Whoosh!
Terribly rushed for time these days. Came home last night at 11. 30. The previous two nights at 1.30. It's all about setting your priorities straight, they tell me at the station. Sometimes, I feel like murdering them. Particularly gruesomely.
Terribly rushed for time these days. Barely have time for sex these days.
Barely.
;-)
Well, read between the lines. You'll find the grin.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Past midnight
Past midnight
How strange. It's past one am, and I'm sitting here at office. No man around me. No sexual romp planned any time soon. I suppose, it's when I say things like that, that some people think I'm quite the cat's whiskers around town.
Important lesson to learn: A sex life is NOT a social life. Remember that.
O gawd! I hope this isn't going to turn out to be another whiny post! I don't usually like that kind. I usually prefer to avoid that kind. My life isn't that bad, really. It's not rockin', but it's not bad. Except that Architect Ex-cum-Friend skipped the country from Delhi to Bahrain without telling me, and I found out only yesterday and quite by chance. I'm getting to be awfully disconnected from saddi dilli these days! Am I so completely a ghaati now?
Ouch.
I wince, despite my own love affair with Nature Boy. By the way, Nature Boy was ghaati. Not in the derogatory sense of course, just in terms of his ethnicity. So you see, I have absolutely nothing against ghaatis. I might find Gujjus garish, but some of my closest friends are Gujjus and I have absolutely nothing against them either, other than their swollen heads. I'm quite an understanding and patient person.
I shall go to sleep now. Alone, smartypants.
How strange. It's past one am, and I'm sitting here at office. No man around me. No sexual romp planned any time soon. I suppose, it's when I say things like that, that some people think I'm quite the cat's whiskers around town.
Important lesson to learn: A sex life is NOT a social life. Remember that.
O gawd! I hope this isn't going to turn out to be another whiny post! I don't usually like that kind. I usually prefer to avoid that kind. My life isn't that bad, really. It's not rockin', but it's not bad. Except that Architect Ex-cum-Friend skipped the country from Delhi to Bahrain without telling me, and I found out only yesterday and quite by chance. I'm getting to be awfully disconnected from saddi dilli these days! Am I so completely a ghaati now?
Ouch.
I wince, despite my own love affair with Nature Boy. By the way, Nature Boy was ghaati. Not in the derogatory sense of course, just in terms of his ethnicity. So you see, I have absolutely nothing against ghaatis. I might find Gujjus garish, but some of my closest friends are Gujjus and I have absolutely nothing against them either, other than their swollen heads. I'm quite an understanding and patient person.
I shall go to sleep now. Alone, smartypants.
Monday, September 19, 2005
A trunk-ated story
A trunk-ated story
Ganesh Visarjan came and went. I came to Bombay last year in the middle of the 10-day Ganpati extravaganza, and was quite clueless about the goings-on here. One of the people I called up in The Family at that time, told me to make sure not to miss the visarjan at Girgaon Chowpatty, at the head of Marine Drive. It was supposed to be one of those 'cultural' events for the gay populace in Bombay, and if I wanted to meet new people (as indeed I did, at that time, knowing only two gay guys in the city!), I should go over.
I was quite charged up... and then, I heard about the crowds that throng the beachfront. And about the rampant sexual stuff that supposedly goes on there, quite uninhibited, right there under the noses of the cops. There were horror stories about potbellied traffic havaldars forcing gay men to give them blowjobs in the crowd, and I chickened out. I was having none of that, I decided!
I thought about that first episode, the other day, driving past the crowds, on Ganesh Visarjan. Strange to think there could be lustful hordes of gay ghatis around. Oops... did I say ghati back there?
;-)
But Ganpati is now over, here in Mumbai. The fairy lights are dangling over the street, but are quite lifeless, and just the fairies are left behind. The madness is quite, quite over. Mumbai's favourite son has gone off.
Is it funny that on the morning of the visarjan, I slept with a nice young man named Vinayak?
;-)
Ganesh Visarjan came and went. I came to Bombay last year in the middle of the 10-day Ganpati extravaganza, and was quite clueless about the goings-on here. One of the people I called up in The Family at that time, told me to make sure not to miss the visarjan at Girgaon Chowpatty, at the head of Marine Drive. It was supposed to be one of those 'cultural' events for the gay populace in Bombay, and if I wanted to meet new people (as indeed I did, at that time, knowing only two gay guys in the city!), I should go over.
I was quite charged up... and then, I heard about the crowds that throng the beachfront. And about the rampant sexual stuff that supposedly goes on there, quite uninhibited, right there under the noses of the cops. There were horror stories about potbellied traffic havaldars forcing gay men to give them blowjobs in the crowd, and I chickened out. I was having none of that, I decided!
I thought about that first episode, the other day, driving past the crowds, on Ganesh Visarjan. Strange to think there could be lustful hordes of gay ghatis around. Oops... did I say ghati back there?
;-)
But Ganpati is now over, here in Mumbai. The fairy lights are dangling over the street, but are quite lifeless, and just the fairies are left behind. The madness is quite, quite over. Mumbai's favourite son has gone off.
Is it funny that on the morning of the visarjan, I slept with a nice young man named Vinayak?
;-)
Friday, September 16, 2005
Project Resuscitation
Project Resuscitation
There was another party last night. For those of you wondering at the frequency between the GB parties, this month happens to be GB's anniversary, ergo you have the extra parties. Ergo, you had the cheap Rs 150-three drinks party last night. For which I had no plans of going, but finally went cuz I actually had a date.
(Five minutes after meeting, while walking to the club, my date and I decided that we weren't each others' types. That makes life oodles simpler, na?)
So, the rest of the night was predictable, but nice. I spotted friends and hugged them, danced with them, and stood in a corner afterwards with my drink. I decided not to dress up for this party, so it was a simple half sleeve shirt, jeans and sneakers - no medallions, no bracelets, no gay stuff at all. I was attempting to be preppy. I hadn't realized, I'm just an old fag inside, these days.
For the first night in ages, I didn't mix my drinks, preferring to stay with my rum and coke, on the rocks. N, my first boyfriend in Bombay, berated me for acting old at the tender age of twenty-four, and then proceeded to dance with some thirty-five year old who kept making solemn fuck-me-now looks at him. I stood alone, till I saw pal A come by, and we danced to (what else?) kajra re. Tere Kaale Kaale naina...!
When I spotted hottie dancing rather suggestively by himself, I decided to try being my old daring-do self, and sauntered over with a come-on line.
CT: Hey there, are you a Leo?
Hottie (crinkling cute nose, and flexing sexy biceps): Nooooooo!
CT (lasvicious leer): Well, you dance like you have something to show off!
End of scene as Hottie turns away, and CT dances by himself for a few seconds to regain his composure at being unceremoniously dumped.
But...!
Then, I bumped into M. M is a very nice and very cute twenty-year old boy, living in South Bombay who seems to have taken a shine on me. Of course, I've slept with him before, but frankly, I hate the idea of having a relationship with a twenty-year old thing. Last night, however, he pulled me close to the dance floor, and made some wonderful comments:
M: So who are you trying to impress tonight? You look really cute!
CT (surprised like hell, in his attempted preppy outfit): Who, me? I just pulled on a shirt. You call this 'cute'?
M (grins wickedly, lovely boy!): Naaaa, you're not cute. You're just fucking HOT tonight!
M (grins some more, while CT becomes more and more bewildered): In fact, you should have worn your glasses, like the other night. You look very cute in them.
CT (totally clueless): Wha-?????
And then, of course, M's friend Nik comes on the scene, looking quite sexy in a black silk shirt, and whispers with a decidedly sultry tone in his voice, Aaa, so you're CT from XXX... I've heard quite a lot about you!
All the rejuvenation an old fag could have needed!
There was another party last night. For those of you wondering at the frequency between the GB parties, this month happens to be GB's anniversary, ergo you have the extra parties. Ergo, you had the cheap Rs 150-three drinks party last night. For which I had no plans of going, but finally went cuz I actually had a date.
(Five minutes after meeting, while walking to the club, my date and I decided that we weren't each others' types. That makes life oodles simpler, na?)
So, the rest of the night was predictable, but nice. I spotted friends and hugged them, danced with them, and stood in a corner afterwards with my drink. I decided not to dress up for this party, so it was a simple half sleeve shirt, jeans and sneakers - no medallions, no bracelets, no gay stuff at all. I was attempting to be preppy. I hadn't realized, I'm just an old fag inside, these days.
For the first night in ages, I didn't mix my drinks, preferring to stay with my rum and coke, on the rocks. N, my first boyfriend in Bombay, berated me for acting old at the tender age of twenty-four, and then proceeded to dance with some thirty-five year old who kept making solemn fuck-me-now looks at him. I stood alone, till I saw pal A come by, and we danced to (what else?) kajra re. Tere Kaale Kaale naina...!
When I spotted hottie dancing rather suggestively by himself, I decided to try being my old daring-do self, and sauntered over with a come-on line.
CT: Hey there, are you a Leo?
Hottie (crinkling cute nose, and flexing sexy biceps): Nooooooo!
CT (lasvicious leer): Well, you dance like you have something to show off!
End of scene as Hottie turns away, and CT dances by himself for a few seconds to regain his composure at being unceremoniously dumped.
But...!
Then, I bumped into M. M is a very nice and very cute twenty-year old boy, living in South Bombay who seems to have taken a shine on me. Of course, I've slept with him before, but frankly, I hate the idea of having a relationship with a twenty-year old thing. Last night, however, he pulled me close to the dance floor, and made some wonderful comments:
M: So who are you trying to impress tonight? You look really cute!
CT (surprised like hell, in his attempted preppy outfit): Who, me? I just pulled on a shirt. You call this 'cute'?
