Under the hammer!

Under the hammer!

Your favourite closet has gone 'public' in every sense of the term - shares of the blog are listed on Blogshares, and you can buy your very own part of it. This bull run is sizzling, people!



***

The other day, a bitch came to my house. An insurance bitch. A sweet tall Parsi woman by the name of Phirozi, who came to collect the cheque from my flatmate for her policy. And then, when she heard that I don't have life insurance taken out on my own, she proceeded to try and brainwash me.

I earn a pittance.

I don't save anything.

My mutual fund investments will not be there when I need them.

My parents will soon die.

I may soon die.

Of some long, horrible disease that will be expensive.

A bus, an airplane, a train, a bird are all conspiring to kill me even as I write this.

Insurance with equity plans are loads better for my feeble brain to understand, rather than my mutual funds.

My future family (wife, three kids, dog) will be left poverty-stricken after I die.

Material Men

Material Men

The return of the icon, is how Madonna would like to put it. She's back in a brand new flava, and the press loves it. And you have to admit, she looks faaabulous, dah-lings. The music's pretty snappy too. Thanks to Nature Boy, I can attest to that.

In a recent interview, Madonna hopes she's still numero uno in the list of gay icons of the world. Apparently, Kylie has in an earlier statement said that, while she may be the princess, the Original Material Girl is still the biggest Queen Bee around. Compliments galore for her confessions on the dance floor...



It's very strange, though, don't you think? That a gay man's icon would be a straight woman? Straight women? Judy Garland, Cher, Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, Kylie, Beyonce.... what is it about super-sexy (alright, not Garland or Gaynor!) women that makes gay men across the world think of them as... icons? I mean, I think George Michael is H-O-T - always was, and is still! I even go for the skinhead look of Right Said Fred. But how come the Pet Shop Boys never made it to Gay Icon status? How come that recent Russian boy duo, whose name I just can't recall, never made it to the drool-list of gay men worldwide?



;-)

They say, it's about the image. They say it's about being flouncy. The abandon. You feel the abandon when Cyndi Lauper hollers that Girls just wanna have fun, not when she says that Time after time things don't go well for her. You identify with Material girl because deep down you like the bling-bling, you can't wait to Strike a pose on the dance floor, would love to be caught in a picture reading Vogue, feel sentimental when you remember what it was to be Like a virgin, but you don't really give a fig about crying for Argentina. And, yes, you have sooooo many Confessions of the dance floor, that it's not very funny at all...

To each his own. Despite this long-winded speech, I must admit, I've been a die-hard fan of Madonna since I was twelve years old. I guess that answers my question about whether you're born or made gay...

First in line

First in line

Remember that old question about whether you're born gay or whether you're made so? That question which every gay man and woman has probably asked him or herself at some point of life. I did too. Not whether I was ever induced to have sex with a man, but whether my continuously having sex with men automatically meant that sleeping with a woman wasn't half as fun. That's the old gay vs bi and bi vs straight and gay vs straight question. Why am I gay?

The first time I had sex, I knew I was going to have fun. I had not planned the occassion, and like most people, my first time came completely out of the blue. But I guess I was prepared for it. I 'rose' to the occassion, pun intended, and satisfied most of the kinky thoughts and desires that had existed in my closet. No one forced me to have sex with them - they offered me sex, and I took it, because I was curious and well... horny.

;-)

I actually had sex with a woman after that. I kept on telling myself that maybe I was just bisexual... this was alright, even normal, that I lusted after men, and I tried to force myself to lust after women too. But Baywatch left me cold. Pamela was slutty, but I liked the guy she was french kissing on the beach, and it was his speedos I was thinking of, rather than hers. It was clear that this line was not going to work.

It took a brief affair with a close female friend to make me realise that I was gay. Not bisexual. And certainly not straight. I'm not attracted to women at all. My flatmate says, she's more comfortable around me, a gay man, than she could ever be around either a straight guy or a straight woman. I still don't know what to make of that.

