Closetalk, even as things get hot under the collar for Long Nose Guy, who's now aware that CT's hands are roving over his ass. "Won't be, anymore," he manages to mutter back, and this pleases CT, who swishes away to get his coupon.

It's a hot, sultry night, and the party is rocking. Dark lights, sexy studs showing off, some dancing, some holding their drinks, some holding their crotches, and Closetalk loves it all. Wonders whether he should get a drink, but then decides to check out the crowd properly first. The Gang are still on their way so there's adequate time left. The 440 watt smile and the perfect teeth do their trick, as do the open shirt buttons exposing the curling chest hair, and CT wades through the crowd, touching, feeling, smiling apologies that meant to be so much more than just apologies. Is that a familiar face? OMG... it's Beret Boy of long, long ago.

BB: "Hey, it's been ages!"

CT: "Hey sexy, you're looking sharp tonight!"

Ok, so he's not looking sharp at all. He's gotten rid of the goatee that I found sexy, and there's no beret on him now. Just a red shirt that spells out wannabe-matador, and a big brass belt that should have been sold away to the ragpicker twenty years ago. But he's man-meat and CT's drunk. So CT purrs some more and drags him onto the dance floor. Of course that's just an excuse to feel him up properly, and CT soon finds that the hairy bastard is quite turned on after some time. But CT's bored by now: a sudden announcement - "I need to pee. Bye!" - and he makes his exit.

The loo is nice. The Velocity loo always was. So CT saunters over to the mirror and makes his call. Delhi Designer Friend is on his way, he says, and then CT switches it off. Some of the guys are looking appreciatively at CT, so those looks and smiles have to be returned. Water splashed on hair and face, shirt and belt adjusted, butt thrust out. Come on suckers, let's have a night to remember is the motto of the evening, as he steps out again.



Time to traverse the disc again, and avoid the area where Beret Boy is. And that's when I bump into DDF who's already there, beer in hand. His second GB party and he hates it, so it's only CT's duty as the gracious host to make sure he enjoys it. Some close dancing, and what could have been a kiss, before it is rudely interrupted by SnowWhite's Stepmother who's reached just in time.

So after delivering a vote of thanks to SS and the Gang who've just saved my relationship, I proceed to hand over all my drink coupons to them. DDF also comes over, and I introduce him to them, who pronounce upon his departure that he was 'cute'. Much frenzied dancing ensues, though they neglect to play Shakira's Hips Don't Lie. And that's when CT spies Hotel Guy dancing with Older Married Guy nearby. Both of them greet CT with hugs and kisses (cheek 2 cheek only), and OMG even rubs hand across CT's ass. Aaa, well, OMGs must be allowed their indulgences at times - and when you're flying higher than a US spaces ship, you're more inclined to like some molesting in the dark. Hotel Guy grins (soooo cute!) and says that CT looks better in real life than in his online profile, and CT makes a mental note to have new snaps taken.

BUMP! And that's Cute Doc, looking even cuter tonight with his new rimless glasses. He says he's seeing someone now, and CT grimaces when he realities that it's Snooty Snoots, a friend of Nature Boy's, who he never liked. So out comes the artificial smile, and CT gushes, "I'm soooooo happy for you, da-ling! How long have you guys been together?" Two months, comes the answer, and looks like they're heading to form an LDR as well, since Cute Doc is hoping to leave the country for his PhD soon. Sooooooooooo, CT wishes them all the luck, kisses Cute Doc wantonly right next to his lips, doesn't resist using his tongue a bit, gets a playful whack on the ass from the doc, and saunters away.

A glug of beer from SS: Who's the next cute guy around?

So, by the time the clock strikes one-fifteen, the footmen are far from turning into mice, the stallions are still prancing about with their ponies, and the Penguin, thankfully, doesn't turn back into a pumpkin. Closetalk, on his part, is playing the Diva Twinkle Toes avatar to the hilt, and groans aloud in anguish when the gay boys are herded out of the disc. DDF has disappeared, so CT's chastity is very much intact. And best of all, the beautiful uplifting buzz has still not abandoned him. In his head, he keeps on hearing:

Ek gilasi, do gilasi,
Teen gilasi, chaar...
I'm buzzing, I-I-I'm buzzing....

- interspersed with Nazia's melodious Disco Deewane.... aha!...

Time to listen to Madonna now...

Indiana Bones in Bombay

Indiana Bones in Bombay

Was returning home this evening from work in the Back of Beyond, namely Vashi, and that's when I realised that in the course of my sexual pursuits, I've been on a veritable Mumbai darshan! Seen in that context, it gives a whole new meaning to the term, Daddy Looooong Legs. *grin*



So, while chug-chugging back in the train now, I thought back to my hitch-hiking/ back-packing/ bed-roaming days, and here's the list:

South Bombay:
1. Cuffe Parade - On the fifteenth floor of a high rise apartment over the ocean, and the cute foreigner on the second floor of the Taj Residency. Not bad at all.
2. Colaba - Everywhere, from the crumbling old mansion to the Gordon House to the Taj Mahal Hotel. Rather, everyone!
3. Fort - A quiet little office just behind Flora Fountain, Bombay's second-most well-known tourist destination, after Gateway.
4. Marine Drive - A cute South Indian guy in a lovely apartment off the ocean, and we made love near the open window. There was also the Sindhi broker in his glitzy yet tasteless Chowpatty penthouse.
5. Peddar Road - Italian on Diplomatic Drive who was o-so secretive about his identity, and then Gujju in another flashy apartment. I fell in love with the Italian's home: filled with paintings and drawings and sculpture.

Exceptions: Churchgate and Tardeo. Dunno how I missed those!

Central Bombay:
1. Worli - Another sea-facing apartment opposite a nice Chinese food joint. Wish I had more time to enjoy the view, though.
2. Lower Parel - Mmmm.... ad executives, media people, copywriters, investment bankers, mill workers,... the works, baby!
3. Parel - I actually had sex in a chawl here once. Unbelievable. I was more interested in the overall design and structure of the chawl than having sex, and thepoor fellow got a bit discouraged. ;-)
4. Dadar - Only in Dadar West, though, not the East. How different could it be, now, anyway?

Western Suburbs:
1. Bandra West - There are of course the usual suspects here: Hill Road, Linking Road, the many streets parallel to Linking Road, Carter Road, Pali Hill, Bandstand... no, cross that last one out, not Bandstand.
2. Khar West - Used to stay there sometimes on weekends with my bro, and sometimes I used to head out for 'walks'... *secret grin*
3. Santa Cruz West - One sultry afternoon, a pick-up from the station, and we drove to his house in a leafy neighbourhood. Two hours later, I headed back for the station, quite satisfied.
4. Ville Parle West - Near Barista, there lives a delicious dessert named... *wicked grin*
5. Juhu - The most special of them all. Boy and I spent three fantabulous days at the Juhu Sea Princess, wishing they would never end. Everytime I pass by the place, I text message him from my phone, telling him I love him. ;-)
6. Andheri West - Only 7 Bungalows and Lokhandwalla, am afraid. Never got too close to Four Bungalows. Remember getting devoured by mosquitoes one night, when I stayed over at one guy's place. *sigh*
7. Andheri East - That's where most of Gay Bombay stays, if chat rooms are anything to go by. So I've done some nice guys here, and also some complete idiots who I've avoided afterwards. Most lived close to the international airport, and most advertise for firangs online.
8. Jogeshwari -A threesome with two Parsis. Hilarious.
9. Goregaon - He was goooooooood! Almost makes up for his being from UP. *evil grin*
10. Kandivali - Met Goregaon Guy for our first session here, at his friend's place.

