Back to Basics

Back to Basics

Samantha Jones: I'm a trisexual. I'll try anything once.

That's more or less the way I feel. When I get down to gay.com and the stupid asses online ask me that same clinical question: what do you like sexually, I'm really not sure how to react. A part of me would have slapped the ass if he was in front of me, the other part is chewing my lip, trying to come up with an answer that is not too insulting, exhibits my witty side, discourages him from asking too many dumb questions, and tells him that I'm the best lay he's ever going to get. Samantha has just provided me with the best quote of all for these occassions.



:)

The other night, I met up with the Penguin and Vivian for some SATC Season One viewing, and we ordered in pizza and went out to grab gelato after a couple of episodes. While chatting about stuff, I made a comment to something Vivian said, and Penguin responded with "Of all of us, I'd thought you'd be the last guy to get shocked by that!" I don't really recall now what comment I'd made, but later on, it struck me that I have this funny reputation of a Jack-of-all-trades. With good reason, perhaps. SnowWhite's Stepmother, for instance, says I routinely shock him when I tell him about my exploits - and then I wonder whether I really am that sensational. A part of me is thrilled at the thought, mind you.

Sex in the shower? Love it.
Sex in an elevator? Done it.
Sex in a park? Ho hum.
Sex with a hooker? Tick.
Getting paid for sex? I call it a 'learning experience'.
Sex in the office complex? Exciting.
Sex on the dance floor? Watch me at a GB party.
Sex with an underage kid? Yep.
Sex with a married guy with/without kids? Yes.
Sex with an old guy? Don't get shocked, but yes.
Sex with poppers? I used to live in Delhi, you know!
Sex for seven hours? *beams*
S&M sex? On both sides of the great divide.
Group sex/threesomes? That's not even considered 'kinky' these days.
Sex with foreigners? Only not with an African.

Hell, I'm even having a Long Distance Relationship, for crying out loud - and according to me, that's probably the most outrageous of everything I've done! But even as I model myself on gorgeous gorgeous Samantha Jones, I'm also aware that I'm pretty Carriesque at times. And that's scary. I whine and obsess too much about my relationships - ultra-cool Samantha never does that! And I have this blog, which is as newspaper-columny as you can get. And while I don't have frizzy unmanageable hair like Carrie Bradshaw, I'm smart enough to notice I have enough of her to make my life complicated. I have enough of her for Penguin to make that observation of me, the other day. That was one of the virtues of being Samantha - no hang-ups.



Right now, however, I have a mission: back to basics. The idea is to go back to being as much of Samantha as I used to be. No hang-ups. No obsessing. And no regrets. I'm trisexual. I'll try anything once.

Her Majesty's Service

Her Majesty's Service

Well, after all the brickbats have been fired and everything, Daniel Craig is supposed to be one of the best James Bonds ever. Personally, while I think he looks more CIA than MI5, with that compact muscular body and blond tufts of hair, I don't really care about all the 'Is he the right Bond?' arguments. Honestly speaking, I thought Connery was over-rated, and Brosnan defines sexy for me, but Craig is not too bad really on the ooomph quotient. One thing I'm definitely glad of, is the fact that finally after all the Ursula Andresses and whoever they get a hunky man out of the water, dripping wet. Excuse me while I lick my lips. :)

And then, of course, there's the fact that our man is supposed to have loads of gay fans worldwide because in his latest film Infamous, he's done a man-to-man kiss, while playing Truman Capote's gay lover (rather, one of his gay lovers). Add the fact that he apparently broke his teeth in his first Bond fight sequence, and the pansy tag gets attached to him. Of course, judging from the pic down there, not much about Daniel looks pansy to me... (amen)



Then there are the amusing little online tidbits where you hear that the next Bond movie is going to keep in mind Craig's huge homosexual fan following, and include a 'homo-erotic' angle between Super Spy and Arch Villain. Wonder if our hero will then give up the tux for... tights?

And there are other strange bits of gay Bond trivia. Sample this: Pierce Brosnan thought he was gay when he was 16. Of course, good ole Pierce hurriedly adds that he didn't turn out to be actually faggoty, but there it is - the confession.

And while we've all heard about a certain flamboyant black star wanting to be the next black James Bond in Her Majesty's Service, there's also my favourite living gay personality, Rupert Everett, who says he wants to be the next gay 007.



Personally, I think he's much more MI-5 than Daniel!

Strong Arm Tactics

Strong Arm Tactics

The other day, while the music was blaring loud at this funky pub in downtown Bombay, Helen of Troy told me that I was "very strong" for sticking on in a Long Distance Relationship, and that I was doing something really "good". At the time, I suppose I must have beamed in joy, thinking about Boy, but didn't really consider what his words meant. Hell, I've heard variations of that comment so many times from Vivian. So it really didn't hit me. Till, perhaps last night, when I was pondering over them, and wondered why they think I'm "strong" to carry on in a LDR.



Is it because of the no-everyday contact? Probably.

Is it because of the no-everyday sex? Perhaps.

Is it because I cut a sorry figure at GB parties, all dressed to kill and slut around, but going home alone each night? Most definitely!

:)

My friends are beautiful, and of course they would never imply I'm pathetic(ally strong) because I don't get laid every GB night these days. So it's not the sex part. It's the part where you realize you've found the guy you want to spend the rest of your life with - but you have to stay apart for a significant period of time. It's all about the lack of companionship, the holding hands, the everyday phone conversations, the every night dinners, and all of the stuff that you would do with someone you're crazy about. So that makes me... "strong".

And then I thought about it? Why on earth do I do it? The other night, Chimneypot and I were having this conversation, and she was telling me, she realy hoped things went well for the long haul with her boyfriend - because quite frankly, she was too tired to start from scratch if this relationship didn't succeed. I identified with her. Walking out of a GB party alone, even though I hate the fact that I'm not going to get laid, I also love the fact that I don't have to work/charm/ cruise my way so that I can find myself a mate - pun intended. Like Chimneypot, I am terrified at the thought of having to start all over again, if things with Boy don't work out - especially, since it just sort of... fell into my lap, really, without me having to really try.

But that's not the reason why I stuck it out through the absence - nor should it ever be. I don't ever want to be with a man just because I'm terrified of being without one. The reason why I'm still wearing his ring is because it felt so natural... because it fell into my lap.