M (grins wickedly, lovely boy!): Naaaa, you're not cute. You're just fucking HOT tonight!
M (grins some more, while CT becomes more and more bewildered): In fact, you should have worn your glasses, like the other night. You look very cute in them.
CT (totally clueless): Wha-?????
And then, of course, M's friend Nik comes on the scene, looking quite sexy in a black silk shirt, and whispers with a decidedly sultry tone in his voice, Aaa, so you're CT from XXX... I've heard quite a lot about you!
All the rejuvenation an old fag could have needed!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Tis the season to be jolly...!
Tis the season to be jolly...!
Break-ups and make-ups seem to be in the season. These are the days of helter-skelter and hurry-scurry.
Friend A had met young enterprising doctor a month back, and there were flowers blooming from every branch, or so it seemed to A. But a month down the line, he calls me up and complains that they were too 'different' and hence the magic could not - would not - last. A is back to being single, hence, and is looking to jump anything that walks, having a penis between its legs.
Friend B had found his own relationship suddenly skuttled a month or so back. There were 'irreconcillable differences', he said, and he refused to be with a person who could not handle B's obvious emotional heart-on-the-sleeve act. All fine and good, except that a week later, B realized that perhaps he had over reacted, but by then it was much too late. B is turning cartwheels right now, however, because the other day he and the object of his affections went for a movie date, and is praying double time that he gets a brand new start.
And then there's Friend C. C and I were going around for awhile, and then we split up - for reasons far too complicated to explain here, now. We drifted apart, C and I, and then rediscovered our lost chemistry in the form of a purely platonic relationship, best represented by lunches together whenever I was in his part of town during work. Then I learn the other day that C has been seeing a boy I've heard of, for the past three weeks. Hmmm... I smiled, of course, and told him how cool it was. I asked him how things were, between the two of them, and he said they seemed to be on the road to 'serious' stuff. I cringed slightly, but still smiled. It's ridiculous, I'm over him, and yet, I'm jealous. It's quite ridiculous.
It's a cycle, or so it seems. And this is the age when you see the confluence of a lot of other ages happening! Smart, young gay boy decides that it's time to find a sweetheart, and he dates X, they go about for a coupla months, wherein they're in the first flush of (something like) love. Violins and all. And then they have the jitters, they split, and smart young gay boy decides that he needs to do something to forget X forever, and so he decides to screw every kind of eligible man out there for another two or three months. Till finally, he realizes, the strategy really isn't working, and he decides to try dating again... enter Y. And the cycle continues.
Vicious, or divine, is anybody's guess.
Break-ups and make-ups seem to be in the season. These are the days of helter-skelter and hurry-scurry.
Friend A had met young enterprising doctor a month back, and there were flowers blooming from every branch, or so it seemed to A. But a month down the line, he calls me up and complains that they were too 'different' and hence the magic could not - would not - last. A is back to being single, hence, and is looking to jump anything that walks, having a penis between its legs.
Friend B had found his own relationship suddenly skuttled a month or so back. There were 'irreconcillable differences', he said, and he refused to be with a person who could not handle B's obvious emotional heart-on-the-sleeve act. All fine and good, except that a week later, B realized that perhaps he had over reacted, but by then it was much too late. B is turning cartwheels right now, however, because the other day he and the object of his affections went for a movie date, and is praying double time that he gets a brand new start.
And then there's Friend C. C and I were going around for awhile, and then we split up - for reasons far too complicated to explain here, now. We drifted apart, C and I, and then rediscovered our lost chemistry in the form of a purely platonic relationship, best represented by lunches together whenever I was in his part of town during work. Then I learn the other day that C has been seeing a boy I've heard of, for the past three weeks. Hmmm... I smiled, of course, and told him how cool it was. I asked him how things were, between the two of them, and he said they seemed to be on the road to 'serious' stuff. I cringed slightly, but still smiled. It's ridiculous, I'm over him, and yet, I'm jealous. It's quite ridiculous.
It's a cycle, or so it seems. And this is the age when you see the confluence of a lot of other ages happening! Smart, young gay boy decides that it's time to find a sweetheart, and he dates X, they go about for a coupla months, wherein they're in the first flush of (something like) love. Violins and all. And then they have the jitters, they split, and smart young gay boy decides that he needs to do something to forget X forever, and so he decides to screw every kind of eligible man out there for another two or three months. Till finally, he realizes, the strategy really isn't working, and he decides to try dating again... enter Y. And the cycle continues.
Vicious, or divine, is anybody's guess.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Play, Boy
Play, Boy
The party came and went. I had my gulab jamuns, six of them with lots of vanilla ice cream - strictly gastronomically speaking, of course. On the amorous front, I struck a zero, as usual. And then I go back to asking the same question that I do, after every GB party: how come I never get lucky?
There are various theories about this, of course. There's one that goes: since I never go to a party without my friends and since I love to dance, I spend most of my time on the dance floor, strictly with my friends. Even when I go to the bar to get a drink, I don't hang around there like all the other stags, waiting to rub shoulders, legs, or even more, and instead, boogey straight back to the dance floor, glass/ bottle in hand. So, where on earth do I get the chance to lock gazes with Tall, dark and Handsome strangers, anyway?
In consonance with the same theory, there's an accusation that I project a very haughty demeanor on the dance floor. Almost as if I love dancing by myself and my friends, and if you think I care a rat's ass about you asking me for a dance, you can just go and wring out your pantyhose...! Hmmm... must be the eyebrows. I need to get them plucked.
Then, there's Theory Number 2, which I hit upon on Sunday morning. The day after. Why don't I get lucky when I wear the sleeveless number and the tight cord pants? Well, because being a slut simply isn't my type. Being an overt slut isn't my type, I mean. There are simply better and hunkier sluts available in Bombay, and anyone at the party who wants this variety simply mosies over there and feels them up, giving me the ditch.
So, what should I do? Stick to my full sleeve shirts and nice pants, and cradle my drink in my hand? Sigh, I'm not just the cradling sort. Sooner or later, I'm going to get hot and sweaty while dancing like a maniac, and the shirt buttons will get undone. Slutboy reawakens. Let's face it: I never meet interesting people at parties. Definitely not the kind I'd like to date. My best side is the cute guy next door with a great sense of humour. And that's not a side of you that you can easily promote at GB!
What this means is that I'm not going to get lucky at a GB party. Probably, never. (Counting aside the one or two times I have, that is.) I may not exactly be the wallflower, but hell, the wallflower will probably go home with some phone numbers, and I'll just be tired, drunk and quite satisfied at my twinkle toes. No number, though.
But maybe, the whole point of the exercise is to have fun. I have plenty of that.
The party came and went. I had my gulab jamuns, six of them with lots of vanilla ice cream - strictly gastronomically speaking, of course. On the amorous front, I struck a zero, as usual. And then I go back to asking the same question that I do, after every GB party: how come I never get lucky?
There are various theories about this, of course. There's one that goes: since I never go to a party without my friends and since I love to dance, I spend most of my time on the dance floor, strictly with my friends. Even when I go to the bar to get a drink, I don't hang around there like all the other stags, waiting to rub shoulders, legs, or even more, and instead, boogey straight back to the dance floor, glass/ bottle in hand. So, where on earth do I get the chance to lock gazes with Tall, dark and Handsome strangers, anyway?
In consonance with the same theory, there's an accusation that I project a very haughty demeanor on the dance floor. Almost as if I love dancing by myself and my friends, and if you think I care a rat's ass about you asking me for a dance, you can just go and wring out your pantyhose...! Hmmm... must be the eyebrows. I need to get them plucked.
Then, there's Theory Number 2, which I hit upon on Sunday morning. The day after. Why don't I get lucky when I wear the sleeveless number and the tight cord pants? Well, because being a slut simply isn't my type. Being an overt slut isn't my type, I mean. There are simply better and hunkier sluts available in Bombay, and anyone at the party who wants this variety simply mosies over there and feels them up, giving me the ditch.
So, what should I do? Stick to my full sleeve shirts and nice pants, and cradle my drink in my hand? Sigh, I'm not just the cradling sort. Sooner or later, I'm going to get hot and sweaty while dancing like a maniac, and the shirt buttons will get undone. Slutboy reawakens. Let's face it: I never meet interesting people at parties. Definitely not the kind I'd like to date. My best side is the cute guy next door with a great sense of humour. And that's not a side of you that you can easily promote at GB!
What this means is that I'm not going to get lucky at a GB party. Probably, never. (Counting aside the one or two times I have, that is.) I may not exactly be the wallflower, but hell, the wallflower will probably go home with some phone numbers, and I'll just be tired, drunk and quite satisfied at my twinkle toes. No number, though.
But maybe, the whole point of the exercise is to have fun. I have plenty of that.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
All Razzed Up
All Razzed Up
Glitter and spangles. ;-) The Razz opens tonight, after ages ago, and I'm all charged up. The late night blues of the previous post seem to have been tucked underneath the closet for now, and I'm looking forward to an evening where I can just let my hair down. Actually, that's not possible, since my hair is quite closely cropped up, anyhow.
Whatever.
The Razz!
GB!
Razz + GB = probable fun.
Unless.... (1) the old heart kicks in and I tremble at the sight of ex boyfriends (damn!)
(2) no one takes a second look at mua (double damn!)
(3) the music sucks (ouch!)
(4) the food gets over by the time I finish my twinkle toes routine on the dance floor. (ummm...!)
