The Sensitive Side of a Gay: Treasured Tales of Tops, Bottoms and Versatiles

Copyright © 2013 . All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Control Number: pending

ISBN

978-1-4828-1215-2 (e)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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10/14/2013

Contents

Overview

Zubin And Gay Angst

Zubin’s Experiences Of Gay Bashing And Humiliation.

Zubin On Male Massage Parlors—

Ranjit Madan— The Awakening Of The Gay

Sukhia Gets Revived Of His Despondency.

Dasgupta’s Palatial House.

Feroz’s Encounter With A Married Gay

Feroz In College

Feroz’s Encounter With Jeeshan.

A Bottom Senior Citizen

The Gay Situation And Stereotypes

-Epilogue-

I THANK THE . . . the men who

Trusting me opened up their hearts to me . . . . . .

And also those who couldn’t,

Feeling painfully shy and delicate

But shared everything with me

When the ebb and flow of the

Turbulent emotions silenced and subdued

Speech superfluous and attuned to the inner voice

In a heart to heart communion.

( The names of persons and places mentioned in this book are fictional)

Overview

‘The sensitive side… . . ‘is an attempt to puzzle out the incomprehensible riddle of the poignant emotions, feelings, and fantasies of men in love with men.

Their persecutors need to understand them through these delicate feelings…

It is love I am talking about —and—not sex.

I am talking about a man’s love for a man in all its sublimity and in its stark naked reality.

A love that can be defined and interpreted only through love and not through loathing… .

And not even through the grotesque laws and theories… . .

It is about —Gay sensibilities and how sensitive a gay feels about his being a gay.

The guilt pangs of a man whose wife dies because of his being gay.

The painful conflicts that some men have to endure— to have to cross the barriers of the high ranks—

to love and to be loved… .

The agony of men forbidden to love being overawed by sick myths and religious indoctrination.

It is about asserting that it’s my life, my body and my instincts that I can’t change for you… .

And that my love is of no harm to anyone, hence you must let me love and let me live… .

It is also about seeking answers for the unanswered questions…

If a man kissing a man is a sin—what about a man’s brutal rape of a hapless woman?

Will someone define what manliness is and what it is to be manly?

Why don’t they allow me to perceive my own reality through my own vision?

Why am I forced to view it through the eyes of the dictates of view point fascism?

Why am I victimized endlessly with barbarities of derision and degradation?

Why is my world criminalized against uncommitted crimes?

Why do you hate what I love? Why can’t you love what I love?

Why do you slyly suggest me too, to hate what you hate and what I love?

And —The straight!—How straight are the straight in their attitudes, judgment and values? —And above all in respecting human dignity and human rights?

And the straight may please self check that they are not a bit hypocritical about their being straight.

This is all about— "THE SENSITIVE SIDE . . .

All the more— IT IS— SHARING of THE HONEST IMPULSES AND INTENSE EMOTIONs OF A MAN

YEARNING FOR A MAN . . . . . . . . .

FEEL THE PULSE OF THIS WONDROUS WORLD! A WORLD OF ADAMS VS ADAMS . . . . . . . . . ."

—with love . . . . . NIRMAL

Who would give a law to lovers?

Love unto itself a higher law. —BOETHIS THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY.

The splendorous sight of the rainbow after a spell of freak rain fascinates me.

When I try to capture it in my lens it shies away into smothering mist while the Himalayan meadow prim roses, cowslips and butterfly orchids of lush green flora of Lalbagh elegantly pose for me.

The fleeting spectacle of myriad hues in the twilit firmament leaves behind in me a hunch of— some of the incomprehensible riddles of life like the riddle of appearances vs. realities lying hidden in the smog of deceptive appearances.

When it is seven o’clock most of the visitors leave the park and darkness begins to envelope the desolation.

Lalbagh dons a veil of mystery. The night’s silent symphony begins…

The symphony of infinite passions of the finite hearts… .

Shadows of night hunt begin to float. Shadows prowl for shadows. Shadows touch shadows…

Silent sensations… silent… . excitement silent ecstasy… . begin to swirl in the weird dark.

The giant Sequoia and the Deodar stop stirring and turn voyeuristic.

My concentration is suddenly disturbed when I hear muffled cries and thumping sounds of beatings from a deserted corner of the park.

Dodging the low hanging bunches of Bougainville I enter a leafy cave and find two men in a scuffle.

A frail looking young man is being roughed up by a tall and dangerously attractive muscle man.