Does that make sense? I want to preserve this beautiful feeling that I have for this creature who just walked into my life one fine day, and showed me such grand things. I've given him so many nicknames, attributed so many special qualities to him, and all of it because they're true. His voice on the telephone gets me grinning, and I'm thrilled to bits that he loves the sound of my laughter. I've been with my Boy, despite the distance, because in spite of all my bitching against the LDR, this one has taught me some special things.

It's taught me to be patient. To be much more at ease with myself than I have ever been. It taught me to not turn my lover into a superhuman demigod - he's human, I'm human, we're silly creatures who might slip up now and then, so be kind. It taught me to stop living my love affairs all the time like a teenager. And, yes, it did teach me to dream.

So, if HoT and Vivian thinks I'm "strong" for sticking onto this relationship, the real reason is because this relationship has made me Strong.

Shopping List Item #24678

Shopping List Item #24678

Despite what men may say and what men may want to hear, the fact is that Size Does Matter. There's a reason why I'm so proud that my Boy is B-I-G. There's a reason why size S is preferred to size M. There's a reason why the Dud of the Day is the Dud of the Day. And there's a reason why Australia's latest invention has seen HUGE sales (no pun intended) since the seven days it was announced.



The Wonderjock is a hit.

This morning, I was leafing through my copy of BombayTimes, and there was an article there asking our homegrown 'celebs' what they think of men displaying their bulges for the rest of the world to see. While some made myopic har-de-har comments about it, and others gave the usual "men still don't know what we women really want!" quote (well, of course not, dimwit dah-ling, they know what other men want!), there were a couple who were brash enough to say it like it is: well, why the heck not?! If perverted straight men like seeing big boobs on a woman, what's wrong with perverted homo/straight men seeing a big bulge beneath a hot guy's pants? The battle of the sexes is finally getting interesting, methinks!

So, this evening, I amble over to the website for those responsible for giving us the wonderjock (beautifully titled Aussie-bum) to see what they have to offer. While I grinned at the silly name of the wonderjock - it's called PATRIOT, and comes in four editions of four countries: Property of Australia/ USA/ England/ France - it's also breathtaking to see just how far the damn thing makes your package stick out. I mean.... the makers say there's no padding or rings or strings or whatnot at work here - just a simple case of a 'cup' - and yet - the effect is startlingly mouthwatering. I would love to see a guy walking with that around at the beach.



Now I know what I need to buy, ahead of my Goa trip.

Some smokin' times

Some smokin' times

Chimneypot is the first friend I came out to. Ages back, over an impromptu cup of coffee at a Barista, there was an impromptu coming out, and the best part was, how well she understood me. There have been so many cups of coffee shared at that particular Barista with her, when I've accused her of flirting with the coffee-guy and she's accused me of the same, where I told her about Boy, and she told me about the love of her life.



So that, when she informed me today that she's leaving the city to be with her boyfriend by the end of this month, I was quite speechless. My first reaction: terrible! Of course, I couched that properly. I know this is what she's been looking forward to for so long now, and I know that this is probably the best thing for her. But I always kept on hoping that her boyfriend would come down here to Bombay, instead of taking her away like this from me. The thing is, in Long Distance Relationships, the rules rarely stay unbroken. And that's another reason why I hate LDRs, despite being in one myself: it forces you to choose between the love of your life and the friends who have meant so much to you for so long...

I probably shouldn't say 'choose' here. It's not that exactly - there's email, there's sms, there's the phone and all, I know, but it's not really the same, is it? Somehow, even though you tend to meet just once a week or so, knowing that the person is there, just a mere hour away, feels... reassuring. But I'll have to survive without knowing the Chimneypot is right there nearby... Hell if I can make the LDR work, I can make the Long Distance Friendship work!

In the meantime, I'm going to reproduce here, something that she wrote about me - about us - ages ago. She wanted to post it on her blog, but at that time, I asked her not to, and she gave me a copy instead. I'd given it to Boy to read while he was here, and he loved it. It's the kind of thing Chimneypot does.... the Nutcracker that she is...

An observation. I have been spending a lot of time with my gay friend. He is fun. He is perpetually happy, though certain speed breakers in his rampant sex marathon in the city finds him frowning a bit from time to time.

I walk with him, we hug each other a lot. We show affection physically. The relationship is as platonic as platonic gets. It is just good ole friendship, though we do end up talking about our sex lives a lot, my non existant one and his rampant one which is a novella-like experience each time. He gets lucky more than anyone I know. Which is good for him. Do you smell jealousy here?

So you watched 'Will and Grace', and you don't need another rext version of it. He is a friend with whom I share an increased level of comfort. (I think the fact that the 'sex' part is totally negated makes it more comfy.)

But thanks to him there have been so many firsts for me - in terms of how I have been perceived around people.

- I was the 'in-law' when I met his boyfriend.
- I am termed a fag hag by my absolute straight cousin.
- Talking about relationships, both of us bitching about guys in detail. We are on the same side of the discussion. Most people around us have their eyes knotted wondering how a man and a woman can have this sort of conversation while waiting for a play to start. (It is always too quiet before plays start. Everyone around is all ears.)
- When I am pissed of at him, I shout 'bitch', 'slut' and he does actually get offended sometimes. Flattered, most of the time.
- A cute guy walks in, and we both are looking at him. And my friend always has to smile at the guy first.

:)

Just observations.

He is my bestest friend.

And she is mine.

Closetalk and Don

Don: Jungli billiyan mujhe pasand hain (I like wild cats like you)
Closetalk: Mujhe bhee! (Me too!)

Sometime back, I'd blogged about how yummy and uber-cool SRK has been looking in the promos of Don. Well, I finally went to catch the movie tonight, with Viv (earlier, named Emily) and it was simply awesome! For those who came in late, it's a remake of a 1978 Hindi movie, complete with international gangsters across continents and all sorts of amazing Matrix moves and costumes. My stupid assistant at work commented, "It has everything but the blind mother", and though she didn't mean that kindly, I'll agree with her on the sheer versatlity of the film - the movie has everything you would ever dream of in cinema: humour, romance, action (tons of it!), mistaken identity, adopted children, gangsta rap, sexy molls, scintillating music, and a twist in the tale. The plot is way too complicated for a single blog post, so I'm not going to even attempt that here.