Back of Beyond:
1. Vashi - The bubble went bust. Palm Beach Road is a poor imitation of Marine Drive, and what I got was a poor imitation of Good Sex.
2. Nerul - Kinky. Stripped in the open, with the sea behind me, and took pictures. This is also the time which engendered The Famous Pic in Shorts in my chatroom profile. ;-)

(Intrepid Indiana Bones folds his map)

The answer to the Arseholes who bombed Bombay!!!

The answer to the Arseholes who bombed Bombay!!!



Yesterday, I was chatting on the phone with SnowWhite's Stepmother and telling him how apprehensive I'd felt, riding back home much later at night on the train. That's when SS giggles on the phone and replies, "Da-ling, I'm not at all worried for you. If a terrorist threatened you, you'd probably distract him with a blowjob!"

I giggled. True, I'd do that if he were a bomb-shell (Kashmiri, preferably!); but then I'd also probably get into S&M mode and bite his fcuking balls off.

This is going to be Soppy

This is going to be Soppy

Just got off the phone after a lamba 25-minute chat with Boy, and I feel as if I could leap over the moon. Would hate to be like a Mean Married Monster, ala the Insane Bitch, but then, I can't help feeling like this. That's because at the end, over and over, I realise that he's by far the best guy for me. There have been so many times when I've regretted giving the old heave-ho to Ex With Paunch simply because I wasn't really that into him physically: in the depths of depression, I used to tell myself that, so what if the sex wasn't great, and he had a paunch, and I was fooling around with cartloads of guys behind his back, at least there was the security of knowing that Ex With Paunch loved me and would be there for me.



Or I would wonder where on earth I went wrong with NatureBoy, if I should have been more understanding of 'work hassles', and was I really that All-Pervasive a boyfriend in his life that he needed 'space' from me? And I kept on torturing myself over and over again that maybe it was all MY fault.

Everyone says that to himself/ herself at some point of his/ her life, I suppose. There were so many chats with my friends: how important is it to compromise? How important is it to change the way I love? My friends know how I love: I love in totality. I love with all my heart, and I make him the centre of my world, and I expect to be made the centre of his. And that has led to a lot of bruising in the past. Perhaps, all those bruises were necessary. To get to this point. To understand the value of Space. To understand, without essentially giving up the way I love, because that is quite impossible for me. Work timings and schedules are a problem for which I would perhaps have not had the patience to deal with earlier. I would have belittled them as inconsequential. And yet, when I'm faced with them myself now, I realise how important it is to not make a mountain of every molehill, and a demigod out of every boyfriend. It's important to just be human, and believe in human frailty. Because that makes you live and experience human love.



And there are those things that make it all worthwhile. Like the laughs and jokes that I share with Boy, that I couldn't have with either Ex With Paunch, or NatureBoy. Like the way I know he is generous to a fault. Like the way I know he rushes to help people wherever he can. Like the way we gel when we burn up the dance floor together. Like the way, yes, I shall say it, we have fun even with cyber sex. ;-) And like the way that I know that I can be honest with him about everything under the sun, the way I feel, the way I fear, and I know that he will be there for me, as he has been every day so far since we met. And like the way I know I don't need to hold back from loving him, lest he thinks I'm intruding on his 'space'. There's been a lot of scope for mistakes and slipping up here, as there always is, when there's a relationship at stake, but somehow, so far, I've had the maturity of not completely giving into my demons. And when I have felt miserable and whiny, I've been blessed by some great friends to unwind with, rather than showering all my manufactured misery on the man that I love.

When push comes to shove, I'm just a Drama Queen. A Queen called Samantha. ;-)

Clucking over Coffee

Clucking over Coffee

Coffee at the Barista opposite VT, and I was chatting with my friend Midnight's Child, who happens to be a year younger to me, though much ahead of me in terms of maturity, I feel at times. Except this one - we were talking about Prominent Activist who works in her office. Of course, she knows about PA because he doesn't take the pains to hide his sexuality from the people at his workplace and there's a kind of acceptance about it there, and she knows that I know him through my own Rainbow Network, but he doesn't know that MC and I know each other. Complicated? It gets worse.

MC, bitching about the coffee: "I hate all Baristas! I told you we should have gone to the Cafe Coffee Day instead!"

CT, ignoring all and concentrating on the black forest on his plate: "So what's new these days?"

MC, grinning mischievously, "Well, there's a lot of gossip about your Friend PA at the office!"

CT, puzzled: "Really? Why should they care? I thought PA is very open with the fact that he's gay and all? I thought he's generally well-liked there."

MC nods head: "O, he's liked and all, but there's still loads of gossiping. How he's gay and all that. You can never stop the wagging tongues."

CT laughs: "True. You're wagging yours here, and I'm not stopping it!"

MC, unfazed: "And he surfs gay porn and all!"

CT, stunned: "I'm sure he does not! PA's hardly the kind to surf porn in the office!"

MC shrugs: "Well, the guy who used to sit next to me has a vantage view of his computer screen, even though he thinks he can't be watched, and he says that he's seen some guys' pics on the comp. So....!"

CT shakes head: "Well, maybe he was just looking at some gay lifestyle site or something. Hell, it may not even be a gay site - maybe it was an ordinary guys' lifestyle or clothing site or something! Ever thought about that?"

MC pouts and takes a sip of her bitter cold coffee: "I suppose that could be the case."

Well, after that admission, I teased MC and called her a 'homophobe', to which she took great offence (in her typical MC way: "I hang around with you, don't I?"). But then, when you think about it, that's what most straight people look at gay sites as. It doesn't matter whether it's a lifestyle or a clothes mag, or even an agony aunt thingy. If it's 'gay', it's gotta be 'porn'.

And to an extent, you can't even blame them too much. Even if you open gay.com on your site, who in their right minds would believe you when you say that you're actually reading the cover story on gay priests protesting in midtown America? They won't, for the simple reason that, other than the teeny text portion on the screen, you have this looooong pic of a seminaked guy at the right side, an overhead bar that screams out WATCH LIVE GUYS AT HOME, and various assorted ads on the other side for everything from penis pumps to viagra.

Ummm... what text?

In Chennai and Delhi, when I used to visit cybercafes, the single most important reason why I usually cruised on indiatimes.com, despite the awfully ugly men available there, was the fact that there were NO such huge banners proclaiming HOMO to the rest of the world. It made your daily gay viewing palatable to the world at large, unless you were caught jacking off in the cybercafe - which I've actually witnessed firsthand (excuse the pun) in Chennai once.

;-)

And then, there's the other side of the story: the part where you staunchly defend the fact that you're gay and your freedom of expression (and experience) should not be stymied because of a couple of prudes who haven't been laid in centuries. Thats the part of me that argues, if PA was reading a couple of articles from gay.com at office, he very well can, since he's not watching porn or doing anything obscene. He's reading, for God's sake, and that's all.

Before you elect me as the chairperson of GB, however, I must admit that I'm not quite that brave or that outspoken or that militant. And no, I wouldn't surf gay.com myself at the workplace.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

That's supposed to be our 'song', SnowWhite's Stepmother's (SS) and mine, and even though I tried to resist at first, it's come to Stick. O yes, SS is the new name of the erstwhile decorator/designer, in case you were wondering. (The other choices were Mr Miranda, which sounds like a tranny bar dancer in Mumbai, and Soiree Sistah because he insists on calling parties that, but those were all turned down by the protagonist.) And the other day, seeing that I was in the neighbourhood, we decided to meet up for some... 'fun'.