And then there are the stories from other people around me. The stories about classmates who've later 'turned' straight. Next door neighbours who raped them when they were younger. Experiments with cousins in the dead of night. Whispers and threats and loves and persuasions. No single first experience is ever the same, though you may be tempted to classify them under Schoolboy Sex or Neighbourly Nudge or whatever. When I first started having sex, I kept on asking them about their first experiences. I found it turned me on, to some extent. Or it horrified me, which in turn helped me feel tender towards them and infuse some real passion in the sex that followed. I'm not sure who it helped more: me or them.

And it never answered my question of whether we're made gay or whether we're born this way.

You can ring my bell!

You can ring my bell!

The party was good. I may be biased since I'm the one who hosted it, but the rest of you will all be ungrateful SOBs if you say you didn't have fun.

;-)



Gay interior designer/ decorator was tickled pink at the idea of the gay bloggers' party and came two hours early to play dress-up. Of course, me being the Desperate Housewife that I am, I was knee-deep in last-minute chores like getting the cold drinks (which turned out to be lukewarm, seeing that I don't own a fridge) and rearranging the mats in my room, and hanging the sketches on the wall and what-not. My look for the day was decidedly Filthy Bear: an exotic species in itself, wearing tight tshirt and faded jeans, stubble on face, and iPOD on hip, as I dashed across the neighbourhood, with a decided smell of mansweat. I still didn't hook any ghaati boys in the neighbourhood, though. Expected.

So, finally, we did play dress-up. I played Bombay Whore. Which involved a full-sleeve diagonal striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to half-length, only one button just above the belly, and tucked in imperfectly to show a glimpse of tummy, teamed with stonewashed jeans and a red cloth belt, and white 'low' undies on top of the jeans. And, in case you missed the point, I had a name tag titled S.L.U.T. aka CloseTalk slung around my neck. Ding-dong, do I hear the door bell ring?

Meanwhile, d/d was the French caddy slut for the night - small white tshirt, tiny black shorts that gave everyone around a great look-see of his jewels whenever he parted his legs, and my fake leather beret on his head.

Natureboy was wearing a white tshirt which proclaimed SHOWOFF!!! in bold red, together with white shorts. French beard optional. Emily came in a red kurta and folded-up jeans, accessorised with two jewelled belts bought from some disreputable pimp's showroom in Colaba, a very cute anklet and a pink Minnie Mouse hairband. Hehehe

Apple-boy came dressed all formal, teamed up with a fluorescent orange tie around his neck. Lovely trousers. He brought with him Gup Shup, who went all American boy chic, with his uber-tight tshirt screaming SELF MADE MAN. I should have had hookers for the party - sigh.

But then, we did have French caddy slut, aka d/d.



The late-comers were Funny Parsi Guy, who dropped in on his way to another friends' birthday party, and Visualscribe who had everyone in the room (with the exception of FPG) lusting after his gold sequined mojris.

The cold-drink lady sniggered when I opened the door to get the bottles, in my over-under-wear, and I'm hoping I won't be evicted from my building. My flatmate of course had a blast seeing so many exubert fags going all tipsy.

Wine, black rum, Bacardi, Alcazar, paapris with tartar sauce, paani puris. Gloria Gaynor, and we discussed Nazia Hassan's Disco Deewaane. Bappi-da was mentioned, as we preferred the Hindi version of D-I-S-C-O to the English one, or at least, Vik did. There was general lamentation about not having New Meat at the party, but I really didn't want to hold a GB party II.

Played Kajra re, and d/d promised to do a mujra at the next party if I can get Kua mein dub jaoogi. But the actual performance came much later, when most of the guys had gone - Emily and d/d threw one of my flattie's green dupattas between them, and did the most awe-inspiring dhak-dhak moves to Madhuri's Maar daalaa!

Moral of the story: Cyndi Lauper knows what she's talking about when she says that Girls just wanna have fun!

POP!

POP!

Ok, so I uncorked the bubbly again.