Viv and I had been dying to see the movie, ever since the promos with SRK first started airing. The man wears his coolest clothes ever here, and the new way to wear a tie nowadays is inside the shirt, not over it. His sunglasses are the hippest ever, and his shoes are divine. Memorable line any (and every) gay man will treasure: when Don tells his colleague, after killing his traitorous assisstant, "Always make sure you check the shoes before you hire anyone!" *in Hindi* Clappity-clap go all the Red Tapes and Manolos! ;-)

Aside from SRK, Viv and I were going gaga over most of the men onscreen. List of candidates include:
1. The cute police inspector who looked dapper in his suit while briefing the Malaysian cops, and showed off his sexy butt like anything in his tight khaki police uniform while chasing Don in the jungles - the camera for some reason kept on panning to his butt, not that we complained. Sadly, I just could not find out his name on imdb.com.

2. India's First Beauty King, Grasim Mr India 1998 Diwakar Pundir who plays a sidey role as the informant who Don bumps off. Viv says, Diwakar has appeared in TV serials in Speedos - that means, I must start seeing soaps now. *drool*

3. An ugly ape called Mac who plays Don's moll's pet poodle. Viv kept on gushing about his barrel chest. Loudly.

4. Arjun Rampal, who of course had Viv gasping every time he did a push-up. Beats me though, how the character is able to beat Don to a pulp if he's supposed to be limping throughout.

Viv also informed me that the two producers of the movie, Farhan Akhtar and Ritesh Sidhwani are rumoured to be gay lovers. When I pointed out that both were married and Farhan's wife is expecting their second child, Viv promptly pointed back that that was hardly an obstacle to be gay lovers, ala SRK and Karan Johar. So, then, Viv and I started fantasising about possible sexual roles (top/ bottom/ whatever) between SRK and Karan, SRK and Farhan, Farhan and Ritesh, and even maybe Farhan and Hrithik Roshan (Hrithik was the original choice for Don, but then SRK was roped in instead). And all this at voices loud enough for the entire theatre to hear whom we considered 'hotttt' and who was 'sexxxxyy' *please include giggly gay squeals*.



I'm hoping I won't be sued for this post.

But let it not be said that all our attention was focused on the men. When Guest Star Kareena did her Helen-number lying down on the rug, I nudged Viv in the ribs and coo-ed, "I looooove that rug!" and Viv agreed with me. Honestly, that golden dress they dressed Kareena in for thatnumber was garish like hell - and every time she did her jhatkas, you could see the cellulite dangling on her arms. Ew, ew and all that...!

Isha the Moll was perfect. She did absolutely nothing, had about three lines of dialogue to say in the movie, looked suitably devilish in her Item Number and the climax, suitably jealous in Title Song as Don flirted with the Heroine. She kept on changing her hairdos with such vigour that Viv and I were left gasping in admiration. First the bouffant, then the empire wig, then the plaits, then the.... most perfect moll ever!

Heroine Priyanka enters the scene with a very weird set of karate exercises and then proceeds to get all Power Puff Girl-meets-Mushy Thing for the rest of the movie. Her all-white outfit, teamed with the white bike, when she she 'rescues' Don was superb. And though she replied to Isha's jealous glares with great bugger-off-lassie looks of her own, she was looking a teeny weeny plump in that hideous pink gown she wore during Title Song.

Best songs from the album: Aaj ki raat is wonderfully pacy and retro - complete with shiny disco ball in the video, and has Hero, Heroine and Moll boogeying together in a line. Waiting for GB to play it at their next party - pretty please! Then there was the famous oldHelen-newKareena number, Ye Mere Dil, which was a great remix. Title Song, Main Hoon Don was so racy, it was simply great - old tune but wonderfully remixed to set the dance floor on fire. Perfect for egoistic divas like me on the GB dance floor to proclaim to the world. :)

O, and you must check out SRK's outfit in Title Song: dark purple silk shirt under dark purple velvet jacket having Chinese collar and huge lace-embroidered buttons, teamed with slim-fitted cord trousers, and sleeeeeeeeeeek Givenchy shades.



Instant hard-on.

The Bitchy Avatar, Anonymity be damned!

The Bitchy Avatar, Anonymity be damned!

The first rule of starting this blog very clear: I'm going to be nameless. That's why I invented the ridiculous name of Closetalk/CT/whatever to fit the role of the gay immigrant guy in Bombay, and tried a myriad of silly things that would cloak my identity. Enter the whole 'delete blog name from the username profile'. Delete all reference to the other (sort-of straight) blogs. All of that was not just cuz I was in the whole closet thing, but also cuz I knew from the very start, being the kind of guy I am, I'd soon end up dissing some guys here and there, be a first-rate bitch now and then, and I just didn't want to deal with any of that on my conscience. So, Closetalk was supposed to be nameless, faceless.



Obviously, I haven't been exactly successful.

I don't know if it's inevitable or not, with blogs like this one - that you tend to get to know the readers out of cyberland, and that same old level of anonymity of course doesn't exist any more then. And I don't know whether it's just as inevitable, that once that threshold is crossed, another one gets crossed too: sometimes, it's not just your readers who know who you are; sometimes, the reader turns out to be someone who knows who you are in real life. And that can be embarassing when you've just penned a not-so-flattering account of that person.

I felt awkward when that happened, but then, at the risk of sounding inconsiderate, I shrugged my shoulders, and decided that there's no use in crying over spilt milk: if I bitched about someone online on my (supposedly anonymous) blog, then it's pretty obvious I didn't care too much for this person ever, and hell, it's supposed to be a flaky blog in any case. If you're going to get all ruffled up about a random blog account by a (more or less random) guy whom you met here and there, (may have slept with a couple of times), but then that's it - hell, you seriously need to get a life.

Ummm.. ok, that sounded decidedly inconsiderate, na? O shucks, what the hell...!

***

On a tangential note, I love playing around with Yahoo Avatars these days. Have designed some ten-odd avatars already, and I'm going to keep on changing/adding new ones to my existing list. It helps that you can now convert them into JPEG form and store them in your online/offline album. So, while the one below was my first avatar, labeled Corporate Kaleido, the one I've put in the left hand column on the side is my Rainbow Boy avatar...



Pink is pretty, na? Even on a suit. Aaa, well.... Fashion Week is on, so I'm excused! *grin*

It's All About Voodoo

It's All About Voodoo

As much as I get peeved when Emily proclaims that this blog is 'all about the boi', it's true that the Boy often gets noticed in asides here and there in various blog posts - when he's not the theme of an expanded ode, per se.