It was supposed to be a Monsoon Appreciating outing. The unanimous choice was Carter Road Cafe Coffee Day, with its vantage position over the Bandra seafront and its extensive collection of good-looking young studs. As anyone who's lived in Bombay will tell you, when people go to this particular CCD, coffee is the last thing on their minds. The objective is to see and be seen, and so SS announced that he would bring along his Rs 800 Bombay Store designer umbrella, with the city trainstops labelled all over it. I said, That sounds great, and proceeded to roll up my corduroy trouser legs to three-quarter length to get into the Rain Collection mood.



SS, about five minutes after he arrives: "This place sucks, and it's all your fault!"

CT, perplexed: "OK, so it's my fault that it's not raining anymore? How come?"

SS, frowning: "Not the stupid rain. Everyone here is ugly. And the pretty ones aren't looking. Why would they, if you advertise that fat Suketu Mehta book out there like that?! *flails arms* Put that thing away now beneath my umbrella!"

CT, complying: "Happy?"

Evidently not, and it was true: both the rains and the boys had played a cruel joke on us, and so we decided to go walking on Carter Road instead, spotting some beefy hunks jogging past. On the way, we squealed in laughter, as we discussed what it takes to get straight men into bed with you. That's when we saw the First Dud of the day. To be fair, he was masquerading as Adonis. Tight Reebok tanktop which showed off a great chest and arms that could hold up the world (what's a puny gay boy to that?!), and black shorts that showed off his firm ass. Both SS and I cooed together.

SS: "I'm in Lust. That's so much more powerful than being in love."

CT: "O, did I tell you that it's Boy and mine six-month anniversary tomorrow?"

SS, quickening gait: "You are the last thing on my mind right now. Hurry up now, he's walking faster. Let's overtake and see him properly from the front."

Well we finally did overtake the Adonis, but then we came to a shocked standstill almost as fast as we had walked past. Nothing! The guy had nothing!

SS, shocked whimper: "What a waste. What a colossal waste!"

CT, pointing out the 420th Theorem of Gay Life: "Have you noticed that it's always the same, give or take a couple of guys? The guys who're always so pumped out and have the best abs and the best chests and the best arms usually also have the smallest..."

SS, interrupts, still dazed: "Probably smaller than a chilli!"

CT, nods head morosely, agreeing, "And it's not as if his shorts were loose or anything. There was just no trace of anything there!"

First Dud of the Day.



The second one came when we decided to hop over from Carter Road to Just Around The Corner on Waterfield Road. This was the promised land for Bandra's gay boys. At any given time, it's populated by at least half of Bandra's upmarket pansy crowd. But then a voice of caution sounded in my brain: "You know, SS, it's a weekday today, so there may actually NOT be any gay boys here!"

At that, I was accused of being a pessimist, and it certainly seemed as if my fears were unfounded as we spotted two gorgeous young things sitting bang at the entrance, obviously on a date, from the way they were hunched forward on the table. Any closer, and they might have to be arrested, and SS and I sat nearby, pleased that our efforts in voyeurism had finally paid off. And that's when we spotted Second Dud of the Day. Tall and well built again, smooth arms, chest puffed out like a pigeon and wearing a shirt in psychedelic stripes, so that he would have to be gay or a gay Gujju. I was salivating, but SS was scornful: "Ridiculously flouncy. Too old. Easily over thirty."

CT, happy: "Yummy! The charms of an older hunk. O, look, he's coming this way!"

Striped Old Man came close to our table, ostensbily to look at the soccer game on the TV over our heads, even though there was a TV on the wall at his side, pushed his hands in his pants, jutted his hips forward a couple of times, twirled, and walked back to his table.



SS, shocked: "Did you see how tight those pants were?!"

CT, nods in glee: "I could see the outline of his crown jewels! *titters* I want to hit on him!"

SS, looks at me suspiciously: "And what would you say?"

CT: "O, something outrageous and corny. Like, 'I know leopards can't get their spots off, but I'm willing to bet that I'll have your stripes off in a trice, and you'll love it!'"

SS blinks: "I'm going to gag at that. How can you just say something like that?"

CT, proud as punch: "What?! Guys love those lines. They sound great over a cofee date!"

SS groans now: "O, I've had it with coffee dates. I hate going out for coffee, if I know that all I want in the first place is a screw. Too much time wasted, and I don't want to go through all that crap."

At this points, CT flexes his... ahem... muscles, and undertakes to eplain the Award Winning Closet Coffee Date Method. 1. If the guy is cute as hell and you know from your prior net conversation that he's a dim bulb, you flash him an outrageous pick-up line, and skip coffee, heading over for sex, instead. 2. If the guy is cute as hell and also has a head (as opposed to giving head!), you flash the pick-up line after fifteen minutes of coffee, and then have sex. 3. If the guy is not-so cute but smart and you'd like to know more of him in a platonic way, you invest thirty minutes in a great coffee and conversation. 4. If the guy is ugly and dumb, you say that something's come up at home and run, after spending zero minutes at the table.



SS, suitably awed: "But what kind of a line could I give, if I want to go straight for the sex?"

CT, smiles back, looking up from the menu: "Something like, 'Well, they don't have what I want here... but I'm willing to bet that you have more than enough of what I want over at your place'".

SS' jaw drops.

By this time however, we notice that both Striped Old Man and the cute young guys at the entrance have left, and we're the only two faggots left at JATC, and so we decide to hotfoot it ourselves. I need to buy a suitably pansy umbrella in shades of rainbow and a long curved handle, and SS suggests his personal Mecca, the Benetton showroom on Linking Road. Within twenty minutes, we find ourselves within its hallowed portals. (And, o yes, Nature had tp play the bitch and rain torrents when we're on Linking Road, while not showering a drop on us all the time we were at Carter Road.)

No umbrellas, says the attendant at the Holy Shrine, but then ardent devotee that he is, SS happily skips up to the men's floor on the second level to try out what they have in his size. After umpteen bouts of It Suits Me/It Suits Me Not minus the flower petals, we picked up a pink tshirt labelled FREAK for SS, meant to be worn over a collared shirt. As we leave the Sacred Temple, and get into the auto-rick, sheltered by the Rs 800 umbrella, I privately call him the lable on his new tshirt. But then, everyone knows I'm evil.

CT: "Dinner?"

SS: "Something light."

CT: "Where?"

SS: "Lemon Grass?"

CT pouts: "Broke. Cheap, please."

Ten minutes later, we're back at JATC, over a soup and salad, and once again we're the only faggots around. SS glowers at all the people coming through the door, and picks at his soup. "Today must be Uglies Night Out! Look at all these creatures here!"

CT mutters something unintelligable, his mouth full of a combination of beef/chicken/egg/pork/seafood salad.

SS, his spoon clattering on the table: "OMG, just look at that huge table behind us. They look like slumdwellers! U G L Y."

CT starts giggling: "You don't really mean that!"

SS, vehement: "I do! I do! They're awful. Just look at them. All ugly and noisy. *as door opens and another group walks in* Come in, come in. You're at the right place. This is the Ugly Night at JATC!"

CT, chomping: "O hey, look at those two. The guy is H O T."