The gay slut has returned to his haunts. And no, before anyone starts tut-tuting and saying 'I told him so' lines, while I take my stillettoes out again from behind the closet, I just want to reiterate that I never said earlier I'd abstain completely from sex. Random sex was what I meant. However, as it turns out, I could find enough loopholes around this one.

Random sex means a phone call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet and screw?

My brand of non-slut sex was a phone-call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet, have the cuppa coffee for propriety's sake and then go for a bang at your place?

Sigh.

I could get away with this line, of course, but then some sort of reality dawns in my pretty little head, and I decide that one type of slut is as good as (or, as bad as) any other. No use pretending to be something I'm not. So I might as well just slip the stillettoes back on.

But I'm a Desperate Housewife, really. Finally met up with Beret Boy the other night, had the rudimentary coffee and conversation, and convinced him to come back home with me. Lovely boy, good sex, but all my hopes (and giggles) of the earlier post for a possible relationship are down the drain, of course - 22 year old boy who's just new on the gay scene and wants to fuck around, and I'm not in the mood for babysitting.

But here's the crunch: Guess what I do, after he leaves, and I proclaim two hours well spent to my flatmate?

Promptly take a broom and start sweeping the floor of my room. Sigh. Beret Boy is quite, quite hairy, you see, and seeing hair follicles strewn on the ground gives me the Monica itch. So, while I swept the floor, I even muttered to myself, Nice boy, but next time I get a tarpauline on the floor for you...

And the Slut Saga continues... I'm still waiting for that Sp[ecial Someone, however. Bated breath and all.

OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday

OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday



I'll try to send all the guys invited their individual invites before then, but this post serves as one big general invite as well. November 12, come 8.30 pm, all you gay divas are going to assemble in my lil pad for some funky dancing.

The theme for the night is Gay Diva Slut.

Over the top.

You're supposed to define 'over the top' with this one. So get out the spandex, the tight sleeveless muscle Ts, the floral printed frilly shirts, the hot pants, the vinyl paddings, the torn jeans, the crosses around your necks, the beads and the bracelets, the strap-ons, the cloth belts, the hip huggers, and hell, even the make-up, if you're so inclined.

Let's see just how 'funky town' us prolific gay Bombay bloggers can get. ;-)

As for the ladies (the real ones), I know y'll really wanna come, but I think the other ladies in the house will die of embarassment if anyone other than Family sees them!

Just a little (?) crush

Just a little (?) crush

The other day, I had an sms conversation with my Ex-Roomie, which went something like this:

ER: Hey, bitch. Having a good time? Still freeloading on brother?

CT: Hey, ass. Of course. Where do you think the good times come from? And you're still living off your sis in Delhi?

ER: Sure thing. How's the partying and the sleeping around?

CT: Partying like same, more or less. Trying to cut down on the sleeping around. Will try to have relationships now. Think I'm growing up?

ER: I'll believe that when I say Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece.

(He hates the book.)

To introduce ER, he was my first flatmate in Bombay, and I've known him for a year-and-a-half before that. He's this tall, fair, brawny Punju who looks so utterly cute when he sleeps, and of course I have the world's greatest crush on him. That's my concession to the norm of gay-men-falling-for-straight-men. I'm weak too. But it would have been the same for you, if you'd known him. I've had a crush on ER now, since the day I first met him, and it's been more than two years now. Almost three. My crush for him intensified, upon his reaction when I came out to him.

So what's this particular post about then? Am I merely reaffirming a silly little crush on an old friend? I'm not exactly sure, really. A lot of things are happening fast. First, there was the discussion a coupla months back, with two other friends I'm out to, who said, they got some vibes that ER may actually have been a confused gay boy as well. (He had women throwing themselves at him, but always kept himself away from them.) Then, there's the promise ER made, to come with me to Pegs N Pints, the gay bar in Delhi, when I arrive in his city. And, coming up in March, all of us are going to Bangalore for a mutual friend's wedding. ER will be there. We may have to share a room again. And I'm getting hopeful again.