*goofy grin*

Like, the other night, when the Inner Circle hit Voodoo's at Colaba, and I couldn't help but remember back to when Boy and I would visit the place, while he was in Bombay. And though I would moan and groan and complain that it was too seedy for words, I would usually give in, and go along with him, cuz he had a point when he said there was a paucity of place in the city where two men can slow-dance. ;-) And, no matter how many men jerk off in the loos at Voodoo's, or how many trannys hit on old uncle-jis, Voodoo's continues to have indelible memories for me. Despite bumping into four very hot old f*(&buddies on the dance floor the other night, and no pun intended on 'bumping into',...

... indelible memories.

Surprise, surprise...!

Surprise, surprise...!

It's funny how you bump into your old One Night Stands when you least expect it. I mean, when you're grooving on the floor of a GB party, you're sort of mentally prepared when a hot ONS comes by and grabs your ass - you know how to grin back naughtily and act all slutty for him just the right amount, so that he gets a hard-on the next time he sees you, but then knows fully well that you're not having sex unless you call him for it. Or when, you see him lurking at the bar, a specimen that you're not particularly ptoud to have bedded, so after the initial spurt of nausea, you turn smartly away and don't let it spoil your evening.

But what about when you're walking down the street, just a couple of blocks away from your office, and coming towards you from the other end, is this guy whom you had sex with ages ago...? I disovered the other week that the Antiques Store next to my office building is owned by one such ONS, whom we shall label Snooty Antiques Guy.



Now I met SAG first at a party thrown by my friend the Travel Agent, and while it was clear that he was pretty hot (one of those rare Parsi boys who visit the gym regularly and are bestowed with bulging ripplying muscles), it was also clear that he had a major attitude problem. The man hung around with Page 3 types, and strictly Page 3 types - and possessed none of the humility that Travel Agent does, even though he hangs around with the same people. But then, there's nothing really to break down your self-inflicted class barriers than a good horny spell, and so many weeks later when I encountered SAG in a gay chatroom, he figured that at least I knew Travel Agent and wasn't a complete pariah... and so he came over.

No use in lying: it was an excellent bonk! *grin*

But, predictably enough, he never called back, and neither did I. And even though, I may have asked Travel Agent about SAG's whereabouts a coupla times later after the bonk, it was purely out of carnal curiosity. SAG was firmly swept under the let's-not-talk-about-this carpet.

Until I see him on the sidewalk in front of my office the other week.

Clearly, he recognized me, even as I did him, and though both of us were a bit shocked at first, we quickly pulled the nonchalance blinds back up, masters of the game that we both are, and strolled past each other. Four, five, six paces, and then I discreetly turn back to see him enter the antique store next to my office, and that's when he had also stopped to hazard a glance back at me. He disappeared inside then, and I walked on, and that's when I remembered him saying, many moons ago, how he was into old furniture restoration and antiques. When I saw him a second time, smoking outside the door with some assisstant, it was quite amusing, really, to realise that I now work next door to a very snooty ONS. *chuckle*

***

And then, there're the times when you bump into someone at the GB party whom you never really expected to or wanted to. In my case, it was another snooty specimen, Pansy School Friend, with whom I was all pally straight through my eighth and tenth standards. We formed a trio, PSF, another guy and myself. My parents hated PSF, because they felt he was responsible for some of my effeminate actions - permit me to giggle here awhile - but I resolutely stuck on with him, even though he was rather offhand with me, and kept on going gaga over the other guy in our trio. That was when he kept on saying that CT looked stupid in the school tie, and wasn't as good looking as himself and the other guy.



Many, many, many years later - my, how the tables have turned. CT has lost oodles of weight since those Puppy Fat Years, and dances like a complete diva/dervish at GB parties. And PSF stands like a lecherous old swine, with a big bumpy paunch sticking straight out, waiting to hit on hotties like me.

*grin* I love how deliciously evil fate can be.

Though I'm fairly certain that it is PSF at these parties, I haven't ever gone over and reintroduced myself. I think I saw a start of recognition from him, when we made eye contact briefly, but I turned around quickly then and dragged my drink (and my arm candy) to the dance floor.

No point saying hello to the ugly people, as SnowWhite's Stepmother would have said. ;-)

Night OUT!

Night OUT!

Hitting a GB party usually means getting drunk while dressing furiously, checking yourself out regularly in the full-length mirror, and playful 'gal-pal' phone conversations with Inner Circle members. Not that any of us treat GB parties with so much prominence, but you have to admit: going to Velocity to dance your twinkle toes off, hitting on cute hunks, and jiving to that latest track from Don does get the adrenaline pumping.

Decided look of the night: Gay Preppie College Boy.
Mix: Blue T-Shirt with big white DISCO letters asking cockily Can You Afford Me? worn over white and blue striped full-sleeve shirt, Benetton style, teamed with white three-fourths, white sneakers and white ankle socks.
Net effect: Uttery Devastating. CT preens before full-length mirror for a full ten minutes, and glugs a glasss of red wine, before skipping down the stairs of his apartment building and hopping into a cab.



Velocity is rocking tonight! Hugs galore with Gay Journo Activist at door, and then we're through. Apologies to Allygatorlover for not making his party last week, schmooze schmooze, sometimes I like to play the social butterfly, flit, flit, fly. The DJ is playing iconic tracks like I Will Survive and YMCA, and CT is jumping up and down ecstatically, accusing Hotel Boy of being a Bihari-type because he wants to ditch the upper lounge for the lower level which is playing Beedi at the momemt. This is a complete 'egads' moment, and I admit I'm a snooty prick.

Spied in the corner: Parsi couple engaging in latino dance steps, a lot of silly twirling and pansy sidestepping. Screams out loud: wannabe. Yawn, yawn, especially since both are complete nerdy types whom nobody else would want to sleep with. Steps go wrong in a bout of wilfulness, and one Parsi flings his hand at Hotel Boy's drink, spilling it. Mortification.

Leave it to the masters, dah-lings: CT steps onto the podium with Sexy Parsi, and the two set about grabbing eyeballs immediatelly. Variety of sexy moves, thrusts and jhatkas, and I looove dancing with Sexy Parsi. The boy has oodles of attitude and oomph. ;-)

Eye Candies from bygone era: There was Steamy Irani and Muscled Event Guy who sauntered over to hug. Sweet and surprising, and it took a lot of willpower to not go over and dirty-dance with them, because I know what that will lead to - the inevitable question between breathless bouts of passionate kissing on the dance floor: your place or mine? Instead, I kept on chanting to myself, You have a boyfriend, you have a boyfriend, and focused all my slutty energies on SnowWhite's Stepmother - which really doesn't count. CT pushes SS down on the couch and mounts him, performing a very raunchy lapdance that goes down in the annals of GB party sights.