I need to get myself one of those optimism books. Who ate my cheese? Actually, that question sounds quite gross in the gay format! ;-)
See you at the party tonight! ;-)
Glitter and spangles. ;-) The Razz opens tonight, after ages ago, and I'm all charged up. The late night blues of the previous post seem to have been tucked underneath the closet for now, and I'm looking forward to an evening where I can just let my hair down. Actually, that's not possible, since my hair is quite closely cropped up, anyhow.
Whatever.
The Razz!
GB!
Razz + GB = probable fun.
Unless.... (1) the old heart kicks in and I tremble at the sight of ex boyfriends (damn!)
(2) no one takes a second look at mua (double damn!)
(3) the music sucks (ouch!)
(4) the food gets over by the time I finish my twinkle toes routine on the dance floor. (ummm...!)
I need to get myself one of those optimism books. Who ate my cheese? Actually, that question sounds quite gross in the gay format! ;-)
See you at the party tonight! ;-)
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Screwed
Screwed
It's been a long day, and I don't feel like being witty. I don't feel like being snipey, snarfy, or half a dozen other things that my alter ego gay queen is so good at. I wonder if hyperactive gay boys are ever allowed to feel tired, and yet this one is going through just that phenomenon now. I feel hungry, as well.
So this is a tired post. The one where I look and hope that in ten years' time, my life is infinitely more settled than it is now. I would actually not like to wait the full ten years. Even a couple of them would suffice. I don't need to still be standing at the crossroads, still chatting in the chatrooms, still f*&%ing like a jackrabbit, still exchanging one-night stands, still bemoaning the lack of a love life. It's... tedious. Almost as tedious as being in love.
O, wait. Now, how would I know that?
Let me manage a weak smile now. A tired smile.
The funny part is this: I'm probably going to forget all this tomorrow morning. After I go home, have a bath, order take-out, switch on the music, curl up in bed with a book, and drift away to sleep, I shall wake up the next day late for work, as usual. There will be a whirlwind of activity the next day, which shall see my exercise my attempts at humour, I shall go on a date with a sweet young man in the evening in whom my interest has waned after the first date, and I shall come home slightly tipsy. Time for music and book again. Maybe, scratch the book. Just the music and bed will suffice. And I may tell myself now that I don't want to bring the boring young man back home to bed tomorrow, but something tells me I still probably will.
God, I sound pathetic. And whiny. And gay.
I guess now you understand why the green apple at the left has all those screws. ;-)
It's been a long day, and I don't feel like being witty. I don't feel like being snipey, snarfy, or half a dozen other things that my alter ego gay queen is so good at. I wonder if hyperactive gay boys are ever allowed to feel tired, and yet this one is going through just that phenomenon now. I feel hungry, as well.
So this is a tired post. The one where I look and hope that in ten years' time, my life is infinitely more settled than it is now. I would actually not like to wait the full ten years. Even a couple of them would suffice. I don't need to still be standing at the crossroads, still chatting in the chatrooms, still f*&%ing like a jackrabbit, still exchanging one-night stands, still bemoaning the lack of a love life. It's... tedious. Almost as tedious as being in love.
O, wait. Now, how would I know that?
Let me manage a weak smile now. A tired smile.
The funny part is this: I'm probably going to forget all this tomorrow morning. After I go home, have a bath, order take-out, switch on the music, curl up in bed with a book, and drift away to sleep, I shall wake up the next day late for work, as usual. There will be a whirlwind of activity the next day, which shall see my exercise my attempts at humour, I shall go on a date with a sweet young man in the evening in whom my interest has waned after the first date, and I shall come home slightly tipsy. Time for music and book again. Maybe, scratch the book. Just the music and bed will suffice. And I may tell myself now that I don't want to bring the boring young man back home to bed tomorrow, but something tells me I still probably will.
God, I sound pathetic. And whiny. And gay.
I guess now you understand why the green apple at the left has all those screws. ;-)
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
The first one
The first one
Let me tell you about my first love. Love is too strong a word, actually.
His name was Nikhil, and he was just one of the milky-white twenty-one year old Punjabi men who dot the landscape of Delhi. There's no way you can tell him apart from the other Nikhils. He was unique, though: the Nikhil of my folly. I met him online, in a chatroom that I have now come to despise for its sheer lack of depth, and we hit it off instantly. We were both staying in Central Delhi, and we decided to meet that evening. The Jaypee Hotel, in Rajendar Nagar, was the venue. He was wearing a black tshirt and jeans. I was wearing something similar.
I thought he was cute. We talked. We walked the half-hour walk back to my place. The landlord was in, so we sat outside on the pavement and carried on chatting. We spoke about his life, his college marks, his brother, his boyfriend, my job, my stint in Delhi, what we were both looking out for, crummy jokes, and the like. We talked. And talked. And talked. For six straight hours. We were immensely comfortable with each other. But because the landlord was still in the building, we parted - a quick hug, and a promise to meet soon. He messaged me within five minutes of leaving, how he was already missing me.
The first time I had sex doesn't seem momentous to me. It was just one of those things I'd been planning, and one of those things that felt necessary. The first time I made love to Nikhil was monumental. I had never kissed anyone like that before. Forgive my dramatics. We made love for seven hours. On and on and on. I never wanted to let him go. He was special. He had a boyfriend, and I told myself that Nikhil and I were only about sex, but... he was special.
That facade ended the next time we met. It was another stormy session. We met, we walked, we kissed, we kissed, we kissed, and we made love. And then he told me, he was in love with me. I balked. That's ridiculous! You have a boyfriend! We've only just met! It takes more than that to be in love! he shrugged, told me to take my time, but made it clear that he was in love with me.
I refused to believe it, then. But then, there are things that you... believe in, even when you know you shouldn't. There were phone calls, sms messages, meetings in my room, fantasies shared. I would travel in the Gurgaon bus, looking out at the rain, and wish I could make love to him there. He would call me at random hours, and say that he was missing me. He kept on telling me that he was in love with me. And while we did all these crazy, lovely things, I found myself needing more and more of him. I sent him poetry sms messsages. Ridiculous. I've never done that since.
And so I told myself: perhaps, just perhaps... this is love.
And one evening, as we lay on my bed, spent, exhausted, yet very much eager, I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I loved him.
Nikhil and I were together for five and a half months. They were glorious. They were tempestuous. I hated the fact that he refused to leave his boyfriend, simply because I don't want to hurt him - we've been together for four years! I found that silly. I decided that I would come back from Bombay, after my impending transfer, so that I could be with Nikhil. He would leave his boyfriend then, he said. We told ourselves that we must not get too attached to each other, because my transfer was coming closer and closer... three months, two months... But then, we would pant that we loved each other too much to take it slow. And the poetry sms' continued. Ridiculous.
We broke up twice. One weekend, he went away to Shimla with his boyfriend, and I was left behind in Delhi, hissing with jealousy. So, I went online in search of a mate. Just for spite. I found one. I cheated on Nikhil. Again and again. With a little affair on the side. I reasoned, if he could not leave his boyfriend, he had no right to demand fidelity from me. Nikhil found out. We fought, and he broke up with me. I cried then. The first time I'd ever cried for a boy. I bawled my heart out. I begged him to come back to me. I pleaded my case: jealousy. After a week, he decided that he would forgive me. But, he said, things would never be the same again. I knew they would, though.
And I was right. We were together again. But not for too long. I could not handle his boyfriend. I could not handle my own jealousy. So I still slept with my little sex interest. I still found other dalliances on the side. Sometimes, Nikhil called when I was with one of them, and I lied that I was out with my friends and I would call him back later. When I got back home, I would call, and Nikhil and I would chat on the phone for an hour or so. And then fall asleep. My phone bills skyrocketed.
I suppose he guessed what was happening. On one of those rare nights that he spent the whole night at my place, in my arms, he went through my cell phone while I was in the loo. he found some messages a dalliance had sent. He didn't say anything that night, while we made love, and only told me the next morning. How strange: I was furious. I'm not sure, at what. I was furious that he would go through my phone. In my book, that was a serious breach of trust... but then, I was sleeping around, too... but then... there were tioo many 'but's in my head. I stormed off. I told him that I wasn't ready to see him again. In some strange calm, I told him, I'd probably said the love word far too soon. I wasn't ready for him, for his complications, and he wasn't ready for his. I was willing to take it slow, if he wanted, but I would not want to say that I loved him anymore. Because I wasn't sure if I did...
The funny part: the sms that he saw was from a dalliance I hadn't actually slept with, as yet!
Another week passed by. I agonised over my decision. I tried to meet other people. And then, Nikhil called back. We argued, we fought, I never cried though. The old flame was over, he said, he would pay more attention to his boyfriend from now. But... he wanted to see me. He didn't want to lose me... as a friend. I was satisfied.
But in the gay world, friends are a funny creatures. The next time Nikhil and I met was stiffly formal. But then, we had a burger and we chatted, and we loosened up. The time after that, we ended up in bed together. None of the original passion was diminished. We kept meeting after that - once every week, and we would go straight to bed. It was a funny arrangement. I started dating someone else, but then, those once-a-week thingys carried on. Funny arrangement.
The time came for me to leave Delhi. Nikhil called, and said he would miss me. He said, perhaps, it was all for the best that we had broken up. Broken up. I laughed, and said, 'perhaps'. He wanted me back in Delhi, and I said, 'perhaps'. Three weeks later, while I was in Bombay, he called me to say that he didn't want to be in touch with me anymore, because he was totally committed to his boyfriend: he didn't want me to call.
I cried that night. It suddenly struck me that Nikhil was out of my life for good, now. Yes, I'm a pansy at times. I'm more cynical now, though.