Sigh.

I told a friend of mine the other day, that if I ever got ER, I'd probably turn a new leaf and become absolutely asexual towards other men. I have a strong desire to do that. I really do. Or maybe, I'm just telling myself that, in a silly effort to convince myself that this thing I have for ER goes beyond a crush and is all about... gulp... love.

Now, why on earth would I do that?

Karaoke Queens

Karaoke Queens

First I was afraid,
I was petrified..
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...
But I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong...
I learned how to carry on.

I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I will stay alive.
I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give
And I'll survive.
I will survive...

That was one of the songs we were supposed to croon Monday night at Karaoke night at Jazz by the Bay. This, and Like a Virgin, Y-M-C-A and Dancing Queen. So, it was gay boys' night out, and CT, Gup Shup, gay interior decorator/designer and Penguin Boy decided to sing the town red. Jazz is a lovely place with a great crowd, and we were openly staring at all the lissome South Bombay boys. Most of them dressed and danced like gay boys, so we were aided in our fantasies that maybe, just maybe, the hot muscle boy in the khaki cap would be all too willing to make out in the car, or that the striped shirt angel would give an excellent blowjob in the squeaky-clean loo. I had a gin-and-tonic for the first time.

Horrible drink.

D/d paniced from Gloria Gaynor and Y-M-C-A, however, and the two of us ended up with a pretty tame version of Pretty Woman. We were bad. Bad. B-A-D. So bad, they took ages to get us on the damn stage for our little number. So bad, that the DJ's gal-friends came over and started singing with me and d/d... which sort of diverted the attention of the crowd away from the horrible singing and d/d's jerky dance steps.

;-)

And yesterday, I went out on a date with Funny Parsi Guy. Now, I've known FPG for ages, almost since I first stepped into Bombay, but I never actually thought about going out with him for a date. But we had a great time yesterday. Dinner and dessert and coffee and a walk down the beach front. Nice. He can't stand Parsi food, however. Being the pessimist I am, though, I'm just going to say it was nice, and let things unravel as they will, at their own pace...

By the way, am still waiting for the remaining confirmations for the Blog Party. Please hurry, guys.

Part-ay?

Part-ay?

Well, to everyone here: a happy Diwali.

And to a select few, by virtue of sex and location, (two outta three from ASL?!!), a special invite. Rather than an invite, a poll, actually:



This is going out to all you gay bloggers from Bombay. I'd like to have a little get together at my place sometime, and I wonder if you guys will come. For a couple of you, I haven't ever met you, but I'm pretty curious. Some of you do know me, on the other hand. I think it would be a fun time, over music, chatter and some great booze in the house, and I'd like to have a party!

(Strictly not the Delhi farmhouse kind!)

Planning for next Saturday, so please do holler and tell me if it's cool with ya guys. You can leave your response in the comments box here. I've also mailed you individual invites to your blogs, dudes.

And, just for clarification, the gay Bombay bloggers I'm familiar with are:

Amchi Mumbai
Vikster
Nature Boy
Lefty
The Gup Guy
Kris Engayged
Wassup, Doc?

Have I missed anyone?

A Couple more movies

A Couple more movies

I'm trying very hard to not make this post read like Gup Shup Boy's, but I absolutely must mention how delicious the breakfast this morning at Crepe Station was.... and with that over, I shall now go back to the movie reviews.

***

First on the list, is Latter Days, of which I've seen mentions earlier in both Sin and Aryan's blogs. Sin has a lovely post on this, and all I can do right now is affirm that it's a very cute movie. Just what you'd expect a Hindi gay movie to be like, if there were any Hindi gay movies. I'm not counting My Brother Nikhil here, you understand.



Hot guys, pacy script, taut emotions, lovely divas, and uncomfortable questions about the gay lifestyle. At times, I identify with the sexy West Hollywood playboy (fluff boy?), and at others, I think I'm more like the Mormon... The real CT remains, as always, unsure of himself. Now, isn't that strange...