SS, mollified slightly because of the couple at the salad bar: "OK, he's cute. But look at that horse he's with. I feel like retching, she's so horrid."



CT, nodding: "All the cute guys go that way *sigh*."

SS, perking up: "OMG, just look at his pecs! I love the way they stick out."

CT, examining closely: "No ass, though."

SS: "Who cares, as long as he's got more than the chilli we saw on the Carter Road guy!"

CT, turns and brightens up: "O look, Striped Older Man is back! He's outside on the phone! Let's walk out together, you from that door, and me from this one, and flash him a look."

SS, happy at the prospect of being a cocktease: "O, goody, lets!"

*Sigh* Striped Older Man didn't even turn to look at either of us. And so we lived happily ever after.



***

PS: In related news, Boy and I crossed the six-month mark. Six months into a relationship. For me, this has been the longest time I've ever been hitched to a guy, as bad as it makes me look, but I'm thrilled that we've come this far, and my fingers are crossed multiple times over that we'll take it much, much, much more ahead. OK, so that's where the Mr Sensitive Gay Boyfriend speech ends.



Next Episode: So what's the Real Shelf Life of a gay guy in Bombay? A CT-SS Exclusive!!!

Closetalk: Sexing the City UP!

Closetalk: Sexing the City UP!

I'll admit it: at first, I didn't get what the big deal was about Sex and the City. I mean, ok, so here you are, a gang of four women: the cribbing writer, the slut, the horsey powerbabe and the prudish cinderella, but so what? Then I spent three days watching Season Six on my laptop, and I was hooked. Line and sinker.



Wafted into flatmate's room and told her how it was so completely a gay series, and she jumped in her seat, as she is wont to do, whenever I classify so-and-so as 'gay', etc.

FM: "Why on earth is Sex and the City gay, of all things? It's about women!"

CT, flitting over to the sink to try on apricot scrub: "O, please, it's wasted on women! Women don't obssess about things or enjoy them half as much as gay men do! And there's just soooo much de-lish male nudity! It's just picturised on women to be safe!"

FM: "You're hopeless!"

CT, happily, through walnut bits: "I am! But then, think about it! I can easily place all my gay friends there... and not just as either Carrie or Samantha or whoever, but as a combination of them!"

So, that evening, I sat on the computer and hunted out the Sex and the City quizzes available online, and decided to see which said what about me! As predicted, none of them came up with the same answer.

Quizilla, for instance, proclaims that I'm that gorgeous Slut, Samantha. I got on the phone then and assaulted designer/decorator, who completely agreed that with my sex drive and penchant for shock value when he least expected it, I could be no one else! And I must say, she was the one I was looking forward to being the most. That woman has profound insight into human character, some great nuggets of wisdom (and we're not talking about her boobs here!), and I can only hope to be as sexy and smart as she is! And yes, I completely adore her relationship at the end with Smith Jared.



Another one whch agreed on the Samantha card was this one by Cosmo. This one was not about whether you were like any of the gals, but rather, who your style quotient resembled. It had all to do with: what would you wear to a gals' night out, or in our case, a GB party, and of course, I fitted the bill for 'curve hugging with skin show', which in my case means 'tight tshirt with nipples protruding'. There's also the fact that I'm the bubbly one in the group at these parties, the first one usually out on the dance floor, and that ties in what Cosmo says about Samantha: "encouraging other women to walk on the wild side without apology". Lucky for Boy that my idea of foreplay is "not printable!", my ideal date-dress is "matching gstrings and fluffy slippers", and lucky for me that Boy fits the bill of my "best love match: A man who can unlock your heart as well as your bra (= g's) with one hand - he dresses to impress, and wears tight black boxers underneath. "

;-)

Then there was a surprise by YNR, which said I was most like Charlotte. But then, when I heard their reasons why, I realised a part of me is quite like Prudish Cinderella. As the quiz said, I'm the Ultimate Romantic Idealist: "hurt in love before, but that hasn't caused me to give up on love, and if anything, the resolve to fall in love is stronger than ever." And as I realised, while giving the test, what was my main problem with dating? Hoping that things go smooth very fast - and that's as Charlotte as anyone can get!



Crossing my fingers, though, cuz the quiz verdict also said: That guy you are seeing (or crushing on)? Could be very serious - if you play your cards right! *wide grin on face*

And then there was Quizfarm, which said that I resembled that Mistress of Manolo, Carrie Bradshaw herself. Shouldn't really have surprised me too much, since I tend to worry about my relationships a trifle too much like her, and tend to gossip about them with my friends like her, and have writing ambitions like her as well. But, when push comes to shove, I would like to be Samantha, rather than Carrie. In the end, though, the quiz was not about who I would like to be, but rather who I am.



Strangely enough, the quiz thought that, after Carrie's 75%, I'm most like Miranda, who comes in at a close 67%. And that's not only Quizfarm. There was this other quiz, perhaps the most comprehensive of them all, because it sees how much of me is proportionally like the foursome, and it concluded I'm most a Carrie-Miranda mix. I turned out to be 40% Carrie, 30% Mirandra.

What pegs me as Carrie? Well, there's the fact that I'm inquisitive like hell - I discovered my dad's porn mags when I was 13! - and am very much into Indecision and Avoiding Tough Issues - their language, not mine. I love to talk, and need my mate to be a good listener (thank you, Boy!), and I Exude A Quirky Charm, or so say the guys I've slept with. Meanwhile, much like Miranda , I would prefer to be Cautious In Love And Seek Stability - though, where a LDR comes in here, I frankly don't know! And yes, I have those Seething Career Ambitions.

Sultry Samantha finally comes in at this point, and contributes 20% with my leo fire sign. Enter the Thoughtless, Selfish and Audacious part, which gets caught up in Immediate Gratification. At odds with this, is my 10% Charlotte: Romantic At Heart, complete with that Boy who Completes Me and Tethers me to the earth when I get carried away with my fantasies. And yes, I Cry At Commercials And Sappy Movies.

After five tests, two phone calls, much giggling on the phone and many more comparisons, the material for this post was ready. This was going to be one of those Introspective ones. The ones where I stand in front of the mirror, and go swishing with wands to see what I'm like. Not many occassions to really do that when you're happy. Most people tend to do that only when they're in a purple funk, and that's not a great option. Naaa, this is way better. So, here, instead of The Big Apple, we have this Giant Train Line which passes off for a city, and instead of four rather unidimensional (now that you come to think of it!) girls, you have one very complex gay man.

Entry to the closet is free.

No scrubs!

No scrubs!

The other day, I was lounging over at Delhi Designer Friend's Bandra home, and I peeked into his loo. Reappeared a second later with a grin on my face and remarked, "Do you think that every gay man in Bombay uses apricot face scrub?"

Now, DDF has seen it all, done most of it, and taught a little bit of it, and so he says, grinning back, "Every gay man in India, yes."

CT, shutting loo door: "Every gay man in the world?"

DDF, stretching and yawning like the lazy Delhi faggot that he is: "Possibly, probably, hopefully."

CT, puzzled grin on his face now: "But why on earth, apricot? Why nothing else?"

DDF: "Don't you like apricot? What have you got against apricot now?"

CT, rolling over in laughter: "Nothing, actually. I use the stuff myself."



DDF, feeling vindicated in a lovely gay bitch sort of way: "There you go! It's... nice! And it feels so lovely to use apricot as a base. Something decidedly... faggoty about it."