The disillusionment came later. I had introduced Nikhil to some of my dalliances and friends, after that last break-up. He said, he wanted to meet other gay people, since he lived a fairly cloistered life, and so I introduced them. A week or so after the final phone call, I learnt that Nikhil was hardly being the devoted boyfriend - he was painting the gay town red with all of my dalliances, and many others of his own finding. My cloistered ex was the new party boy in saddi gay dilli! The clincher, however, came later: a close friend of mine refused to sleep with Nikhil, because of the boyfriend factor. And it was then, that the skeleton tumbled out of the closet: Nikhil didn't have a boyfriend. He never had one.
He never had one.
Why did he do it? I can't explain it, to this day. Some sick machinations to make me fall more in love with him? Feel more jealous about him? Could anyone be that depraved... or even pitiable? I found the whole thing loathesome. I was glad he was out of my life. I couldn't stand the idea of meeting the person who made an utter fool of me for so long.
And of course, I met him again. When I was in Delhi, in May. He heard that I was in town. He called me. He asked to meet me. I said yes.
A cafe in a Gurgaon mall. Nice and glitzy. I ordered a chocolate mousse and waited. He was late. When he finally came, I smiled at him. He smiled back. He was looking stretched. Pale. Thinner. There was acne on his face. I told him he looked tired, and he replied that he was. We talked about life in Bombay, life in Delhi, Pegs and PInts versus the GB parties, whether we were dating anyone, etc. I asked him about his boyfriend, and he said he had broken up with him. I smiled. I finally did what you wanted, he laughed, now you can come back to Delhi. I laughed. He was making a joke. A bad joke, but one that deserved a laugh.
It was a strained conversation. Not the seven-hour sparkle like when we first met. Too much history for that now. Too much agonising. We talked for about an hour, and then I got up. I had to meet an old friend, I told him, and he nodded. I have to go too, he said, keep in touch.
I will, I replied, and shook his hand. Patted it.
And walked out of the cafe. It was a hot Gurgaon afternoon.
Let me tell you about my first love. Love is too strong a word, actually.
His name was Nikhil, and he was just one of the milky-white twenty-one year old Punjabi men who dot the landscape of Delhi. There's no way you can tell him apart from the other Nikhils. He was unique, though: the Nikhil of my folly. I met him online, in a chatroom that I have now come to despise for its sheer lack of depth, and we hit it off instantly. We were both staying in Central Delhi, and we decided to meet that evening. The Jaypee Hotel, in Rajendar Nagar, was the venue. He was wearing a black tshirt and jeans. I was wearing something similar.
I thought he was cute. We talked. We walked the half-hour walk back to my place. The landlord was in, so we sat outside on the pavement and carried on chatting. We spoke about his life, his college marks, his brother, his boyfriend, my job, my stint in Delhi, what we were both looking out for, crummy jokes, and the like. We talked. And talked. And talked. For six straight hours. We were immensely comfortable with each other. But because the landlord was still in the building, we parted - a quick hug, and a promise to meet soon. He messaged me within five minutes of leaving, how he was already missing me.
The first time I had sex doesn't seem momentous to me. It was just one of those things I'd been planning, and one of those things that felt necessary. The first time I made love to Nikhil was monumental. I had never kissed anyone like that before. Forgive my dramatics. We made love for seven hours. On and on and on. I never wanted to let him go. He was special. He had a boyfriend, and I told myself that Nikhil and I were only about sex, but... he was special.
That facade ended the next time we met. It was another stormy session. We met, we walked, we kissed, we kissed, we kissed, and we made love. And then he told me, he was in love with me. I balked. That's ridiculous! You have a boyfriend! We've only just met! It takes more than that to be in love! he shrugged, told me to take my time, but made it clear that he was in love with me.
I refused to believe it, then. But then, there are things that you... believe in, even when you know you shouldn't. There were phone calls, sms messages, meetings in my room, fantasies shared. I would travel in the Gurgaon bus, looking out at the rain, and wish I could make love to him there. He would call me at random hours, and say that he was missing me. He kept on telling me that he was in love with me. And while we did all these crazy, lovely things, I found myself needing more and more of him. I sent him poetry sms messsages. Ridiculous. I've never done that since.
And so I told myself: perhaps, just perhaps... this is love.
And one evening, as we lay on my bed, spent, exhausted, yet very much eager, I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I loved him.
Nikhil and I were together for five and a half months. They were glorious. They were tempestuous. I hated the fact that he refused to leave his boyfriend, simply because I don't want to hurt him - we've been together for four years! I found that silly. I decided that I would come back from Bombay, after my impending transfer, so that I could be with Nikhil. He would leave his boyfriend then, he said. We told ourselves that we must not get too attached to each other, because my transfer was coming closer and closer... three months, two months... But then, we would pant that we loved each other too much to take it slow. And the poetry sms' continued. Ridiculous.
We broke up twice. One weekend, he went away to Shimla with his boyfriend, and I was left behind in Delhi, hissing with jealousy. So, I went online in search of a mate. Just for spite. I found one. I cheated on Nikhil. Again and again. With a little affair on the side. I reasoned, if he could not leave his boyfriend, he had no right to demand fidelity from me. Nikhil found out. We fought, and he broke up with me. I cried then. The first time I'd ever cried for a boy. I bawled my heart out. I begged him to come back to me. I pleaded my case: jealousy. After a week, he decided that he would forgive me. But, he said, things would never be the same again. I knew they would, though.
And I was right. We were together again. But not for too long. I could not handle his boyfriend. I could not handle my own jealousy. So I still slept with my little sex interest. I still found other dalliances on the side. Sometimes, Nikhil called when I was with one of them, and I lied that I was out with my friends and I would call him back later. When I got back home, I would call, and Nikhil and I would chat on the phone for an hour or so. And then fall asleep. My phone bills skyrocketed.
I suppose he guessed what was happening. On one of those rare nights that he spent the whole night at my place, in my arms, he went through my cell phone while I was in the loo. he found some messages a dalliance had sent. He didn't say anything that night, while we made love, and only told me the next morning. How strange: I was furious. I'm not sure, at what. I was furious that he would go through my phone. In my book, that was a serious breach of trust... but then, I was sleeping around, too... but then... there were tioo many 'but's in my head. I stormed off. I told him that I wasn't ready to see him again. In some strange calm, I told him, I'd probably said the love word far too soon. I wasn't ready for him, for his complications, and he wasn't ready for his. I was willing to take it slow, if he wanted, but I would not want to say that I loved him anymore. Because I wasn't sure if I did...
The funny part: the sms that he saw was from a dalliance I hadn't actually slept with, as yet!
Another week passed by. I agonised over my decision. I tried to meet other people. And then, Nikhil called back. We argued, we fought, I never cried though. The old flame was over, he said, he would pay more attention to his boyfriend from now. But... he wanted to see me. He didn't want to lose me... as a friend. I was satisfied.
But in the gay world, friends are a funny creatures. The next time Nikhil and I met was stiffly formal. But then, we had a burger and we chatted, and we loosened up. The time after that, we ended up in bed together. None of the original passion was diminished. We kept meeting after that - once every week, and we would go straight to bed. It was a funny arrangement. I started dating someone else, but then, those once-a-week thingys carried on. Funny arrangement.
The time came for me to leave Delhi. Nikhil called, and said he would miss me. He said, perhaps, it was all for the best that we had broken up. Broken up. I laughed, and said, 'perhaps'. He wanted me back in Delhi, and I said, 'perhaps'. Three weeks later, while I was in Bombay, he called me to say that he didn't want to be in touch with me anymore, because he was totally committed to his boyfriend: he didn't want me to call.
I cried that night. It suddenly struck me that Nikhil was out of my life for good, now. Yes, I'm a pansy at times. I'm more cynical now, though.
The disillusionment came later. I had introduced Nikhil to some of my dalliances and friends, after that last break-up. He said, he wanted to meet other gay people, since he lived a fairly cloistered life, and so I introduced them. A week or so after the final phone call, I learnt that Nikhil was hardly being the devoted boyfriend - he was painting the gay town red with all of my dalliances, and many others of his own finding. My cloistered ex was the new party boy in saddi gay dilli! The clincher, however, came later: a close friend of mine refused to sleep with Nikhil, because of the boyfriend factor. And it was then, that the skeleton tumbled out of the closet: Nikhil didn't have a boyfriend. He never had one.
He never had one.
Why did he do it? I can't explain it, to this day. Some sick machinations to make me fall more in love with him? Feel more jealous about him? Could anyone be that depraved... or even pitiable? I found the whole thing loathesome. I was glad he was out of my life. I couldn't stand the idea of meeting the person who made an utter fool of me for so long.
And of course, I met him again. When I was in Delhi, in May. He heard that I was in town. He called me. He asked to meet me. I said yes.
A cafe in a Gurgaon mall. Nice and glitzy. I ordered a chocolate mousse and waited. He was late. When he finally came, I smiled at him. He smiled back. He was looking stretched. Pale. Thinner. There was acne on his face. I told him he looked tired, and he replied that he was. We talked about life in Bombay, life in Delhi, Pegs and PInts versus the GB parties, whether we were dating anyone, etc. I asked him about his boyfriend, and he said he had broken up with him. I smiled. I finally did what you wanted, he laughed, now you can come back to Delhi. I laughed. He was making a joke. A bad joke, but one that deserved a laugh.
It was a strained conversation. Not the seven-hour sparkle like when we first met. Too much history for that now. Too much agonising. We talked for about an hour, and then I got up. I had to meet an old friend, I told him, and he nodded. I have to go too, he said, keep in touch.
I will, I replied, and shook his hand. Patted it.
And walked out of the cafe. It was a hot Gurgaon afternoon.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Single, and Married
Single, and Married
Welcome to heartbreak hotel. Actually, it's not completely fair to say that. There are possibly thousands of people the world over, categorized as the 'other woman'. When you're gay, you're just 'the other man'. Same role, different gender, possibly more dramatic.