Second, there was something called The River, a Finnish film, to which I can't find any link online, I'm afraid. Very nice story, placed in a small town, showing how everyone's lives are interconnected to each others', the bungee jump event in the town square, and an attempted suicide. I saw this one alone, cuz Gup Shup was all sleepy and had gone to bed, and i finally turned in myself at 3 am this morning.

Lovely movie, though. And yes, even number two had the perfunctory cute gay couple.

Cinema CINEMA

Cinema CINEMA

Saw a terrible movie last weekend, called U Bomsi 'N' Me. Atrocious. There were gaps, far and in between, where you actually chuckle, but by and large it typified the low budget, low acting, Hinglish movie from the Nineties. Bunch of models, and the character who played Bomsi had an irritatingly nasal voice that made me want to bitch-slap him.



Now that would have been appropriate, from yours truly... hehehe...

Saving grace was the cute guy, who of course has no idea how to act: Gautam Rode, who played this dumb Punju-Gujju mix called Sam 'Mac' Patel.



I'll just give you a sample of how dumb the movie was, by giving you Sam's two alternate reasons for the 'Mac' in his name:

Reason 1: He's a product of the new Gen-Y, and is a regular at McDonalds. Yes, and this is the less stupid one.

Reason 2: His dad is Gujju, so he's a Patel; his mum was Punju and names him Sameer, which he shortened to 'Sam', because of the (you guessed it) Gen-Y influence; and his wife is a Goan Christian MacKinshaw, so he shortened that to 'Mac'.

Wow. Rocket Science.

Or at least, it would be, if I could create Rode in a test tube. I wouldn't mind being the ascetic then. ;-)

One night in Wonderland

One night in Wonderland

So I was down four shots of black rum - neat - and was swinging to Kylie's Spinnin Around, while inspecting myself in the full length mirror at home. The party hadn't even started, but it was clear that this was going to be a fun night.

Shiny disco balls!

CT enters rocking club with scores of cocky young men, pun intended, cradling their drinks, and chhammak-chhalo-ing to Kareena Kapoor film remixes. Orders a rum and coke - black, of course - when he gets a message from Mumbai EXpress No 1. You're looking hot tonight, and I turn around to flash a grin. Of course he's got a boyfriend now, and I'm playing Vishwamitra these days, but it's a GB party and I'm feeling like the devil tonight. So I smile and I dance and lick his ear. I'm evil, if no one ever told you that before. Old Friend Who Clings Around Too Much also came by, but I gave him the cold shoulder for the EX.



Also spotted: Seemingly Shy Broadcast Babe behind a pillar. SSBB had a one night stand with a dear friend (who owes me a sundae at Baskin Robbins) some time back, which ended in a comic affair, and I decided to try my luck with him. So I smiled, and said what's up tonight?, and he smiled back, and asked me how I was doing. Boringly mundane, so I decide he's not worth a long drawn-out conversation, when I spot Newspaper Baron. The Baron is down from Delhi, and was always good for a fun night out (and in) during my slut days, so I amble over and say hi to him. Grabs my ass, but I push myself out of reach, laugh and tell him, I'll see ya around.

That's when I bump into M, a cute li'l twenty-four year old. M was sweet to me, as always, but I'm playing the role of the ascetic these days, so bonking twenty-year old cuties is not in my time table. Sigh... Just when I think I should change my modus operandi, and go bite M on his neck, I spot the Gup Shup Boy.

Gup Shup is this absolute sweetheart I met through gay decorator/designer, who's not at all bitchy like d/d is. So we shared a couple of drinks, wondered who the bonkable ones were in the room, and that's when d/d shows up, in tow with AirBoy and Malabar Hill Dunce.

Air Boy is a mutual friend of both d/d and Gup Shup, so I'm obliged to be nice to him - he's this typical Punju flight attendant boy who wings his way across continents, the kind who every gay man would like to screw, simply because of the 'air steward' tag. MHD is just that - a dunce. he's got rich parents, multiple houses in Malabar Hill and Lokhandwalla and Zurich, and typifies the dumb flight attendant stereotype. He's horny to boot, and tries much too hard.