At this point, CT glances over the room they're in - the blood red crimson linen curtains over the French windows, the overhanging mini-chandeliers, the six foot mirror against the wall, the kitschy cushion covers sprawled over his bed with Marylin Monroe grinning out of them - and decide that he's right about the 'faggoty' part. Not even a combination of Gujju and Shetty would be able to cover this one! So CT nods, and: "And strawberry too. I think there's something very gay about strawberry."

DDF frowns, pats his Marylin cushion: "Didn't your straight ex flattie use strawberry flavoured face cream?"

CT grins happily at the memory of discovering ex-crush's cream in the loo a long, long time ago, and proclaims: "i'm soooooo sure that he was a confused little boy!"

DDF, in the lovely sarcastic manner that Delhi bitches have mastered: "Yes, yes, and waiting for a good little boy like you to deliver him from a fate worse than death!"

At this point, CT being the calm, dignified, poised, elegant and non-bitchy creature that he likes to believe he is, deigns to not reply, and the conversation shifts to other topics. But earlier today, while chatting with the Wicked Witch of the West, I wondered whether there are any so-called Favourite Cosmetics that men - straight, gay, trannies, what-have-you - use. A background check is necessary at this point: WWW works for one of the country's foremost girly mags, and CT was enquiring as to whether the aforesaid girly mag might want some freelance stuff from the closet. That's when WWW crooned, "It's a shame you can't write anything about beauty products and all", and thereupon I remembered my earlier conversation with DDF. "Well," I responded, "You never know: I could just do that!"

Think about it. What do men use and what do they don't?

From my experience of rummaging through the bathroom shelves of Indian men, a large number of whom were of the... ahem ahem... 'faggoty kind', here are my findings:

a) Everybody loves a large and ugly hunk of herby or some-such ayurvedic soap. Usually concocted from the weeds found in and around Pondicherry, and usually a deep forest green or muddy brown in colour, the soaps are ugly to behold, and smell like a bunch of tulips. Can be procured from those Fabindia or Khadi Udyog-like places. And yes, they usually cost a bomb. The days of Pears are long gone.

b) Shampoos must always be ayurvedic as well. Same principles as the soap apply here, again. Usually the bottles are very dowdy looking, but the users swear to the glossy effects of the muddy brown liquid contained therein. Dr Batra's usually packages the same stuff in smarter looking bottles.

c) The much-discussed apricot face scrub. A must have and you're a social nincompoop if you don't agree.

d) Conditioner for the hair. Usually only for gay men. Haven't seen on too many straight men's shelves, myself.

e) Face wash or face mask. Generally speaking, men tend to go for the former, though a minority of the 'faggoty kind' go for the mask/pack as well. My mum used to favour the cucumber mask, but I'm not sure whether people still go for that these days. Rose water concoctions are also popular. Sweet smelling and all that. Orange peels are supposedly hep, but personally, I think they look ghastly.

f) Does hair gel actually count as a cosmetic? I mean, hey, even the poodle uses it these days! And no, the really sexy guys don't use Brylcream.

And inspite of all that brouhaha last year about that new 'fairness cream for men', I haven't seen it on any guy's bathroom shelf. Or maybe they're hiding it, like the company that markets the cream claims/claimed they do. Honestly speaking, I don't think too many men would care. I mean: most of the guys I've met are those that hanker after darker toned ('wheatish' in gay chat room lingo) guys. I mean, that's one of the reasons I've met them! So, that's one cream that doesn't seem to be too much in high demand.



Just called up DDF and informed him that I told a friend about our apricot face scrub conversation, and darling boy responds with: "Aren't lubes also considered 'cosmetics'? What have you recommended in that category?"

Well... I don't really kiss and tell...

Untitled and Unknown

Untitled and Unknown

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

What troubled lives we do lead!

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

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

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

Close the closet doors hurriedly, lest anyone walk in.

Musings

Musings

Sometimes, I wonder how my relationship with Boy sounds to the world at large. Perhaps, if I were much more private, I would have hated baring my soul and my relationship like that, but then there's the exhibitionist streak in me that overcompensates...

We're heading onto six months over here. Much of that time has been spent well. Getting to know each other better. Loving each other. Involving each other in our lives and schedules. Boy's work at the university and the dance classes. My work at the TV channel. We've talked to each other about prospective job changes. About the GRE and the complications it involves. When my parents were down here, and they were worried about my elder brother not getting a suitable mate, I felt stifled somehow, unable to tell them that I had found the love of my life... wanting some sort of warmth from them, but of course that was quite inevitable. Boy would call me at night, and we would talk about his mum and his old school teacher... and how good it would be to live together, finally.

Of course, things have not been all rosy. Issues have cropped up, time and again. We've been torn because of our libidos, for one. Webcams have a limitation, after all... and with both our new jobs, even camming has proved to be elusive. It has been ages since I saw his face - live - and I miss that. He knows that. I hate the fact that because of our now busier skeds, it's so much tougher to stay in touch and reply to every sms message. And I must confess, there have been so many times I've behaved like the shrill housewife angry when hubby is late from work.

I've grappled with issues like: where does one draw the line between seeking reaffirmation as a measure of uncertainty, and seeking reaffirmation as a measure to stay involved. There have been superstitious issues as well - none of my previous relationships have lasted beyond five months, and I think that made me more itchy in my head. I've tried to toe the line between two extremes: being so up-close as to be intrusive and pushy, and being so withdrawn as to allow the relationship to fall into a rut.

So, yes, it's been a tremulous time, not without its shocks and jolts. And not without its moments of tenderness. Moments when I can hear him sing into my ears - hume tumse pyaar kitna... And though my Gujju Boy is no Kishore, his words are music to my ears. Recently, I made mum listen to the rendition of the Bengali song aay re aay, that I'd taped of Boy singing when he was in Bombay, and Mum loved it. I was so tempted to tell her all then, but I didn't. Despite all the frustration at the LDR crap, I remember why I've fallen in love with him. Despite all the temptation to have sex and forget, I remember the way his lips made me feel, the words he says, the touch he evokes, the tenderness in his eyes. The advice he renders. The inscription on our rings...

Now?

... Always.

My Cup Runneth Over

My Cup Runneth Over

A warning is necessary from the very first line here, that this is a strictly adult-rated gay post, but if you have permissable parents, then PG is allowed. Since I'm neither an adult, nor am I 'out' to my parents, it basically means I'm not going to be allowed to see my own post, but what the hell, just the fact that I wrote it down in rainbow hues is good enough for me!

World Cup fever! And while dad and bro are watching the game excitedly, yours truly is sitting hunchbacked in the closet, fantasising about which players he would like to Do. Let's face facts: soccer is vastly more exciting than cricket could ever hope to be, the uniforms are tighter, there's so much more sweat factor, and the shorts fly higher. Irfan Pathan may be hot, but hell, he's all covered up, and those ugly white costumes and pads make you exercise your imagination so much that quite frankly, it's not worth the effort!

So here's a list of the Top Hotties on the field that Closetalk would like to get down and dirty with. Every little sordid detail of it...

First off, let's eliminate that stupid monkey with awful hair and severely flawed teeth who's supposed to be the toast of Brazillian football. I mean, the man gets his stoooopid galfriend to dance with her big jugs in a football bra and you can't get any more camp than that, it's true, but in sheer U.G.L.Y (Unceasingly Grovellingly Loathesome and Yellowish) terms, that is one Brazillian who is un-humpable.