Case 1: You see tall, dark and handsome specimen stalking the room, and you amble over to introduce yourself. A couple of drinks and some seductive comments later, you find yourself smitten. A couple of nights later, you realize that the plain gold band on his finger has a deeper, darker significance: Welcome to the family, honey!
Case 2: You know he's married. But, what the hell, he's gay! If you can do it with a guy who's in a 'relationship', you can very well do it with a guy who's married. So, you ignore the picture of the little woman at home, and just have a mindless screw. Surprise, surprise: he's actually pretty good at what he does! ;-)
Case 3: You fall in love. You tell yourself that's not the way it should go, but you decide to live dangerously, anyway. You decide: (a) you'll make him realize his inner 'gay' self, so that he'll leave the wife and live forever with you, or (b) you're quite comfortable being the 'main man' in his life, and you can share him with the wife. You're one big, happy family, and it doesn't really matter that that the third leg of the triangle (namely, the wife) doesn't know that you exist.
Of course, all of the above cases are valid, only if you actually let yourself get involved, sexually or otherwise, with a married guy. In India, that happens all the time, since a number of men get married very early and very frequently. An acquaintance of mine has been in a 'relationship' with a married guy for the last three years. Hubby visits Acquaintance three days in the week, he goes back to his wife for three other days in the week, and then Hubby spends the last day of the week with a new gay boy: Fuck-of-the-Month. How's that for romance? While some of us may be tempted to sigh in despair and urge Acquaintance to get out of this tangle, he himself is very satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him the 'stability' of a relationship, he says, and time for his own pursuits, recreational or otherwise.
There's the other extreme, of people who can't visualize even a wham-bam with a guy once they learn he's married. Take my friend the Decorator/Designer, for instance. Some weeks back, I'd met this 37-year old married guy (gorgeous!) with a five-year old kid, and while I had no qualms in making it a one-night thingy, Decorator/Designer found the whole affair quite scandalous. This is how the thing looked to me: 1) he's hot, 2) he's going to cheat around anyway, 3) this little one-night thingy is hardly going to break up a marriage, and 4) did I mention he's hot?
Of course, the thing that seems most ludicrous to me in all these cases of single/married men is how on earth their women (wives or girl friends, as the case may be) don't catch on, when (a) boy waxes body religiously, (b) boy is a drama queen straight out of Alice in Wonderland, (c) boy loves buying trinkets for his hands and various neckpieces from Colaba Causeway, (d) boy has too many out-of-town conferences on the weekends... I mean, how dumb can these women be, not catch on?!
Or, are they merely ignoring the 'single' part of the job description, while we gay lovers choose to ignore the 'married' part...?
Welcome to heartbreak hotel. Actually, it's not completely fair to say that. There are possibly thousands of people the world over, categorized as the 'other woman'. When you're gay, you're just 'the other man'. Same role, different gender, possibly more dramatic.
Case 1: You see tall, dark and handsome specimen stalking the room, and you amble over to introduce yourself. A couple of drinks and some seductive comments later, you find yourself smitten. A couple of nights later, you realize that the plain gold band on his finger has a deeper, darker significance: Welcome to the family, honey!
Case 2: You know he's married. But, what the hell, he's gay! If you can do it with a guy who's in a 'relationship', you can very well do it with a guy who's married. So, you ignore the picture of the little woman at home, and just have a mindless screw. Surprise, surprise: he's actually pretty good at what he does! ;-)
Case 3: You fall in love. You tell yourself that's not the way it should go, but you decide to live dangerously, anyway. You decide: (a) you'll make him realize his inner 'gay' self, so that he'll leave the wife and live forever with you, or (b) you're quite comfortable being the 'main man' in his life, and you can share him with the wife. You're one big, happy family, and it doesn't really matter that that the third leg of the triangle (namely, the wife) doesn't know that you exist.
Of course, all of the above cases are valid, only if you actually let yourself get involved, sexually or otherwise, with a married guy. In India, that happens all the time, since a number of men get married very early and very frequently. An acquaintance of mine has been in a 'relationship' with a married guy for the last three years. Hubby visits Acquaintance three days in the week, he goes back to his wife for three other days in the week, and then Hubby spends the last day of the week with a new gay boy: Fuck-of-the-Month. How's that for romance? While some of us may be tempted to sigh in despair and urge Acquaintance to get out of this tangle, he himself is very satisfied with the arrangement: it gives him the 'stability' of a relationship, he says, and time for his own pursuits, recreational or otherwise.
There's the other extreme, of people who can't visualize even a wham-bam with a guy once they learn he's married. Take my friend the Decorator/Designer, for instance. Some weeks back, I'd met this 37-year old married guy (gorgeous!) with a five-year old kid, and while I had no qualms in making it a one-night thingy, Decorator/Designer found the whole affair quite scandalous. This is how the thing looked to me: 1) he's hot, 2) he's going to cheat around anyway, 3) this little one-night thingy is hardly going to break up a marriage, and 4) did I mention he's hot?
Of course, the thing that seems most ludicrous to me in all these cases of single/married men is how on earth their women (wives or girl friends, as the case may be) don't catch on, when (a) boy waxes body religiously, (b) boy is a drama queen straight out of Alice in Wonderland, (c) boy loves buying trinkets for his hands and various neckpieces from Colaba Causeway, (d) boy has too many out-of-town conferences on the weekends... I mean, how dumb can these women be, not catch on?!
Or, are they merely ignoring the 'single' part of the job description, while we gay lovers choose to ignore the 'married' part...?
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
In Black and White
In Black and White
I call them penguins. The birds, short and stumpy, cute and sweet, which like to live in the Antarctic, (but if Madagascar gets it right, they thrive in the tropics), can't fly and flip flop on the snow. Penguins. The nice, affable men you meet all the time when you're gay, with whom you get along fabulously with, have a great date or two, fantasize about a beautiful kiss or two with, and then they end up flip flopping on the... erm, snow, in front of you. Penguins. Nice guys, really, but you tell yourself that you can do without them. They just add to the muddled confusion in your head.
So let's count the penguins. There was Nature Boy, about whom enough has already been said, and since we're on good terms now, I shall refrain from being bitchy against (for some time at least!). There's my friend K, who recently found himself dumped by one more bird. Very lovable creature, fine plummage, great smile, and admirable intelligence factor. Two months later, however, the expected jitters came out. One fine morning my friend could hear the penguin squawks, and the writing was on the wall.
And then, of course, there's me. There was this tall, lissome bird I was seeing, and after around three weeks of dating, he turns around and says that he really didn't think we were 'seeing' each other: things had reached a very nice and comfortable 'platonic' stage for him, and he 'assumed' that things were the same at my end, too.
Penguin squawks.
I wonder if I'm being bitter. I wonder if it's a coincidence that the book I just finished reading was one which tries to describes why men leave women and women keep wanting more. Just substitute both 'women' and 'men' back there for 'gay men', and there you have it: the living proof of both why penguins thrive in subtropical Bombay, and how gay men are perpetual Old Cows looking to turn into New Cows.
But bitterness is frankly beyond me. Or perhaps, it empowers me. Isn't every gay man out there bitter to a certain extent? Every smart gay man? I know that my last penguin's a nice guy (heck, that's why he qualifies as a penguin in the first place, and not a jackal), and maybe I shouldn't really be so vocal about my disappointments, but hell, maybe that's just me - "bratty" and "childlike". Maybe I'm the stupid ass who needs his head cleaned of all the "intellectual blah" inside, because when one partner sees things all friendly, the other should certainly stop imagining the bedroom. Right?
Probably.
But then, I guess, I still let those damn penguins fool me.
I call them penguins. The birds, short and stumpy, cute and sweet, which like to live in the Antarctic, (but if Madagascar gets it right, they thrive in the tropics), can't fly and flip flop on the snow. Penguins. The nice, affable men you meet all the time when you're gay, with whom you get along fabulously with, have a great date or two, fantasize about a beautiful kiss or two with, and then they end up flip flopping on the... erm, snow, in front of you. Penguins. Nice guys, really, but you tell yourself that you can do without them. They just add to the muddled confusion in your head.
So let's count the penguins. There was Nature Boy, about whom enough has already been said, and since we're on good terms now, I shall refrain from being bitchy against (for some time at least!). There's my friend K, who recently found himself dumped by one more bird. Very lovable creature, fine plummage, great smile, and admirable intelligence factor. Two months later, however, the expected jitters came out. One fine morning my friend could hear the penguin squawks, and the writing was on the wall.
And then, of course, there's me. There was this tall, lissome bird I was seeing, and after around three weeks of dating, he turns around and says that he really didn't think we were 'seeing' each other: things had reached a very nice and comfortable 'platonic' stage for him, and he 'assumed' that things were the same at my end, too.
Penguin squawks.
I wonder if I'm being bitter. I wonder if it's a coincidence that the book I just finished reading was one which tries to describes why men leave women and women keep wanting more. Just substitute both 'women' and 'men' back there for 'gay men', and there you have it: the living proof of both why penguins thrive in subtropical Bombay, and how gay men are perpetual Old Cows looking to turn into New Cows.
But bitterness is frankly beyond me. Or perhaps, it empowers me. Isn't every gay man out there bitter to a certain extent? Every smart gay man? I know that my last penguin's a nice guy (heck, that's why he qualifies as a penguin in the first place, and not a jackal), and maybe I shouldn't really be so vocal about my disappointments, but hell, maybe that's just me - "bratty" and "childlike". Maybe I'm the stupid ass who needs his head cleaned of all the "intellectual blah" inside, because when one partner sees things all friendly, the other should certainly stop imagining the bedroom. Right?