SMS sent during the course of the party to Boy: At t Diwali GB party and I miss you. We're gonna be great when we dance together again, darlling. *smiley face* I love you.

Yes, I know it's 4-fuckin-a.m in the morning now, and I'm a taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad high right now, but my Boy is beeeeaaaa-yooooo-teeee-ful. *bashful grin*

Shopping Cart

Shopping Cart

Today, I decided to take the plunge. So I walked across the street of my office, and strode upto the guy who always stands there, adorning the wall behind him with magazines having covers of semi-naked men. A gay porn dealer right there in the middle of Bombay's busy busy financial district, a stone's throw away from a girls' school.

Note to self: First law of Entrepreneurship is Location, location, location...!



So the guy looks at me, with a very cheesy grin on his face, and asks me what I want. I briefly considered feigning naivette and asking whether these were all bodybuilding mags, but his cheesy grin told me I would have no reason to. So, the guy proclaims proudly, "All I have is gay dvd. Good quality gay dvd. Nowhere else in Bombay", even as his ratty looking assisstant (probably a nephew from Ulhasnagar) shrinks back in obvious mortification.

A part of me was wondering whether the guy was gay himself, and whether he watches the stuff that he sells, but I decided to be all business-like and went on to price issues, instead. "Not worth Rs 500," I dismissed, when he told me what he was charging, "The guys outside there charge Rs 80 for straight porn - "

"They charge Rs 80, because they have what everyone else does, sir! My shop is the only one in Bombay with pure gay dvd," interrupted the smooth operator, quite proudly. "How much will you give? Tell me."

And then his face blanched when I told him my limit was Rs 100. "How many will you take? Ok, I'll give you for Rs 200, how's that?"

I was quite enjoying myself, engaging in not-so discreet haggling about gay porn right there in the middle of a busy intersection, where the nuns from the nearby school could easily have been passing by, and I wondered to myself, whether he gets a lot of business from the 'straight-acting' bankers that flock to this part of town everyday. Wondered whether the guy's shop could be used as a slightly sleazy pick-up joint, but then I told him that a hundred bucks was as far as I was willing to go, and that I would first take one and check the quality at home before venturing to buy more.

He sadly shrugged his shoulders, while I smiled and resumed my walk towards the office.

I'm thinking of passing by his stall again tomorrow, with my straight colleague (who I'm out to), and scandalize them both, by pointing out the stall to him. That would ensure, the guy knows I'm a regular, and if he gives me a dvd cheap and which doesn't hang my system, I'll be back for more. On day three, I'll suggest that he gives me two for three hundred bucks, instead of one for two hundred.

;-)

A new story for the Penguin

A new story for the Penguin

Sometime back, I blogged about how most gay men in Bombay find Miranda Priestly uber-cool, hearkening back to a conversation with Emily - well, the other day, I discovered that another friend actually has very Miranda-esque traits while at work - and when I pointed this out, the said friend decided to hit blogging with a vengeance. So check out Miranda In Mumbai and you'll die laughing at the antics - and no, I'm not getting a commission for the plug.

***

From Miranda, to my friend, the Penguin. I gave him this name in a blog post that was vitriolic at being dumped by him, after a three-week dating stint, and since then, that name has stuck. Our relationship has, however, changed. By virtue of the fact that he is part and parcel of the Inner Circle, we have had to adjust, and move on from being awkward and gawky around each other, to friends. Of course, there have been moments here and there, silent moments when we've each prayed that the other coughs to break the pindrop quiet when we've been left alone together... but at the end of the day, we both realised that it was time for the moniker to change.



"So what new name do you want me to assign you?" I asked him, and he shrugged on the other end of the phone - I could imagine his grin and shrug and all, and he replied, "I have no idea. You gave me Penguin, because you had a story to tell of me there. That was when I was being... flipfloppish. So I guess that's our story."

"Well, then it's time that we get a new story," I decided.

After that conversation, we met up on different occassions - party nights, birthday nights, movies, etc etc etc - and I kept on suggesting various names that i could use for him: Mad Ad Boy, LifeBoy... yadayadayada, but of course, he hated all those gruesome names, and I drew a blank.

And then, I told him the other day, when we went to see a movie, "Do you remember the penguins in Madagascar? The one movie we've seen before this, just the two of us?"

That elicited a chuckle from him, and I went on, "Actually, that's why I called you the Penguin. Because, watching that movie was such a strong association for whenever I thought about you - watching that and cracking jokes afterwards - cuz, we both loved the penguins there!"

And, now he crooked up his left eyebrow and said, "The plotters, eh?" Chuckle.

Going by movie memories, the only other option is calling him Circuit, and this sounds even worse than Penguin. So, I've decided to do away with my search for a new nickname for him. He remains as is. It's the association that changes, though: he's no longer the flipfloppy creature I railed against, who I thought incapable of having a relationship - he's now the fiercely protective friend (another character trait of penguins, in case you didn't know), the one with the evil grin, beautifully hectic boy, and undeniably as plotter-ly as a penguin can get.

Someone I'm glad to count as a friend. *cue for mushy awwwwwwwwwwwww sound*

Dance Like A Man...!

Dance Like A Man...!

Friday night, and the gang heads over to Zenzi, for a couple of drinks. As soon as we enter, I spy Upen Patel with his Delectable Cleft In The Chin, and VJ Yudishter in an o-so-awesome tight white shirt, and as far as I'm concerned, the Rs 250 for the shooter has been worth it. For the record, I tried a concoction called Lemon Woo Woo, not half-bad really, a mix of peach schnappe, vodka and cranberry juice. I was all ready, if the waiter turned out to be a hot and hunky Upen type, to get up and whisper in his ear: "I want your Lemon Woo Woo, please...!"



But, dancing free style with some firang chick, there was this other specimen at Zenzi, who completely grabbed my attention. At first, Emily was being bitchy about the guy's completely random moves, while I was being o-so-cooey about how 'the guy is dancing with his soul and heart and thoroughly enjoying himself!', but as the moves became more and more (um....!) retarded, I was soon gaping openly. He was doing these weird crosses between your Hindi film jhatkas and the dirty salsa moves I'd learnt recently, punctuated with bursts of hiphop hand movements, shrieking 'Yay, bab-ay!' to his firang co-dancer who looked impressed and mortified alternately.

