Must we be Grammar Nazis, must we?
(P.S: we must.)
#GrindrFails No.1: Gr8 grammar and other stories.
Guysexual Recommends: ‘Don’t Let Him Know’ By Sandip Roy.
The What? : ‘Don’t Let Him Know’ By Sandip Roy.
In a boxy apartment building in an American university town, Romola Mitra, a newly arrived young bride, anxiously awaits her first letter from home in India. When she accidentally opens the wrong letter, it changes her life. Decades later, her son Amit finds that letter and thinks he has discovered his mother’s secret. But secrets have their own secrets sometimes, and a way of following their keepers.
Amit does not know that Avinash, his dependable and devoted father, lurks on gay Internet groups at times, unable to set aside his lifelong attraction to men. Avinash has no idea that his dutiful wife had once romanced a dashing Bengali filmstar, whose memory she keeps tucked away in a diary amongst her silk saris.
Continue reading Guysexual Recommends: ‘Don’t Let Him Know’ By Sandip Roy.
Delhi Queer Pride 2015 : Don’t Rain On My Parade.
What: Delhi Queer Pride 2015
When: 2:00 PM, Sunday, November 29th, 2015.
Where: Tolstoy Marg, CP, New Delhi.
Why: Because one never needs a reason to walk the Pride, and hey, what would you rather spend your Sunday doing.
So let’s walk the talk, shall we?
Twenty Things Not To Say On A First Date.
- ‘’You look thinner in your pictures. Are you sure that was you?”
- ‘I might be emotionally damaged. Do I look emotionally damaged?’
- ‘…and that’s the story of how I got arrested, and had to be locked up for a day.’
- ‘ Is it okay if I call my ex to join us for a drink? He’s totally cool!’
- ‘I have a girlfriend.’
- ‘ I think I forgot my wallet at home, do you mind taking this one?’
- ‘OMG. I know this boy who’d be perfect for you. You guys are so alike!’
- ‘So that profile picture of yours from 2007; where was it taken?’
- ‘Is this a date? I thought we were just hanging out.’
- ‘What’s your profile handle on Grindr?’
- ‘Are you really sure you want to eat that? Those carbs are worth three day’s worth of workout.’
- ‘…so my son is only a couple of years younger than you are. I think he went to your school.’
- ‘I think I might be falling in love with you.’
- ‘ So do you stay alone at home? ’
- ‘Do you mind if I use your phone? I have to tell my roommate that I’ll be home in fifteen minutes.’
- ‘I think you look exactly like my brother.’
- ‘Haha, so this guy I went out on a date with two days ago said that…’
- “ I don’t think I am the kind of guy who’s looking for anything serious.’
- ‘Honestly, I cheated on my ex. And the one before that. And the one before that.’
- ‘So that girl in your profile picture. Is she single?’
Number Ten: The B-Schooler.
It’s a balmy day. The kind of day when your shirt sticks to you back, but not in the way it does in perfume advertisements. I can think of a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t be stepping outside, but I have a date that I can’t push any further unless I want to be pushed out of the boy’s contact list. And why would that be a bad thing? Any suitable boy that you let go is a boy wasted. Instead, I do the most practical thing I can think of.
I call him over for lunch.
Number Nine: The Part-time Actor.
A stormy July night. The clouds are heavier than a Naipaul novel. It’s almost 11 pm. And he’s almost here.
I am sitting at my favourite coffee shop; only this time, we are living another day, another boy. Another boy who is late, another boy who loses a crucial brownie point. Just when I feel like I’ve been stood up, someone taps me on my shoulder. It’s him.
The man is impishly cute, with short hair and shorter stubble. ‘Did I keep you waiting?’ he smiles like they do in the movies. It’s shy but unsettling. Maybe it’s the light? It’s always the light. I smile back at him. Who cares about brownie points anyway?
Number Eight: The Celebrity Stylist.
4:02 pm
It’s a busy Thursday evening, and I am waiting at a busy intersection. I am not very busy, and I dawdle on my phone as I wait. He’s two minutes late;I was told a place, and a time, nothing else. A car pulls over, and a man pulls me in. It’s Eight, a busy celebrity-stylist who, as he assures me, seldom kidnaps his dates to whisk them off to mysterious faraway places.
He studied at a textile school in Canada and lived there for five years, but ultimately left behind a dozen acquaintances, a start-up job and a live-in girlfriend to move back home. I nod away, without batting an eyelid. I could ask him why he came back. I could ask him what happened to the girlfriend. I could ask him whether he’s sure about his sexuality.
‘Where are we off to?’ I ask him instead. You can’t blame me for being suspicious. He had been strangely cryptic on the phone. He laughs, and tells me he’s got a fun evening planned. His favourite band is performing at one of the more upscale mills in town, and he’s been dying to watch them ever since he got back from the Great North. Would I like to get a drink before?
‘Where do I sign up?’, I ask him.
He laughs again. But first, we have to take a slight detour.