Probably.
But then, I guess, I still let those damn penguins fool me.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
"That don't impress me much....!"
"That don't impress me much....!"
So, we're discussing impressions today. What do people make of you? Yesterday, someone I'm dating currently told me that I'm either 'childish' or 'childlike'. I had a lump in my throat then, and wondered to myself whether he was a nutcase or not, but then I relaxed when he smiled and said I was probably the latter.
So that's impression number one for me: childlike.
Then there was the SourApple who called me many moons ago, and told me that I should go easy on the sleeping around and one-night thingy, because (heaven forbid!) I might just go ahead and get myself a reputation!... and that might be tricky, if I planned on getting into a relationship anytime in the future. It was basically the 'loose character' tag that our grandmothers had to protect themselves from, when they were being wooed, courted and generally being married off.
Impression number two for me: slut.
(And of course, there was Bombay Godmother who once affectionately called me slutteshwari. Sigh...!)
When we broke up and all, Natureboy once said that he couldn't handle being in a relationship with me, because I would want to be in the know of his whereabouts, and would want to be the centre of his universe, yadayadayada, and all that jazz.
So, impression number three for me: Narcisisstic prick.
(Of course, everything is quite fine now with Natureboy, and I plan to break an earthen vessel on his head sometime soon because of the comment he made.)
Walk into a party with me, and I'll be dancing merrily to some stupid hiphop tune, then stand sedately with my drink in hand when they play Kuan mein doob jaungi, but then do the John Travolta moves when ABBA squeals Voulez Vouz, and then head bang if they play the scarce U2 number. And of course, nobody ever approaches me at any of these parties. A number of queries to a number of friends have yielded the same result...
Impression number four for me: Wallflower-cum-sex god-cum-Diva.
Hmmmmm....
And what about the sweet little boy inside? The sheep in wolf's clothing in sheep's clothing? What about the great guy with a sense of humour and a sense of ease to match? Mmm.....
I think I like 'childlike' best. ;-)
So, we're discussing impressions today. What do people make of you? Yesterday, someone I'm dating currently told me that I'm either 'childish' or 'childlike'. I had a lump in my throat then, and wondered to myself whether he was a nutcase or not, but then I relaxed when he smiled and said I was probably the latter.
So that's impression number one for me: childlike.
Then there was the SourApple who called me many moons ago, and told me that I should go easy on the sleeping around and one-night thingy, because (heaven forbid!) I might just go ahead and get myself a reputation!... and that might be tricky, if I planned on getting into a relationship anytime in the future. It was basically the 'loose character' tag that our grandmothers had to protect themselves from, when they were being wooed, courted and generally being married off.
Impression number two for me: slut.
(And of course, there was Bombay Godmother who once affectionately called me slutteshwari. Sigh...!)
When we broke up and all, Natureboy once said that he couldn't handle being in a relationship with me, because I would want to be in the know of his whereabouts, and would want to be the centre of his universe, yadayadayada, and all that jazz.
So, impression number three for me: Narcisisstic prick.
(Of course, everything is quite fine now with Natureboy, and I plan to break an earthen vessel on his head sometime soon because of the comment he made.)
Walk into a party with me, and I'll be dancing merrily to some stupid hiphop tune, then stand sedately with my drink in hand when they play Kuan mein doob jaungi, but then do the John Travolta moves when ABBA squeals Voulez Vouz, and then head bang if they play the scarce U2 number. And of course, nobody ever approaches me at any of these parties. A number of queries to a number of friends have yielded the same result...
Impression number four for me: Wallflower-cum-sex god-cum-Diva.
Hmmmmm....
And what about the sweet little boy inside? The sheep in wolf's clothing in sheep's clothing? What about the great guy with a sense of humour and a sense of ease to match? Mmm.....
I think I like 'childlike' best. ;-)
Friday, August 19, 2005
The Ex Factor
The Ex Factor
So when do you decide that you can be 'friends' again? After going through a phase of wishing away your ex-lover, when do you actually start looking at him like a nice guy again - and it really doesn't matter that he's not got the hots for you at all.... mmmm, excuse me while I lick my lips, before proceeding to jump into a lengthy expplanation.
The trigger for this post is a recent event: I'm meeting Natureboy again. Strictly on a platonic basis, however. I'm talking to him, meeting him for lunch, and even discussing the cute firangs who traipse about South Bombay with him. Of course, my close friends think it's ludicruous. As far as they're concerned, Natureboy is still persona non grata, or at least, should be, around me. I agreed with them... till about a month back.
What happened a month back? I'm not sure - I think, it happened when I decided I want to look for date-material again - and not just the one-night stand variety. I think that signified: if I can look again, I must be over him. And of course, it's a farce to not indulge. We both crack lousy jokes, we're both sluts (I still am, he seems to have turned asexual now, though! heheheh), we both follow porn movies avidly (he never stopped, I've restarted), and we both love fatty food desserts. Hell, there was always chemistry there - I guess it depends on where you take that chemistry to.
But... getting back to the WHEN???? question at hand, I wonder if my answer ("When you're ready to date again") works. I have five exes, including Natureboy. The first was an asshole, and I'm never going to forgive him because of something particularly venomous he did, though I would smile at him if I ever meet him and would probably go to bed with him if he begged me - both of which have happened, since we broke up. (I said I was a slut!)
The second is a ghost in Delhi, whom I smile at, and exchange mouldy jokes with, but would never consider being friends with or even sleeping with again.
The third is a great friend of mine - one of the very few gay friends I have, and though we always make plans to have sex when we meet up next, that never happens - perhaps that's why we're still going strong! ;-)
The fourth is an angel, but I'm not in active touch with him. He called to wish me on my birthday, and I felt glad. We still call each other friends, but there's... distance. Somehow. Very little chemistry in the first place, I think.
And the fourth is Natureboy.
Yes, I never had a point to prove, really. Just wanted to talk about my lovely exes. ;-)
flashpoint:
You can vote against Article 377 online here. Just doing my bit for Gay Rights. Ahem, ahem... ;-)
So when do you decide that you can be 'friends' again? After going through a phase of wishing away your ex-lover, when do you actually start looking at him like a nice guy again - and it really doesn't matter that he's not got the hots for you at all.... mmmm, excuse me while I lick my lips, before proceeding to jump into a lengthy expplanation.
The trigger for this post is a recent event: I'm meeting Natureboy again. Strictly on a platonic basis, however. I'm talking to him, meeting him for lunch, and even discussing the cute firangs who traipse about South Bombay with him. Of course, my close friends think it's ludicruous. As far as they're concerned, Natureboy is still persona non grata, or at least, should be, around me. I agreed with them... till about a month back.
What happened a month back? I'm not sure - I think, it happened when I decided I want to look for date-material again - and not just the one-night stand variety. I think that signified: if I can look again, I must be over him. And of course, it's a farce to not indulge. We both crack lousy jokes, we're both sluts (I still am, he seems to have turned asexual now, though! heheheh), we both follow porn movies avidly (he never stopped, I've restarted), and we both love fatty food desserts. Hell, there was always chemistry there - I guess it depends on where you take that chemistry to.
But... getting back to the WHEN???? question at hand, I wonder if my answer ("When you're ready to date again") works. I have five exes, including Natureboy. The first was an asshole, and I'm never going to forgive him because of something particularly venomous he did, though I would smile at him if I ever meet him and would probably go to bed with him if he begged me - both of which have happened, since we broke up. (I said I was a slut!)
The second is a ghost in Delhi, whom I smile at, and exchange mouldy jokes with, but would never consider being friends with or even sleeping with again.
The third is a great friend of mine - one of the very few gay friends I have, and though we always make plans to have sex when we meet up next, that never happens - perhaps that's why we're still going strong! ;-)
The fourth is an angel, but I'm not in active touch with him. He called to wish me on my birthday, and I felt glad. We still call each other friends, but there's... distance. Somehow. Very little chemistry in the first place, I think.
And the fourth is Natureboy.
Yes, I never had a point to prove, really. Just wanted to talk about my lovely exes. ;-)
flashpoint:
You can vote against Article 377 online here. Just doing my bit for Gay Rights. Ahem, ahem... ;-)
Monday, August 15, 2005
Independent closet?
Independent closet?
Ok, so this post was written on August 15, and I delayed in getting it out... Also, the words/ phrases in blue below are corrected mentions, after my goof-ups were reported to me. Sorry :-)
I feel like Bill Pullman of Independence Day saying: Today.... is our Independence Day! August 15, and hello to all of you. Get your tricolour jhandaas out, for this is the day that your country achieved independence.
I'm at pains here to find some gay angle here to Indian independence. If this were the didactic kind of a blog, I could talk about the irrelevance of Artiucle 377 that still disallows homosexuality and other 'sexual acts outside the order of nature'. If I go out and proclaim that I'm gay, chances are, I may be put away in jail. Archaic laws remain in use.
That reminds me: there's a rally tomorrow, organised by some leading LGBT groups, including India's most famous gay man, Ashok Kavi, at what is arguably Bombay's second-most famous landmark after the Gateway of India, Flora Fountain, to protest Article 377. According to sources, more than 200 people are expected. Perhaps, the number would have been greater, had they organised the protest march on a weekend, rather than on a Tuesday afternoon. Then again, perhaps, the impact would have been greater, had they organised it today.
Now, that would have made headlines!
Being a gay Indian in the 58th year of Indian independence... hmmm... perhaps that merits a long winded essay or two. A friend of mine is going down for that march at Flora tomorrow, and I asked him why: there might be cameras there, they might take your picture, I cautioned, the typical closet talk. My friend hesitated, then said, "Well, if I see that it's getting very public, I might just hang around at the sidelines, and not join in the actual march, but I want to be there, all the same. If we don't stand up for our rights, who on earth is going to help us get them?"