"He's embarassing!" shrieked Emily, and after a point of time, I had to agree. Even though he was kinda cute, with a great smile, trimmed French beard and obviously very flexible body, I was entranced with how whacky he made the whole dance thing look. My salsa dance teacher would have fainted.

Saturday night, I found myself at a performance by the New York-based Battery Dance Company, courtesy tickets from Chimneypot. Enigmatic dances, while the music was a decidedly eerie cross between jazz and world music, and the entire recital was simply divine! Flatmate, sitting next to me, whispered enviously, "Do these people have any bones at all in their bodies?" and I had to murmur my agreement to that one. Of course, I was also thinking at the back of my mind, that the gorgeous men doing those scandalously astounding moves were probably gay, - blame it on the stereotypical thinking! - and I might see them at the GB party later that night.



So, when finally I hit the GB dance floor at Liquid Lounge, in my slinky black shirt and tight dark blue jeans, I was eagerly scanning all the firang hotties around, trying to make out if I had seen them on the stage an hour back or not. But even though, there were quite a few handsome Caucasian faces on the floor that night, I couldn't recognize anyone at all.

And besides, even if I did, what would I go and tell them? Ask for another Lemon Woo Woo?

;-)

For Sale?!

For Sale?!

When the doorbell rang some 30 minutes back, I knew it was the home delivery guy with my dinner. The usual suspect, he grinned at me, and then arched his back beautifully to bend down to get my food packet from his box on the floor. A single fluid motion that made me grin, as I imagined him on the pole of a stripclub, but of course, this sullen scion of my Marathi-dominated neighbourhood would blink his eyes in terror and scamper away, had I had the temerity to inform him that i saw his future assured in a New York gay hooker club. And so, I kept my mouth shut, paid the delivery boy with the latent pole-dancing skills his due (plus a Rs 10 tip for the exhibit), and decided to write a blog post about the male hookers I have known in my o-so-boring life.

*blush*



A gay gigolo comes cheap in good ole Calcutta, much cheaper than the Rs 1500 upwards rate that Delhi swears by. The boys in Calcutta are usually sweet and shy, but not when it comes to getting their jollies in bed. Yes, I've had sex with a hooker. Those were the not-exactly-misguided and terribly yummy days of my youth, when I decided to take the plunge and see for myself what the 'full body massage' advertised in the papers really meant. I wasn't disappointed, either. Enter honey-skinned, doe-eyed Bong/Maru Bang Boy, who spelt out his rates: Rs 200 for an ordinary massage, Rs 300 for an 'erotic' one, an extra Rs 50 for oral sex, an extra Rs 50 for anal sex, and yet another extra Rs 50 if his client expected him to orgasm. Quite an inexpensive menu, and for a callow youth such as me, it proved too irresistable an offer, and so I caved. I haven't exactly regretted, though.

Of course, I wasn't exactly the goody-two-shoes who would never err again - I still am not - and so that wasn't the end of my tryst with 'painted people' after that thrill of a First Experience. The thrill of a hooker was quite different from the random sex that I anyway indulged in, on a non-payment basis. The gigolo gene tickled me pink - it got me excited that in this position, I was completely and irrefutably in control. Call it a kind of a power trip, a mental kink - I enjoyed being the one who told the guy to strip when I wanted, to strip the way I wanted, to touch himself the way I wanted, to touch me the way I wanted... it all inflamed me. And, with the rental rates so low, and the quality on offer so much better than your cinematic Deuce Bigalow fare, that I saw little reason to stop.



... Until, of course, Boredom got to me. *sigh*

When I hit Delhi, I was informed that the hookers were far more handsome, and their prices were much higher. By that time, I was bored of the whole thing as well, and so I tracked the scene more as a voyeur, rather than a participant. I went to the weekly meat market (aka Pegs 'n' Pints) and almost all of the big beefy Punjus or Jats I pointed at were said to be for sale, so I was all agog with curiousity about what the price tag was. My friends giggled and told me that most of saddi dilli was for sale, but I refused to buy that theory, of course. I still hoped to find that one hot guy who was not a hooker, who was actually boyfriend material. Turns out, even though I found several, my Delhi stint was not to last for too long. Anyhow, it's not as if Delhi turned out to be the gay Chippendales, at any rate - nor any of the seedy sex clubs and saunas that NYC and London boast of. In its own little way, Delhi remained the collection of Punjabil and Haryanvi villages it always was - and its hookers remained the sweet little (?) Punjabi and Haryanvi peasants who slipped on their Ps and Qs, and asked a discounted rate from you because they thought you were 'saxy'.



(Delhi being Delhi, that's when you haggled over whether you felt you deserved a 10% or a 20% discount.)

My fascination for the Bombay gigolo has similarly been from the sidelines, despite my observation (and appreciation) on the home delivery guy's catwalk moves. O, I've seen the obvious hookers at the GB parties, on the sidewalk in front of Voodoo's, at 'The Wall' in front of the Gateway of India, and I've also seen the not-so obvious hookers. And that second category is what gets me particularly interested. That's Human Nature, really: number 1 is the fact that we all want what we can't get, and number 2 is that when we realise we can get what we want, albeit for a mindblowing price, it's somehow amazing for Shock Value. That's when you see the hot guy dancing in the middle of the party, or the guy with the smokin' profile in the gay chatroom, and then you realise that he's For Sale, and if you had a couple of grands to tuck inside his g-strings, he'd let you pull them off him and do whateva the f*&% you wanna do to them and him!



A word of advice: most gay hookers these days prefer unsoiled currency. ;-)

Queer As Closetalk

Queer As Closetalk

I'm not exactly your usual nut for television serials - my last regular was Friends, and even Will and Grace was more like a 'Ho hum, o, look what I accidentally channel-surfed to!' - so that's why I make a big deal about the series I've watched with serious and real enthusiasm. That's what prompted that very lengthy post on Sex and the City sometime back, and since then I've been meaning to post something on Queer As Folk (American version) as well.

To be honest, I've only caught Season Six of SATC on DVD, and Season Two of QAF, but that's been enough to label SATC 'profound' and QAF as, well, getting to 'profound'.



The DVD of QAF had been doing the rounds for quite sometime, and when I finally borrowed it, my Flatmate wanted to see the episodes too. So there we were, staying up late nights, watching successive episodes on our individual laptops. And drooling at different men.