Yes, yes, I'm evil, I know.



Let the dance begin! Nature Boy shows up, looking cute in a tshirt (thank god he's shaved off that hideous beard!), and I see Traveler From Zurich, whom both he and I chatted up on gay.com ages ago. NB slept with him, though, and I leered at him tonight. But then, I couldn't leer too long, because Cute Doc comes by with Andhra Doc right then. Both of them, divine, and soon the three of us are in a circle dance jhatka with M. Andhra Doc has heard from M that I'm great in bed and says so to my face, while M reddens in embarassment, and I take that as my cue to walk out of the quadruple.

And that's when I stop in my tracks.

CT spots Beret Boy. Should I say cute again, or is it expected? French beard. Smiling eyes. Red tshirt. Great dancer. Black Beret. CT smiles. And before he knows what he's doing, he walks over to him, wears his Beret, and tells him I don't know you from Adam, but the hat's cute. He smiles, he understands, and we dance together. Not for a very long time, because I'm thirsty, so I touch his forearm, and melt away into the crowd. I'll meet him again, sometime... sometime.

Exhausted, but happy. Soooo happy.

PS: The Dance Diva of the Night Award goes unanimously to Gup Shup. That boy has zoom! ;-)

Climb every Mountain....!

Climb every Mountain....!

Party time comes along again, tonight. The agenda is to dress as non-gay as I can, and just go to have a fun time. Of course, gay interior decorator/ designer will smirk and say that dressing non-gay for me is akin to climbing Mount Everest while getting a piggyback ride from Tarzan of the Apes, but hell, you shouldn't discount the possibilities, even if they're an infinity to one....



;-)

I got sidetracked.

My first party since The Abstinence.

Should be fun, actually. After all, as decorator/ designer and I chatted over the phone this evening, no one ever hits on us at these do's anymore, cuz we're not fresh maal anymore. And that doesn't change, even if we go to a party after a two months' gap, as there'll always be pimply sixteen year olds to grab all the attention away from us jaded twenty-four year olds...! So, it promises to be a fun night of drinking, dancing with other jaded young-old men, over the age of twenty, and generally shaking butt.

'Me party boy. Me climb Everest. After I climb you, Tarzan.' *bashful grin*

Some things stupid

Some things stupid

This is one of my favourite songs, I realised this evening. I came back home after dinner (with a relative, so don't worry, the Pact still holds), and then I switched on one of the CDs I'd bought at the Music sale two weeks back... and I heard the song twice. I plan to listen to it again, before going to bed.

;-)

It's actually a terrible song. When you come to think of it. It's a song about saying the wrong things, even though you're desperately trying to say and do the right things. It's about... the same old things and the new things that scare you so desperately. Any gay person will read the lyrics and ponder about how true it is about life in the Rainbow circle... But... I love the tune. I love the way it goes. I love the croon.

Hehehehe...

I know I stand in line, until you think you have the time
To spend an evening with me
And if we go someplace to dance, I know that there's a chance
You won't be leaving with me

And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place
And have a drink or two
And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
Like: "I love you"

I can see it in your eyes, that you despise the same old lies
You heard the night before
And though it's just a line to you, for me it's true
It never seemed so right before

I practice every day to find some clever lines to say
To make the meaning come through
But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late
And I'm alone with you

The time is right your perfume fills my head, the stars get red
And oh the night's so blue
And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
Like: "I love you."

And, o yes, I love both Frank Sinatra and Robbie Williams. Robbie, a bit more, but then you'd hardly blame me for that.

General ire about dating.

General ire about dating.

That's what I should name this one. Terrible to sit up one day and make up your mind that you're just not going to be a slut. Terribler even, to realise that with your intensely busy work schedule, probably the only way you'll ever have sex again is by being a slut. Dial-a-sex, please? There's that silly radio ad where the gal calls up a pizza place and tells the boy to come over with all his 'toppings', and when you think about it, being a gay slut was something like that.