Closet Reject No 1 is: Ronaldinho!

However, thankfully for world soccer, there are far more delectable men on the field, and so the closet moves on next to that Guru of Gayness, England's very own David Beckham. In fact, in the current English line-up, there is a whole host of beautiful men I'd like to get into so many fascinating positions here (we're only playing ball here, honey!), but Becks still gets a special mention. (And Veed is having an orgasm as we type this out here!) His Mohawk, or his black nail polish, his very obvious flaunting of the fact that he loves the gay idolatry, his Spice Girls wife and his flings with the nanny, all earn him a Major Star from the Closet.



Closet Award: Chocolate Candy First Class.
Becks is to be tied down on a chair in a deserted warehouse, only in his soccer shorts, and hot chocolate is to be dripped slowly down over his face, neck, shoulders, chest, o-so-smooth tummy, till he is coated with the gooey stuff, the smell of hot warm bubbling cocoa is everywhere, and all anyone can do is DIG IN with a vengeance. I expect Becks to make a lot of noise by the way, and of course, we want to encourage that in every way.

After we have made use liberally of the paper napkins at hand (bbye, Becks!), we shall move onto the next soccer sexbomb. Luis Figo of Portugal is not a new name, or a young one, but the man simply typifies the saying, Old is Gold. Personally, I would love to have him covered him in molten gold *screw chocolate!* and installed in a secret chamber underneath my bed, but since that would amount to culpable homo-cide of such a fantasmatic piece of MAN, I will instead award him a special prize from the Closet. With his tall, hunky frame, sinful smile that would make a witch's tits sprout warm milk (ewwwwww, ewwwww and all that!), wisps of curly black chest air that would make a bitch in heat howl into the night, this hot wolf gets me on fire!



Closet Award: Wolverine First Class
Figo cannot be tamed, so he must clearly be the one in charge. Picture bed with crimson satin sheets, and Figo's tanned, hairy frame swathed in yards and yards of the fabric. The creature bounds up to you suddenly and overpowers you, lowers himself in such an enigmatic way that you can feel the searing heat from the tall candles placed all around the bed, and locks eyes with you... a touch.. a whiff... a growl. The best course of action is to turn your head and expose your neck and shoulders and wait for the bites.

After we've faced the envious stares at the red welts on our necks in the morning, we must work on the strategy to ensnare our next Football Flame into our boudoir. What is it about Italians? All that romance and all that reputation, and just when you think it's all bunkum, up comes running towards you at a hurricane's pace is Franceso Totti. The man has modelled for Armani himself, and you don't need to wonder why. Totti is not about devil-attitude ala Becks, or sheer-intensity ala Figo - he's the God you want to see dressed up in his suit, and stripped down in his bare un-essentials, in your bedroom. Totti's the beautiful man, the one who is smart enough and sexy enough to know what you want from him in bed (and on the field, but that's secondary here!) even before you ask for it. The result: heaven is a place here on earth.



Closet Award: Sauve Killer First Class
Totti is the date guy. So there must be the red rose, the violins, the impeccable Italian accent whispering in your ears, and midway through the elevator ride, that's when his hand snakes out to halt the car, and he's all over you in the dark. Armani slithers off, belts buckles off, throaty voices in the dark, urgency at its peak. Totti is pushed back till his back is against the glass wall of the elevator, and within view of a shocked city of glittering lights, you get down on your knees to pleasure a god.

Ahem ahem. And the cup goes to...



Closetalk
*shy grin*

Fa(r) - a long, long way to run...

Fa(r) - a long, long way to run...

Last week, I found myself in a funny position as the Wise Old Sod on the mountain, when two friends came to me for Relationship Advice. That was actually scary. The strange situation that catapulted me to this position? - well, both my friends have opted for the rather circuitous and long-winded route to happiness - the Long Distance Relationship.



My good friend Chimneypot recently met a guy whom she calls Boo. It's actually amazingly cute, the fact that they call each other the same nickname - Boo. Boo, however, happens to live in saddi dilli, whereas Chimneypot is very much the Bambaiyya chick. Which thus leads her to think of me as the gospel on LDRs and how to navigate them. The other week, when Boo (the dilli one) was in town, all of us met him, and I was suddenly thrust into the role of the Parent, very similar to something I'd encountered myself earlier. So, I tried to put on my best Parent face - friendly and yet protective, and made the appropriate noises:

CT, clearing throat with hot chocolate at Barista's: "So (young man)... what is it that you do?"

Boo, grinning: "Well, I'm a journalist in Delhi, and I do scientific reporting."

CT, wondering whether I should ask him his 'prospects': "O, cool... is it... interesting?"

Boo, thinking to himself that this guy is a flake: "Ummm... er... yea, sure."

CT, harrumphing away his doubts: "So, you guys have known each other for... how long again was it?"

Chimneypot interrupts: "Chatting for almost three weeks now"

CT, eyes slightly widening: "Three weeks? That's... umm... fast!" (nervous laughter)

At the end, however, wisdom finally kicked in, and I realised that I usually sleep with a guy after knowing him for less than three hours - forget weeks! - and since the two of them are so obviously in love, I gave my blessings. Tathastu!

And then, there was the architect of my own 'Meet the Parents' episode, many eons ago. NatureBoy called me the other day, and informed me that he had fallen in love - and the object of his affections was another Delhi-based lad. So that led to another conversation about farway loves and what they entail - the problems of being in touch and the issues sex maniacs like NatureBoy and I have to face when faced with the prospect of a drastic cutdown in our sex skeds.

NatureBoy: "But how do you get by? I mean, not just the sex part, but the bonding part also?"
CT, nods sagely: "Aaaa, well... there's the phone and there's the internet chat sessions... I guess, there's nothing more you can do, but be involved all the time. Involved in his life."

NatureBoy: "I've got huge phone bills, and it's not been a month as yet!"

CT, recognizing similar financial problems: "You'll soon have to change your internet usage plan to a more expensive one also. And tell yourself, that it's acceptable."

NatureBoy: "What do I do?"

CT, with a patient smile: "Let yourself be. And stay in love."



Moronic advice to give, I admit. But I never actually said I agree with the idiots that I was the LDR expert. Hell, I'm the first one to admit that Boy and I, we're a growing phenomenon. It takes a lot of hard work to stay involved, and I'm not just talking about the phone bills here. There's the whole issue of being in touch. And sex... Fidelity... is a whole different ball game. We all want to stay celibate, and yet often don't turn out to be the romantics we wish we could have been. And while I would so want to know for sure whether they'll be able to make it, I'm keeping my own fingers crossed that I'm able to make it myself!

And that's the honest truth about LDRs.

Meet Kit

So, since a lot of people I know are getting PETA friendly, I decided to choose an adorable kitty of my own.

Meet:

Complicated Closets

Complicated Closets

A lot of strange things about gay men. Why do so many of us find vampires sexy - as evident from the widespread approval to the last post. Why do so many of us aspire to look beautiful? The word was beautiful, not attractive, mind you. What makes so many of us think we're the cat's pyjamas when it comes to taste - and are careful to say that vertical stripes are very Last Season. Why do so many of us long for love - while quite happy with shady couplings in the dark every three to four days. Why are so many of us complex, with severe complexes of our own.

Full stop. No question-mark there.