Flatmate has the hots for the very enigmatic Brian Kinney. He strikes me as a Samantha Jones-wannabe, to tell the truth, but of course the Flatmate will hear none of that! Brian is rude, obsessed with sex, a chhupa rustum softy, and usually the guy who bails everyone else out in the end. Wiki says, "Heterosexual women and lesbians have often embraced the character more than gay men", and I think they've got it right to some extent - Brian is sooooo the gay guy other gay guys hate, but who they would want to be like, or so says the Flatmate! I started out with the last coupla episodes of QAF - II first, where Justin chooses the violin prodigy guy (cuuuutttee!) over Ice Cold Daddy Brian, and I hated Brian for treating Justin so offhandedly, and was quite glad when he gets dumped. But then, I saw the other episodes in order, and then changed my mind about the whole Justin-Brian drama. Just when you start asking, who broke the rules first, you realise that the rules are soooo lacking in gay relationships.

*gulp*

Ted is whiny. And so is Michael, though he's much cuter than Ted. I identify the most with good ole Emmett. I love the fact that he's a complete slut and unaplogetic about it. I love the little nuggets of wisdom that Wise Em spouts now and then, a la Ms Jones of SATC. And the ending of Season Two, with Ted and Em ending up together is simply too cute for words. Wise Em saves the day again, ra ra!



;-)

Hottie of the series: Without a doubt, Robert Grant, who plays the HIV+ Professor Ben Bruckner lucky Michael is dating. I guess, being whiny has its share of unexpected benefits!

Courtesy, an Angel...

Courtesy, an Angel...

tara vina shyam ekaldu lagay,
raas ramva ne vehlo aav aav aav jay



;-)

Boy is quite peeved that in his town, no one makes/wears proper kedias.

'Settle Down, Young Buck'

'Settle Down, Young Buck'

I was all set to blog about last Saturday's GB party at Velocity and my antics with the umbrella (OK, so it didn't quite make it to the front page of The Pink Paper, but hey, you had to be there!), until exactly two minutes ago. That's when I came across this profile of a guy on G4M which says, how this guy has worked on a cruiser, so he's met loads of hunky hot men, but now, he's looking to settle down with a guy. Nothing wrong with that, you might think, so what in the devil's name has made Closetalk get his thongs into a bunch?! Well, what bugs me is the damn tone: yea, yea, I've been hot and kinky when I was 24, but hell, now that I'm 28, I figure I need a captain to man my loveboat to shore, so rather than get eaten by the hot 'n' hungry sharks, I'd prefer to harpoon a nice solid whale who'll make sure that I'm cosy and dandy and all my emotional needs are taken care of! It's the tone I'm talking of: after I'm 28, I need to be serious and settle down.

Hell, you might as well get down to start scripting the gay version of Kyunki Sass Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, in that case...!



Apart from my personal bug, let's just examine the issue from a different light.

(A) It basically subscribes to that silly view of 'Gal, you can wear all the miniskirts and jeans you want before you get hitched, but once you tie the knot, it's kumkum for your hair and kanjeevarams all day through'. Now, there are actually people who buy that theory, but I've always figured that, hey, being gay automatically forces you to be non-conservative. You can't subscribe to that theory then, can you?

(B) It implies that younger guys don't hanker after relationships - that it's only when you're (gasp!) 28 that you decide that you 'should' find a (ahem, ahem) Life Partner (capital letters, please note), and that's downright untrue. I've known plenty of clingy eighteen year olds, who're quite willing to run away and get married as soon as you finish screwing. Then, again, there are loads of 28 year old, 35 year old, hell, even 45 year old and older, for whom, Marrrage With A Gay Guy (again, capital letters) is the punchline of any joke!

(C) The illustrious and most wise Brian Kinney once told his errant schoolboy lover that "Gay men stay together because they want to be, not because they have to be. It's not in them to be that way." Now, I'm not a 100% fan of Mr Kinney, though a quizfarm exercise did say that I'm a perfect mixture of him and hard-to-miss Debbie (gahhh!), but sometimes, he does make sense.



To tell the honest-to-goodness truth, I don't know too many gay couples who've stuck around. Even those who I thought were rock-solid split up, after spending 5 years or so. That's a very real worry that all gay men who are seeking relationships have to deal with - hell, that's something I've agonized over and over myself. That's why, this simplistic logic: now that I've hit 30, I'm going to start looking out only for relationships, this logic smarts of idiocy to me. Not that simple, dude, not that simple. If you're meant to, you're gonna get lucky when you're 19, and if you're lucky again, you might get it at 52. NO shelf life for gay men - don't believe what the queens gossip in the GB loos.

PS: O, and when I told Boy about how I used the umbrella at the GB party, he smirked and said, I'm to use him as my pole/umbrella next time I wanna perform. *blush*

I Spy With My Little Eye...

I Spy With My Little Eye...

So there I was, waiting outside the examination room, reading a tabloid I'd picked up on the way over. I'd called Dr Dustoor over the phone, and he'd told me to come in a bit later for the appointment, but by the time I arrived, I found there were three other patients before me. I sat there in the lobby waiting for an hour, the patients finally left, and finally the eye doctor stuck his head out and said, in his beautiful baritone, "You can come in now, Closetalk."



The doctor smiled at me, and indicated I sit on his high chair. "So, I notice from your last name that you're not from Bombay?" he says, adjusting his instruments.

"Nopes," I grin back, immediatelly liking this tall thirty-something doctor with his ready smile, "Actually, it's going to be just around two years now, this month."

"Aha..." he says, coming closer and removing my spectacles... *god, he has a beautiful smile.... and those arms are enormous... Parsi ophthalmologist who's a regular the gym? Now how many times has that ever happened????*... "So, do you always wear your glasses, or do you have lenses?"

Brushing away the sudden dryness in my throat, "Ummm.. actually, I wear lenses all the time."

The doctor edges closer and places an uncomfortable contraption on the bridge of my nose, snaps it shut behind my ears. "Now can you read the letters of the second line on that screen?"

Some silly part of me is thinking about that part in America's Sweethearts, where the movie star is at her eye doctor's, and she reads from the chart: I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U; only in my case, I was hoping for I-W-A-N-N-A-S-C-R-E-W-Y-O-U-S-O-H-A-R-D, but of course, it didn't, and I only saw a bland succession of hazy figures.



So I turned towards Dr Dustoor, but he was right there against me, his breath hot against my neck, as he placed a thin piece of glass in the contraption, before my right eye: "Now, is this better for you.... or thiiiiiiisssss?"