My frend, by the way, is hardly reknowned for activism. He's just an ordinary gay man in Bombay, from a "decent" family, quite well-off, and prone to partying every other night. I would call him a Page 3 person, were it not for the negative hues associated with the term. And he's going to lend his voice against Article 377.
I'm going to confess something here: I told my friend that I'm not going along with him, because I have a fixed-hours job that I can't circumvent for a rally of any sorts... I'm actually glad I have that excuse. I guess, I'm still not ready to leave my closet. Not even to stand up for my rights.
Ok, so this post was written on August 15, and I delayed in getting it out... Also, the words/ phrases in blue below are corrected mentions, after my goof-ups were reported to me. Sorry :-)
I feel like Bill Pullman of Independence Day saying: Today.... is our Independence Day! August 15, and hello to all of you. Get your tricolour jhandaas out, for this is the day that your country achieved independence.
I'm at pains here to find some gay angle here to Indian independence. If this were the didactic kind of a blog, I could talk about the irrelevance of Artiucle 377 that still disallows homosexuality and other 'sexual acts outside the order of nature'. If I go out and proclaim that I'm gay, chances are, I may be put away in jail. Archaic laws remain in use.
That reminds me: there's a rally tomorrow, organised by some leading LGBT groups, including India's most famous gay man, Ashok Kavi, at what is arguably Bombay's second-most famous landmark after the Gateway of India, Flora Fountain, to protest Article 377. According to sources, more than 200 people are expected. Perhaps, the number would have been greater, had they organised the protest march on a weekend, rather than on a Tuesday afternoon. Then again, perhaps, the impact would have been greater, had they organised it today.
Now, that would have made headlines!
Being a gay Indian in the 58th year of Indian independence... hmmm... perhaps that merits a long winded essay or two. A friend of mine is going down for that march at Flora tomorrow, and I asked him why: there might be cameras there, they might take your picture, I cautioned, the typical closet talk. My friend hesitated, then said, "Well, if I see that it's getting very public, I might just hang around at the sidelines, and not join in the actual march, but I want to be there, all the same. If we don't stand up for our rights, who on earth is going to help us get them?"
My frend, by the way, is hardly reknowned for activism. He's just an ordinary gay man in Bombay, from a "decent" family, quite well-off, and prone to partying every other night. I would call him a Page 3 person, were it not for the negative hues associated with the term. And he's going to lend his voice against Article 377.
I'm going to confess something here: I told my friend that I'm not going along with him, because I have a fixed-hours job that I can't circumvent for a rally of any sorts... I'm actually glad I have that excuse. I guess, I'm still not ready to leave my closet. Not even to stand up for my rights.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe
Sometimes, I think I'm all smart and all... hehehe
This one is actually going to be about gay blogging, and not just me spewing out crap about my erratic and erotic escapades (though some would say, that's what I do best.). Indian gay blogging, to be precise. I've always wanted to find out some guys in India who blog about their homosexuality, whether openly or from within a closet, and I found a couple of them, the other day.
My favourite is Kris', to which I've added a link on the right hand side. Kris is a gay doctor somewhere in Bombay, who saves lives by day and dreams of men by night. Wow - a hot Baywatch hunk gone gay? hehehe.. I wish! (which doesn't mean that he's not, of course.....!) The reason I like Kris' posts? They're amazingly easy: they're about a life, and the fact that he's gay is not the be-all and end-all. There's no sermonizing about gay people - and that's great. In the last few days, I've come across a couple of gay blogs which are full of activism - and it simply leaves me cold.
And that begs an explanation. The critics would slam me for being a 'bad' gay person: I stay behind the closet, I write trivialties about my gay sex (and otherwise) life, and I try to stay as noncerebral as possible. I love the feeling of being unattached. I love the feeling of being independent. I hate to stand up for (and this demands capital letters) Gay Rights. I'm an awful (awful!) person.
That's one way of looking at it. ;-)
But I love the idea of meeting up people who talk about their gay lives online. It's a thrill, perhaps. Something like being a voyeur. Something also like seeing a mirror reflection. A gay person in another situation, in another city perhaps, talking about.....
Balderdash!
I can't explain it. I just love it. Sheesh! This is the last time I try to be all profound. Will stick to the sensational stuff from now on! Harrrrrummmph!
This one is actually going to be about gay blogging, and not just me spewing out crap about my erratic and erotic escapades (though some would say, that's what I do best.). Indian gay blogging, to be precise. I've always wanted to find out some guys in India who blog about their homosexuality, whether openly or from within a closet, and I found a couple of them, the other day.
My favourite is Kris', to which I've added a link on the right hand side. Kris is a gay doctor somewhere in Bombay, who saves lives by day and dreams of men by night. Wow - a hot Baywatch hunk gone gay? hehehe.. I wish! (which doesn't mean that he's not, of course.....!) The reason I like Kris' posts? They're amazingly easy: they're about a life, and the fact that he's gay is not the be-all and end-all. There's no sermonizing about gay people - and that's great. In the last few days, I've come across a couple of gay blogs which are full of activism - and it simply leaves me cold.
And that begs an explanation. The critics would slam me for being a 'bad' gay person: I stay behind the closet, I write trivialties about my gay sex (and otherwise) life, and I try to stay as noncerebral as possible. I love the feeling of being unattached. I love the feeling of being independent. I hate to stand up for (and this demands capital letters) Gay Rights. I'm an awful (awful!) person.
That's one way of looking at it. ;-)
But I love the idea of meeting up people who talk about their gay lives online. It's a thrill, perhaps. Something like being a voyeur. Something also like seeing a mirror reflection. A gay person in another situation, in another city perhaps, talking about.....
Balderdash!
I can't explain it. I just love it. Sheesh! This is the last time I try to be all profound. Will stick to the sensational stuff from now on! Harrrrrummmph!
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
First Cut
First Cut
I'm in the mood for Irani these days. The other day, a colleague from work and I visited this Irani joint in the back alleys of Fort. Nestled there, close to the Bombay Stock Exchange, frequented by middle aged Patelbhais and fat Parsi ladies with striped skirts, sits this place called Cafe Military, which serves up the most divine kheema with egg. Picture a bowl full of horribly unhealthy oil-laced kheema fry, topped with a poached egg, and we have three rolls of bun-maska (bread-butter, in Mumbaiya Irani lingo) alongside. And, yes, two cups each of the strongest, sweetest tea. Irani ishtyle.
Irani Heaven.
I've always wanted to try food at one of these old-world Irani food joints, and especially after I read that much-hyped book The Boyfriend. While the book itself leaves a lot to be desired, its descriptions of the Irani cafes dotting South Bombay, with their unique marble topped tables, and their bearded servers in shalwar-kurtas tantalised me to no end. So, alright, Military has no shalwar-clad servers, but Cafe Olympia on Colaba Causeway does. In addition to an amazing kheema-omelette, Olympia whips up an utterly divine mango juice.
Irani heaven made sense again to me, later that day, when I bumped into A. He happens to be this particular young man I had indulged in some dirty dancing with ages ago, at one of the GB parties, and exchanged numbers as well. Three months later, after absolutely no correspondence from either side, we bump into each other again at last week's party, and exchange numbers for the second time. Finally, that evening, I get a buzz from Iranian A, and I meet him at a ticket counter at one of Western Railways' hyper-efficient stations. Picture 5'9'' tall, lovely tanned frame, biceps that make me salivate, strips of black hair that curl above the two top buttons of his shirt (which are undone, by the way), and a lovely bubble butt. Mmmm..... so.... we chatted, smiled, and walked back to my place. Shut the door, and let the fireworks begin.
Two hours later, after I closed the door behind him, and plopped down on my bed, I took another glug of the vodka bottle we'd uncapped, and smiled to myself.
Irani heaven!
I'm in the mood for Irani these days. The other day, a colleague from work and I visited this Irani joint in the back alleys of Fort. Nestled there, close to the Bombay Stock Exchange, frequented by middle aged Patelbhais and fat Parsi ladies with striped skirts, sits this place called Cafe Military, which serves up the most divine kheema with egg. Picture a bowl full of horribly unhealthy oil-laced kheema fry, topped with a poached egg, and we have three rolls of bun-maska (bread-butter, in Mumbaiya Irani lingo) alongside. And, yes, two cups each of the strongest, sweetest tea. Irani ishtyle.
Irani Heaven.
I've always wanted to try food at one of these old-world Irani food joints, and especially after I read that much-hyped book The Boyfriend. While the book itself leaves a lot to be desired, its descriptions of the Irani cafes dotting South Bombay, with their unique marble topped tables, and their bearded servers in shalwar-kurtas tantalised me to no end. So, alright, Military has no shalwar-clad servers, but Cafe Olympia on Colaba Causeway does. In addition to an amazing kheema-omelette, Olympia whips up an utterly divine mango juice.
Irani heaven made sense again to me, later that day, when I bumped into A. He happens to be this particular young man I had indulged in some dirty dancing with ages ago, at one of the GB parties, and exchanged numbers as well. Three months later, after absolutely no correspondence from either side, we bump into each other again at last week's party, and exchange numbers for the second time. Finally, that evening, I get a buzz from Iranian A, and I meet him at a ticket counter at one of Western Railways' hyper-efficient stations. Picture 5'9'' tall, lovely tanned frame, biceps that make me salivate, strips of black hair that curl above the two top buttons of his shirt (which are undone, by the way), and a lovely bubble butt. Mmmm..... so.... we chatted, smiled, and walked back to my place. Shut the door, and let the fireworks begin.