This past week has seen me mending bridges with a close friend whom I threatened to rechristen ComplexBoy. Of course, he balked at the prospect, even though he acknowledged privately that he fitted the job description. But, I thought, rather than bringing an unwilling participant into the limelight, let me take the opportunity to be honest, and present some of my own complexes:

1. The ego. It looms large over me and is often the master source of several of my other complexes. The good thing about Boy and I is that we both recognize the other's ego, and we know how to work with/around it.



2. One night stands are fine by me and do not affect the ego, but if I am made aware that I am placed/displaced because of someone else, the ego kicks in and I in turn kick the ONS goodbye. Have bid adieu to several such ONS' in the past.

3. Sometimes, I switch off. Just like that. Don't mind me, please. I'll be fine in about thirty minutes or so. But for those thirty minutes, don't bug me.

4. I love money. I always calculate the cost behind a thing. Horrible habit, but I do that. Not that I was severely deprived of money while growing up, but... I always tell myself that you can only not give a damn about money if you have a lot of it - and I don't fit that category. As a result, when I've gone out on a date with a guy who's rich and who loves spending a lot, I always feel very self conscious.

5. I don't go for guys who look very young. Twinks don't do it for me. On the other extreme, I actually don't go for guys who're very old - though I must confess, I once slept with a fifty-eight year old.

6. I usually don't relate well on a date with someone who's too chatty. Then, it feels like I'm chatting to the Cheshire Cat, and I feel like breaking his teeth. People who presume too much about me at the very onset also end up being discarded by the wayside usually.



7. I always think I'm gaining weight. I probably am. But that doesn't stop me from pigging out, either. White and dark chocolate mousse are my faves. O, but no, I would never go for a fat guy. Over the years, however, I've reconciled myself to the fact that there are loads of hot men with pot bellies, and I have taught myself to ignore a pot belly if it's marginal and the guy is cute. *cue for a sigh here.*

8. I hate the classification of tops and bottoms, and that ridiculous habit of calling someone 'dear'. At the very onset I tell the ONS that I don't like classification by 'top/btm' and he is not to ever call me 'dear', if he doesn't want broken balls. Boy, thankully, doesn't do either. ;-)

9. I hate eating before sex. I would much rather have sex on a keen, hungry stomach, and then pig out afterwards. That's why, whenever Boy and I went out on a dinner date, after coming back we would dance and talk or go on a long walk or something, and only then get into the mood.

10. Am a maudlin at heart. When I fall in love, I give it my all. But then, anyone who reads these posts will probably already know that.

PS: Apart from the complex crap, there's good news: Karma passed his 'kindergarten' level of doggie training school yesterday, and Boy and I are quite thrilled!

Welcome to Nerdy Land

Welcome to Nerdy Land

Lazy Sunday, and I went to see a movie with Straight Buddy of Goa infamy. ST wanted to see Cheaper By The Dozen 2, a Steve Martin movie, and since I had loved The Pink Panther earlier when we went to see it (though ST's hopes were apparently dashed by the movie!), I had no objections. The tickets were all sold out, however, and what we settled for in the end was Underworld: Evolution. I was delighted.



Underworld: Evolution is part two of the Underworld series, that started out with a movie of the same name. It is essentialy a saga of war between two races, the Death Dealers (vampires) and the Lycans (werevolves). Part one of the saga sank at the box office without a trace, and I was kinda surprised that they even brought out a sequel, but when I found out that they did, I knew I had to see it.

Because, beneath all these supersexy layers of sluttiness and homosexuality tripe, I'm a.. ahem ahem.. Nerd (capital letters). I love fantasy. I adore fantasy. Throw me a vampire or two and I will be your willing slave. Perhaps that's why I never find anything odd with S&M. *wink*

My tryst with Dark Fantasy (read: vampires and mummies, ghouls and demons) started with that beautiful blonde from Sunnydale, Buffy. Sarah Michelle Gellar exemplified all that was beautiful and sexy in this world and the fact that she used to battle ugly vampires, while falling in love with two gorgeous vampires herself (first Angel, and then Spike) was simply too yummy to not fall for. SMG was Gorgeous Decadence personified, and her cheesy one-liners were everything any devotee of sordid American teenage dramas could hope for.




Next came the slightly literary phase with Anne Rice. I first came across Rice when I picked up her book on the Mayfair witches and the vampire Lestat. Here was the story of how this particularly sexy and devious vampire evolves through the ages, told in a number of books, and how his fate is intrinsically linked to the lives and blood of a coven of witches, the Mayfair family. And of his attraction for Rowan, the most beautiful and talented Mayfair witch, the leader of the coven, and Mona, the briliant young rebel... A Mills & Boons potboiler that goes beautifully blood red, complete with much gore and fantasy and legend. Salivating stuff.



And finally, Underworld: Evolution. Model Kate Beckinsale turned actress for the role of Selene, the vampire rebel, who discovers that she has been lied to all her life by the vampire leader, and she kills him when she finds out that he was the one who murdered her family. In the course of this adventure, she discovers Michael, played by the simply delicious Scott Speedman, who is a hybrid - part Lycan, part Death Dealer and part human. They must join forces to battle Marcus, the First Death Dealer, who is trying to awake his twin brother William, the first Lycan. And of course... they must fall in love.



Sigh... if I were "joining forces" with Scott Speedman, I'd fall in love too.. *grin*



Poor Straight Buddy didn't get much of the movie though. Bah, imbecile!

Tamarind Tales: The Net Experience

Tamarind Tales: The Net Experience

I used to live in a part of Chennai called Kodambakkam. A quiet part of town, and possibly the only notable thing about it was that a lot of Kollywood film stars and singers lived nearby, and the place was also supposed to be inhabited by the most famous Thunder Thigh Madams of the south Indian porn industry.

Very colourful neighbourhood. And of course, I thought it was my solemn duty to add to the colour with my own special brand of Rainbow.

Closetalk in Chennai was quite the shy persona. The hidden chap who used to have sex furtively, rush out to the neighbourhood cyber cafe to get online and search out possible mates. In those days, I hadn't discovered either gay.com or gaydar.co.uk, and so was stuck with Indiatimes.com. There was a chhottu Chennai room in the website's gay section, and this is where all the denizens of the Chennai gay world congregated. To talk about asls and prefs and mushes and available places and likes and dislikes. Your average profile description would go something like:

28 yo, hot guy with mush, look like Rajni, I like smooching, kissing, body sex, no annals, I like to get sucked but don't like doing, will fuck if you want, have hairy body, 5'7", 75 kg, nice lips, 34 wst, am handsome guy looking for cute boy.



Concise. When a puzzled Closetalk would ask what having a mush meant, that would result in some even more puzzled respondents getting back with: Mush? A Mush is a Mush, da! You know what a mush is!

Trouble was, I knew that da was the local lingo for friend, but I still had no clue what mush signified, till after about six to seven meetings when the genius tube light brain of mine figured out that the puzzled respondents had (in amazing brevity) shortened Moustache to Mush. Sometimes, the results were alarming, as I would stare horrified at the Veerappan clone standing outside my door, expecting me to indulge in "smooching, kissing, body sex, no annals..." with him.

Of course, it wasn't always like that. There are loads of cute and hot gay men in the torrid city of Chennai, nee Madras. And they would be all kinds - Palakars, Iyengars, Mallus et al, who would line up to have sex with what they perceived as a 'North Indian'. I used to find it all very funny actually, their enthusiasm for anyone who enters the chatroom and declares boldly that he is "North Indian, da" - within minutes, the guy would receive hits upon hits and would probably have his share of Veerappans and cute South Indian Brahmins to last a whole week. What was funnier was that anything and anyone north of the Vindhyas would be classified as a "Northie", even though he may not be strictly speaking from the Hindi heartland.