Easy.

Ridiculously so.

All you have to do, is go online and find a reasonably good looking guy. Check sexual compatibility, and take his number down. Save for a rainy day, or a sunny day, or whatever day. And call. Boy comes over an hour later, you offer him a glass of water, and then have a nice screw.

Did I not say 'ridiculous'?

Cut to present state of affairs. Oops... wrong word, given my absolute lack of love life. The present state has me going to work at 8.30 am, and back at around 10.30 pm. I plop down on the bed and listen to Don Williams croon Fever for some time, and then I nod tiredly at my flattie when she comes out from her coccoon-cum-room to ask how my day was. And then I undress and go to sleep. Yawn.

And to think, I'd decided once upon a time, that virginity does not agree with me.

There are times, of course, when I wonder what's keeping me from the antidote. I mean: cute, funny, twenty-four year old guy in a city that has probably more gay men than the Big Apple, so why the hell am I single? And that's when I tell myself, I shouldn't try so hard or think so hard, that it's not what newly-liberated ex-sluts do. Newly liberated ex-sluts generally rant out their ire about how tough dating is in the big city.

Ergo...

Welcome to a brand new closet

Welcome to a brand new closet.

Of course, I still miss the apple.



The very famous apple, regarding which there has been soooooooooo much debate, yadayadayada... I remember a conversation with Geebaby about what the silly fruit was all about, and I simply could not find any other, or any better, representation of what being a gay man in the closet meant.

I said, in a previous post: The screwy apple? It's about being gay in the closet. Figure out all the other meanings for yourself. And, it's still true.

... Despite the fact that we now have a brand new closet. One with some pretensions of the artistic in it. ;-) How gay is that, then?!

Hang 'em!

Hang 'em!

So, the word across town goes, Closetalk has decided to hang up the slut stilletoes.

Ok, you don't have to gape quite that much.

CT walks into a crowded room, wearing padded slippers. Holds up sparkling, glittering heels. Fiddles with microphone, and then harrumphs. Once, twice, not thrice.

CT: "Ladies and gentlemen of the press...."

(hushed response)

CT: "Here they are...."

(hushER response?)

CT: "The rumours you heard were true...."

(somebody faints, somebody titters)

CT: "The slut shoes are gone!"

(collective gasp, scribes write furiously, flashbulbs pop)

CT: "I've decided to move on with my life..."

scribe 1: "CT, what led up to this.... catastrophe?!"

CT: "Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear scribe 1.... I choose to think of this as a transition... I'm merely changing my shoes here." (shows padded slippers - very unsexy!)

scribe 2: "CT, what advice do you have for all the novice sluts out there... the ones who've looked up to you, and revered you, and worshipped you, and.... ?"

CT (smiles, and waves, and laughs): "They can still revere me and worship me, silly!"

(room dissolves into chuckles, as heads nod at Closetalk's superior intellect.)

scribe 3: "So what will you do now, CT?"

CT pauses. Looks heavenwards for inspiration, then hellwards, and finally looks at scribe 3.

CT: "I'm going to wait..."

Pujor Pronaam

Pujor Pronaam

Closetalk is a Bengali.

A most misguided Bengali, who feels extremely nostalgic about Calcutta and Durga Pujo, now that he is not in the City of the Bongs at this time, after all. So, he ambles over to Ram Krishna Mission Hospital in Bandra on Sunday, naba shoshti according to the Bong Pujo calendar, to gaze reverentially at the goddess. He feels strangely sad that he's the only one of his family right now, not in Calcutta, and decides to bury his sorrows in hing kachori and chholaar dal, topped off with a gigantic rajbhog. Of course, having eaten all that, he also feels mildly cheated, because he has spent all in all Rs 50 for something that would have cost him only Rs 20 or so in good ole Calcutta. And so he proceeds once again to gaze reventially at the Goddess at RK Mission.