I almost groaned aloud, as I felt him rest one hand on my thigh, that any way with him was better for me, but I stammered that it was all pretty much the same. That's when it got better, and he removed the contraption from my head and said in as forceful a voice as would make me melt into butter, "Your eyes are watering from the strain. Let me massage your sides for a while", and his strong fingers were on my temples and my eyes were locked into his. Did I fancy a smile there, I wasn't sure the first time, but I certainly was the second, when his fingers carried on pressing the sides of my face, and his voice whispered hoarsely: "Better?"

I was just about to croak out an affirmative, when I felt... it.

There. Against my knee. Almost unobtrusive the way it had crept up. The way he had crept up. Putting on contraptions on my head. Whispering throatily into my ear. Fingering my face. And all the while... coming closer. Pressed against my right inner thighs was one of the largest, most monstrous erections that the medical fraternity has ever seen in its examination halls, and I gasped with the knowledge (confirmed by his unmistakable smile now and his light caresses stooping from my brows to the sides of my neck) that this was going to be the most exciting Eye Examination I had ever undergone...



***

*sigh*

In reality, Dr Dinshaw Dustoor was aged forty seven years (or thereabouts), had framed pictures of his old father, wife and two sons arranged daintily on the ancient desk in his cabin, and sent me packing with a bill of Rs 500 after an examination that, though it lasted for quite some time, was nowhere as exciting as the movie star's must have been. No S-C-R-E-W at all.

The most ridiculous part was when I paid up, and he gave me his card. I noted the details therein, and as soon as I left the building, I called up Boy.

"Guess what?" I laughed across the seven seas, "I just saw a doctor whose email address is Dicky69@hotmail.com!"

Boy grinned a million miles away - and he has a beautiful grin, mind you (blush!) - and said, "O, really? Was the bawa cute?"

Closetalk hails a cab and gets in. And then replies: "Amazingly so! If his dentures hadn't left so many scars on my neck while he was kissing me, I would have asked to hump his walking stick!"

One-two, chachacha, three-four, lechlechlech

One-two, chachacha, three-four, lechlechlech

It's been two classes so far of my ballroom dance classes, and I'm really into the whole thing. I have this cute li'l ole Parsi lady teaching me, and she dutifully signs all her sms' with "ma'am" (spelt exactly like that with the apostrophe), and while some of my friends giggled and called it 'eccentric', Heaven knows, I've always found 'eccentric' cute.

Hell, seeing that Boy's still with me, so does he! *blush*
So, there I am at class every week, tap-tapping on the wooden floor, learning fancy names like the Suzy Q and the New Yorker, and the relatively fancy steps that have those names, and when I come back home, I practise a couple of those in front of my six-foot mirror. I love the way my Parsi 'ma'am' prances around in her twirling skirt and those gorgeous heels (red, she has red!) and whirls her butt here and there. From the way I look entranced at her swaying, some would think I'm turning into a hetero perv - but it's just so much... awe here on my side! I love the way she makes it seem all so simple - and her squeaky voice saying: "Don't worry about the hip movements - they'll come in time. Just do the steps. Soon you'll be shaking like a hula dancer!"

Felt like asking her to come watch my hula hips in action at the GB party this weekend.

*broader grin*

And then, apart from the dancing, I was leching at Shiney Ahuja this evening, on the telly. The man looks simply divine in both of his upcoming movies, Wo Lamhe and Zindagi Rocks. And, of course, I was bowled over earlier by his performance in both the looks and acting department in HKA.

Pure hunk of desire. Turned over to flatmate and said, "Would it be disloyal to Boy, if I said I wanted to run away with Shiney for a weekend?", and my guilt was assuaged when she patted my head and replied to the negative. ;-)

And surprise, surprise! another one who's looking abso-fuckin-lutely H-O-T in his new movie is SRK. OMG, I don't remember the last time I lusted after the man so much - I mean, even though, I've always been the great fan and all, the sexual attraction part really hasn't been there - except now! ;-) The Matrix look, or whatever his designers have fitted him up with, definitely works here!

Miranda and Gay? Yayyyyy!

Miranda and Gay? Yayyyyy!

The agenda for Saturday night was Anne Hatheway and Meryl Streep trying on Prada, Valentino, De La Renta, yadayadayada, and as Emily and I sat down for a cup of post-midnight coffee (ok, I cheated on my diet and ordered chocolate ice cream at the last moment *sigh*) at a Bandra hotel, we chatted about how Miranda Priestly is adored, worshipped, venerated and deitified by most gay men. SnowWhite's Stepmother may go blue in the face denying that, but I'm the one who sat next to him at the movie, and who heard his oohs and aahs each time Miranda dumped a spankin' new coat on Andy's desk.



;-)

CT: "I'm quite evil to my assistant at work, you know"

Emily, giggling: "Not as bad as I am, honey. I'm vicious with my trainers!"

CT, chortling: "They probably make fun of you in the canteen or something: Faggot! So what have you been doing to them?"

Emily, pouting: "Don't care if they do! Well, there was this time that one of the asses sped home early on a Friday night, even though he was supposed to do a training programme, so I called him up and asked him where he was. He hemmed and hawed and said he's just got on the bus - without missing a beat, I said: D, you promised the trainee a class, so I don't care wherever you are, get back here. And I hung up."

CT, goggling: "So, did he come?"

Emily: "Ew, ew and all that!"

CT grins happily: "You make me sound like a saint! My assistant is so dumb, the other day she comes up to me with a botched-up job, so I look at her dryly and say: A, correct me if I'm wrong, but if someone comes and does 'knock knock' to your head, the echo from within will probably sound all the way up to Nariman Point?"

Emily *cackles* as only Emily can.

CT: "And then, I tell her: Well, at least see the good side - I bet you've never had anyone insult you in such inventive terms before!"

Yes, yes, I know - deep down inside, we're really shallow. O, wait, actually, that's someone else's invention, but I pretty much swear by it (most days). Miranda Priestly as the new fasion icon - god help us all, if she were to be the all-new corporate icon. Imagine a bunch of queens breezing into office clackety-clack, in the soon-to-be-latest designer togs, snapping fingers for latte, steak and the latest Harry Potter manuscript, letting loose a volley of beautifully aimed invectives that would ensure a severe pinking of the cheeks.... *sigh*



Only bitches and gay men would survive the onsalught: straight men, run for cover!