Prospective Mate: "So, you're not from Tamil Nadu, are you?"

CT, typing and praying that PM doesn't have a Mush: "Er, no, I'm from Calcutta. Living here in Chennai for awhile."

PM, with renewed interest: "O-ho! So you're a northie? That's good. You must be expert at sex!"

CT, pleased that his expertise has been recognized, but still puzzled: "Er, thanks. But no, I'm not North Indian. I'm from Calcutta in West Bengal. That's in the east."

PM, not bothered: "No matter. You're a northie. So what all do you like in sex?"

The Bangalorean exports came a close second to the 'Northie' in terms of the hot' factor for most Chennai gay men. But Bangaloreans did not mean Kannadigas. There was a difference here. Meanwhile, Malayalis were supposed to have sensual lips and be tigers in bed. So, as soon as you mentioned that you'd recently alighted from a train coming from Bangalore, or anywhere in Kerala, or anywhere north of the VIndhyas, you were automatically invested with the powers of a sexual demigod.

I believe, the correct expression to use here is: Wheeeeeeeee!

A song I used to sing

A song I used to sing

There are times when you're walking along the road, and a piece of the past stops by to show you how different things could have been. Was strolling in the office complex earlier today, when I bumped into Purana Sexy One-nighter. PSO saw me, grinned in happy surprise and pumped my hand in great glee. Where on earth have you been, he asked me, and I must confess that I felt a certain degree of joy in spotting him as well.

CT: "I saw you the other day, heading towards Gym-in-office-complex the other day, but had passed by before I could shout. Looking pretty hot in your sleeveless and shorts!"

PSO, preening, as all Sexy One-nighters of my generation do: "Hehehe... you should have stopped, in any case! So who're you screwing these days, whore?"

CT, preening as all... ummm.... well, preening: "Aaaa, I'm a One-guy guy nowadays."

And that elicited a round of hems and haws. PSO met this young doctor many moons ago last year, while I was still pretty much single, and the two of them seemed to hit it off instantly. I had had the fortune(?) to sleep with PSO's young doctor even earlier, at a mutual friend's house after a night of drunken revelry, and of course I know for a fact that the young doctor bites a lot and is what is known as a 'pure top' in gay.com lingo. *sigh* So when PSO announced that he was seeing this young doctor, I grinned, wished them all the very best, and lightly ran my hand over my shoulder where the brute had left me a scar that lasted a week after!

PSO: "O yes, well, that's over now."

CT, hands cup mouth Sushmita-Sen-style, but not really surprised: "I'm surprised! Didn't last?"

PSO, shrugging, as all Sexy One-nighters of my generation do: "We were on holiday in Goa, and I couldn't resist the cute firang in the deck chair next to mine. Doctor walked in to find me conducting an examination of my own."

CT, shrugging, as all... ummm, well... shrugging: "He bites, you know."

PSO looks at me with newfound admiration: "Wow! I didn't know you'd done him. Before or after I was seeing him? Can you give me anything I can nail him with?"

The conversation veered off to different directions then, when I informed him that my dalliance with the biting doctor had been well in advance of his eventual affections. We stood under the shade of the trees lining the driveway, and reminescenced about the good old days in the old flat, when I would call him over while Punju Flatmate was at work, and we'd have an excellent two-hour session. I always made sure to keep the refrigerator packed with cold water bottles in those days, so very necessary for post-coital chit chat. (I guess the lack of a refrigerator in the current flat heralded the fact that the Slut days were to soon draw to a close.) You sure you don't want me to come with you to the flat now, he asks, and I grin and reply to the negative. It's a serious thing, I tell him. Too serious to fuck up for fun. He laughs, because it's the first time he's heard me say something like that.

Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way...
(- Mary Hopkins)

Hey, being almost-25 isn't so bad after all.

Talking Boundaries

Talking Boundaries

The other day, a friend called me from Delhi, and we got chatting about men, men, the things they do, the things they are, the things they make us feel, men, men and more men... Yes, so it was a long conversation, as you can well imagine. ;-)

And in the middle of all this, he spoke about something called the Emotional Fling.

And so I wondered how an Emotional Fling was different from a Relationship. And how a Fling was different from an Extended One-night-stand. And I thought, let's make the next Closet post yet another page from the hallowed portals of Gay-India-101. And even though I don't particularly like my spectacles, those who've seen me in them, say I look very high-brow boring teacher type, and so on they go again.

FreeSpirit of course has his own definitions, and I have my own. (Separate definitions come in handy in the gay universe, as anyone and everyone knows.) A one-nighter-or-nooner-or-eveninger for me is when I call up a guy whom I've met online and say, Hey, you look pretty cute, so why not come over for some coffee and a bada-bang - or if you're in a real hurry, we can always skip the coffee and head straight to my place for the bada-bang.



(Five times out of ten, they meet at the coffee shop; three times out of ten they meet me at the station and then decide to skip the coffee and head for the bada-bang; two times out of ten, they make up their minds from the very first that coffee is not what they're looking for, unless its dripping on my skin.)

And do I call the one-nighters/nooners/eveningers back? Well, I might, if they're good in bed, or if I'm bored the next time around and hunting for new meat will just absorb too much effort.

But, of course, that's still only an Extended One-night-stand, and not a Fling. (At least in my book, it isn't. FreeSpirit thinks otherwise, though.)

Meanwhile, the Fling starts with a real date. We're meeting on a date, we have a nice time, and we end up in bed. Good sex. But, it's clear on both accounts, from the very beginning that, hey, things are not going to get anymore serious than that: some great dates, some great sex, some great armcandy to parties. End of story. Draw the line after the paragraph. That's what you call a clean-cut Fling. When you're done, you 'fling' him away. *titter*



The real trouble starts, however, when you forget the rule you started out with. And after date no. 5 or 6, you start feeling moony about the Fling. You think: ok, he's smart, he's funny, he's sophisticated, I can identify with where he comes from, he can carry a conversation, he's a demigod when it comes to sex, so maybe there coiuld just be a teeny-weeny little spark of.... something?! That's when the Fling becomes the Emotional Fling. And that's when all hell may well break loose. Unless you know that the other person may also be thinking along those lines, it's best to nip things in the bud. And sometimes, you may just end up being as lucky as I was with Salsa Boy, who saw me going moony-eyed in the Emotional Fling mode, and firmly but kindly popped the bubble.

The Relationship, of course, is different. That's when both parties meet with the avowed intention of having a date. Which may or may not lead to sex. And the decision where you chose either A> Fling or B> Relationship may come either before or after the sex. That's when you decide, you're going to see where this goes, and cross your fingers for good measure. Extra tight.

***

And then, there are the exceptions. The strange little mongrels that sneak up on you when you don't really expect them to. I'm blushing here, because I'm thinking about that beautiful boy called Boy and me. Boy and I were supposed to be a one-noon-stand. I was free, and so was he, and when he called to say hi, he was in Bombay, I replied, hey I'm free this afternoon so come over for a bang. He did. He did. And, he did. The one-nooner licked at my toes like the cutest li'l shitzu you ever saw (I'm talking about Karma, of course) and I was hooked. Line and sinker.

Which just goes to show, for the umpteenth time, there are Boundaries and there are ummm... boundaries... in this jolly gay life.