Contrary to what the Martini Man said in an earlier post, there were no goodlooking Bong men for Closetalk to gaze lustfully at, which was perhaps a good thing, as it might have disturbed his otherwise pious intentions directed towards the Goddess. Besides, Closetalk was dressed in a block printed blue kurta, buttons undone of course, that would scream out BONG! BEWARE! to all and sundry. The gathered faithful at RK Mission thus took to Closetalk as one takes to one of their own flock, misguided and alone, at such an auspicious time. Even the presesnce of a dazzling silver bracelet on Closetalk's left wrist that screamed out his homosexual inclinations did not deter the priests and the mithaiwallas from their extreme kindness towards the misguided soul.

Closetalk departed a happy gay Bong boy.

Just peachy!

Just peachy!

There's a new cream on the block, called Fair and Handsome. Hehehehehe... it's targeted at men, and it's the 'male' version of the infamous Fair and Lovely. Honestly, I don't know why on earth they would need a 'male' version in the first place... I mean, how different is it from the 'female' version? Use of pheromones, perhaps? Boggles the mind.

Was seeing the ad of the product this evening on TV, and my roomie was quite horrified! Apparently, the woman has banned all fairness creams in her own house, especially since her seventeen-year old brother expressed his desire to smear some on. She watched the ad, and screamed out, that though she was glad the fairness cream thingy was becoming 'asexual', it was probably going to be used by gay men only!

Gross miscalculation.

I suspect: we're going to have Punjabi mundas wanting to get creamier, and dark Tams getting fairer, and even some errant Bongs who would like to try some of the wonder cream. I mean, let's face it. So many of those Punjabi mundas, Tams and Bongs have been using their mums' and sisters' fairness creams forver, before F&H came out. The world likes to look beautiful, and let's not club this as an exclusively 'gay' thing. My straight ex-roomie used some kind of strawberry flavoured cream for his face. I use a scrub at times, when I'm not tooooo lazy. The mantra is to look good.

Gay, or otherwise.

Personally, though, I prefer my own coffee flavour. Peaches and cream sounds like a good ice cream flavour, but not mcuh good for much else.

;-)

Disastrous Date No. XXX

Disastrous Date No. XXX

So, I'm supposed to meet a guy with a first name that makes my first thought go GUJJU! ;-) But, he says he's Punjabi, and I've never been the ethnic cleansing kind of fanatic, and he seems like a really fun guy on chat, so I decide to meet him. We're supposed to see The Grudge together. It's a throwback to the good ole repressed gay days of loving Buffy.

And Xander (aka Nicholas Brendon). ;-)



Date is horrendous, however. Cute boy in picture turns out to be tall and skinny with a long nose and a nasal voice and teeth that look utterly desicrated. I can't believe human beings have teeth like that.. especially since my own pearly whites are... well... it must be said... perfect.

*beams a smile at you*

And the hair. Didn't fringes go out of fashion ages ago? Especially when it's teamed up with a (ROTFWL) mushroom cut?! Welcome to the era of New Kids On The Block and All Sorts Of Strange Creatures.

To make matters worse: he's talkative. And sarcastic. He starts attacking me within five minutes of meeting him. So, I tend to to go silent by then. The tickets have already been bought, and I'm hoping The Grudge is paisa vasool. It turns out to scare the living shit out of me, and I can't help wishing I was sitting next to a six foot two stud with green eyes and beautiful lashes and beautiful teeth, whom I could clutch onto. Then kiss in the darkness, even...

Poof. Dream ends.

O well, Gujju-name-boy was nice, though. He let me listen to songs on his i-pod, in the train. However, when he declared in the ricky, o so ceremoniously, that it was time to review how the date had gone, I could not remain kind. I said, there was a complete lack of chemistry, and it had been nice meeting him. Then, I shook his hand, and patted his knee, and scampered out of the ricky to Subways.

I had a nice big Italian BMT sandwich. Some meat is better than none.