Two hours later, after I closed the door behind him, and plopped down on my bed, I took another glug of the vodka bottle we'd uncapped, and smiled to myself.
Irani heaven!
Friday, August 05, 2005
Medicine isn't bitter, all the time
Medicine isn't bitter, all the time
Ta-da! There's a gay party on tonight, and I'm going! Of course, there have been lots of parties between now and then, though I haven't blogged about them. Most of them were fun, actually. I've been meeting a lot of interesting people. Like, at the last one, I bumped into Cute Doc, whom I haven't seen for ages, and it was wild! Cute Doc and I get along like a house on fire, we go at it hammer and tongs in the clever repartee front, and we're fabulous in bed! He wasn't in town for the last few months, though, so he fell away in limbo... but, the other night was great: we swung like crazy on the dance floor and even did a couple of make-out sessions. I've considered telling Cute Doc that we should date... but... not too sure about that. We're both sluts and we have great fun, but I'm not sure how great it would be like, to be together together!
Anyhow, Cute Doc had his friend from Hyderabad, Cute Punjabi Doc with him, and I rocked with CPD last time.
;-)
Flashback over now.
The party's in less than two hours, and Cute Doc is over at my place. (Yes, he still kisses divinely! hehehe) He's watching some silly music show on Sony with my flatmate, while I'm typing. We're gonna talk about what to wear and we're gonna get in a cab together. Flatmate will get all misty eyed and parenty and tell us to have a great time.
I'm hoping they play Aajaa balliye on the dance floor! tonight.
Ta-da! There's a gay party on tonight, and I'm going! Of course, there have been lots of parties between now and then, though I haven't blogged about them. Most of them were fun, actually. I've been meeting a lot of interesting people. Like, at the last one, I bumped into Cute Doc, whom I haven't seen for ages, and it was wild! Cute Doc and I get along like a house on fire, we go at it hammer and tongs in the clever repartee front, and we're fabulous in bed! He wasn't in town for the last few months, though, so he fell away in limbo... but, the other night was great: we swung like crazy on the dance floor and even did a couple of make-out sessions. I've considered telling Cute Doc that we should date... but... not too sure about that. We're both sluts and we have great fun, but I'm not sure how great it would be like, to be together together!
Anyhow, Cute Doc had his friend from Hyderabad, Cute Punjabi Doc with him, and I rocked with CPD last time.
;-)
Flashback over now.
The party's in less than two hours, and Cute Doc is over at my place. (Yes, he still kisses divinely! hehehe) He's watching some silly music show on Sony with my flatmate, while I'm typing. We're gonna talk about what to wear and we're gonna get in a cab together. Flatmate will get all misty eyed and parenty and tell us to have a great time.
I'm hoping they play Aajaa balliye on the dance floor! tonight.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Closetalk goes to Gay Porn Land
CloseTalk goes to Gay Porn Land
I've been surfing the web, and talking to a lot of old friends. have been staying up late chatting in gay rooms and typically trying to hold on to the 'slut' tag. (Kidding!) But I did come across two very interesting blogs.
Warning: What you're about to see may just tantalise your tastebuds, so make sure you're well within your diet limit.
Also: There may be some nudity involved, so make sure your boss/ parents are far away when you're viweing this.
First on the list is Michael Lucas' blog. Lucas is one of those legendary gay porn stars with a killer smile and killer strokes to match. I have loads of pics of the guy in various states of undress/ copulation in my computer at home, and so it was a pleasant surprise to find out that he actually writes a blog. A well updated one, at that! What does he talk about? Well, obviously, porn (which is his profession!), but also almost everything under the sun. The man gets controversial at times, is opinionated always, but he puts his point across clearly. Hell, it's his blog, and he can do whatever he wants to on it! Love him, hate, love to hate him - whatever! - I think it's a cool place to wander by, if you want something fun and sexy.
Next up, is this other place called the Gay Porn Blog. Yes, it's about the gay porn industry. Everything about it you'd probably ever want to know, and a tad extra. Complete with all the spice and the gossip. Strictly for those into porn and the funnies associated with it. The gals who read this could find it hilarious, but I'm warning you guys that they have a lot of full frontal nudity posted on this place, so be careful to clear your history cache after you've gone to the site, if you're on a shared computer. But, generally, I think you should have fun with this one - the guys write very in a very pacy style, very bitchy sometimes, too. But hell, that's all part of being gay, right?
For the record, I've provided links to both blogs, under the right hand corner of this page.
I've been surfing the web, and talking to a lot of old friends. have been staying up late chatting in gay rooms and typically trying to hold on to the 'slut' tag. (Kidding!) But I did come across two very interesting blogs.
Warning: What you're about to see may just tantalise your tastebuds, so make sure you're well within your diet limit.
Also: There may be some nudity involved, so make sure your boss/ parents are far away when you're viweing this.
First on the list is Michael Lucas' blog. Lucas is one of those legendary gay porn stars with a killer smile and killer strokes to match. I have loads of pics of the guy in various states of undress/ copulation in my computer at home, and so it was a pleasant surprise to find out that he actually writes a blog. A well updated one, at that! What does he talk about? Well, obviously, porn (which is his profession!), but also almost everything under the sun. The man gets controversial at times, is opinionated always, but he puts his point across clearly. Hell, it's his blog, and he can do whatever he wants to on it! Love him, hate, love to hate him - whatever! - I think it's a cool place to wander by, if you want something fun and sexy.
Next up, is this other place called the Gay Porn Blog. Yes, it's about the gay porn industry. Everything about it you'd probably ever want to know, and a tad extra. Complete with all the spice and the gossip. Strictly for those into porn and the funnies associated with it. The gals who read this could find it hilarious, but I'm warning you guys that they have a lot of full frontal nudity posted on this place, so be careful to clear your history cache after you've gone to the site, if you're on a shared computer. But, generally, I think you should have fun with this one - the guys write very in a very pacy style, very bitchy sometimes, too. But hell, that's all part of being gay, right?
For the record, I've provided links to both blogs, under the right hand corner of this page.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Slut in my soul
Slut in my soul
A friend of mine is turning slutboy, and I'm wondering whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Being a slut appeals to me; in part, a lot because of the steady diet of porn I've been watching through my formative college years. I've got a very simple logic: like every other sensitive young man out there, I'm looking for the Love Of My Life (tall, dark, handsome, yadayadayada...), but till such time I actually bump into Mr Right, and both of us take the time off to understand and accept each other, I'd be an asexual dolt to refuse the free sex that comes my way. Strangely enough, that eminently principled logic serves to categorise me as 'slut', according to some people I knew.
All very well and good, since I really don't care a fig.
But... a friend of mine is turning slut. A friend of mine has decided that till such time in the unforeseeable future that he finds the Love Of His Life (he can't be tall, dark, handsome too, or else, the two of us would be at loggerheads!), he will go out there and look for the free sex that's always available in the Meat Market of Bombay. By all accounts, he's getting to be a pretty successful slut too - even by my high standards - and that's what sets me thinking. Perhaps, even something as drastic as soul-searching.
I don't want him to be a slut. It's as simple as that. Why? I'm not exactly sure. Something just... stings. I want him to be happy, and I don't think that slutting around is the best way to be happy. I want him to wait this one out, at least for some time, and be a teenyweeny bit patient. But I can't help thinking that I'm being hypocritical here: why on earth what's good for the goose not be equally fine for the gander? What on earth can I say to that? Does that old adage about people knowing how to live their pals' lives well enough, but not their own, hold good here? Will I be able to escape scrutiny with that line of argument?
Knowing my pigheaded friend, it's not bloody likely.
So, that's it then. This is my venting space. My space to sigh and hope that it all turns out good for him, hope that he doesn't take me in the wrong sense, and realize that I only want the very best for him - while he sluts around.
In the meantime, I have competition! ;-)
A friend of mine is turning slutboy, and I'm wondering whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Being a slut appeals to me; in part, a lot because of the steady diet of porn I've been watching through my formative college years. I've got a very simple logic: like every other sensitive young man out there, I'm looking for the Love Of My Life (tall, dark, handsome, yadayadayada...), but till such time I actually bump into Mr Right, and both of us take the time off to understand and accept each other, I'd be an asexual dolt to refuse the free sex that comes my way. Strangely enough, that eminently principled logic serves to categorise me as 'slut', according to some people I knew.
All very well and good, since I really don't care a fig.
But... a friend of mine is turning slut. A friend of mine has decided that till such time in the unforeseeable future that he finds the Love Of His Life (he can't be tall, dark, handsome too, or else, the two of us would be at loggerheads!), he will go out there and look for the free sex that's always available in the Meat Market of Bombay. By all accounts, he's getting to be a pretty successful slut too - even by my high standards - and that's what sets me thinking. Perhaps, even something as drastic as soul-searching.
I don't want him to be a slut. It's as simple as that. Why? I'm not exactly sure. Something just... stings. I want him to be happy, and I don't think that slutting around is the best way to be happy. I want him to wait this one out, at least for some time, and be a teenyweeny bit patient. But I can't help thinking that I'm being hypocritical here: why on earth what's good for the goose not be equally fine for the gander? What on earth can I say to that? Does that old adage about people knowing how to live their pals' lives well enough, but not their own, hold good here? Will I be able to escape scrutiny with that line of argument?
Knowing my pigheaded friend, it's not bloody likely.
So, that's it then. This is my venting space. My space to sigh and hope that it all turns out good for him, hope that he doesn't take me in the wrong sense, and realize that I only want the very best for him - while he sluts around.
In the meantime, I have competition! ;-)
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