"Who’s there… What’s happening!’

I scream feigning the authority of a cop’s officer.

The stratagem works.

The intoned authority scares the man. He flees into the dark.

I help the wobbly victim into the open. He winces in pain. He is hit on the jaw.

He bleeds. I take him to the fountain and help him wash the mess.

Are you okay? I ask him tenderly.’ Were you robbed?

He answers feebly. Yes, my wallet with money and credit card and my mobile phone.

He doesn’t look at me while talking. He talks to me with a downcast gaze avoiding eye contact. I take him out of the park. We both walk in silence.

I refrain from asking him questions on the incident. Neither I ask myself why he did not raise an alarm or retaliate.

We wait for a cab. He waits impatiently and when it comes gets into it hurriedly and mumbles, still glancing away from me.

"Thanks… thanks a million!’’

The shadowy figures continue to prowl in the darkness. I stand there looking at them.

I have watched the precarious existence of this world for several times now.

A world that appears before me now and disappears into the murky smog in the next moment, always playing hide and seek with me.

I am touched by the vulnerability of this world.

I feel a burning commitment for it, ’Cause the Indian gay touches a chord in my heart"

I tried to explore this world by frequenting the crowded bus stops, rail way stations, public parks, beaches and rest rooms and mastered the art of recognizing this 37% of the male population and its indulgence in various forms of gay behavior.

The more I observed the greater was the perplexity in me of the sensual and passionate homo unlike the stereo typed hetero.

Once I had a brief meeting with a gay, the only gay who spoke to me at that time and shared his agony with me, said,

"We never try to understand the riddle of man’s sexual orientation for the fear of finding what we fear about ourselves. We don’t respect diverse human instincts.

We ignorantly and hypocritically decide what should be natural for him. If he doesn’t fit into the moral fabric of the repressive morality and sick myths, we call him a pervert or an aberrant like the fanatics who burnt the man at the stake for he believed that the earth is round."

When I told him I have a concern for the gays and wanted to know more about them he refused to entertain further conversation and left the place in an abrupt haste.

When I tried to talk to the straight about gays they guffawed as they did at some smutty jokes.

They viewed me with suspicion, and derision. I received the same kind of reaction from my friends who I thought were well read and well informed.

The rights of sexually marginalized L.G.B.T communities to live with dignity and a social space of their own continue to be an issue unless the straight awaken to an understanding and a broader outlook of the feelings and frailtiesof the Indian gay.

My idea to write a book on the Indian gays turns in to a strong determination.

I will write a book on the premise that the gay in this country deserves a better deal from the straight to help him come off the negativism and complexity that surrounds him and negotiate the waters of life with dignity and self direction.

Facing many initial hurdles I spoke to hundreds of gays from across a wide range of socio-economic categories.

Connecting with them has been great.

The first hand experiences of their candid interviews and inner views form the crux of the book I intend to write.

The initial hurdles were many. Winning the confidence of the gays was a convoluted task! Even open gays felt pained to talk about their gayness.

My cryptic ad with a tag ‘anonymity and confidentiality assured’ received no response so I decided to meet them through direct contact in the gay cruising areas.

I observe a gay for some time and after confirmation I approach him and try to talk to him of my purpose of meeting him… . He instantly avoids me or turns cold and reticent and terminates the conversation before it begins.

I hit upon a strategy…

I go to a presumably a gay haunt and stand in the shadows of the trees and run my hand on my groin, signaling an invitation…

There is desired response from a shadowy figure stirring in the dark and the next moment I feel the spidery touch of a hand on my groin.

Feeling irksome I allow the middle aged man to grope me a while and whisper to him the oft repeated message like a litany.

"I am writing a book on the gays… . confidentiality assured… . ‘

The man stares at me horrified, and darts away in to the dark. I only realize later,

‘Why write books on gays? Why not write on the straight?’

Did the proposition hint that he is aberrant?

The guilt of breach of trust of male bonding weighs on me! Have I —

Sinned against the man who approached me with desire and trust?

Gradually my persistence paid off. Gays who saw me in the cruising places often reciprocated my hello to them with a smile. One morning I received a call.

"This is Rebello here… where and when can I meet you?’’

It was a male voice with a sweet twang of a lady receptionist’s voice.

We decided instantly to meet in the restaurant near the Public Park.

Rebello is an effeminate gay in his late thirties dressed soberly in frayed jeans and a full sleeve shirt with a bag slung on his shoulders. He tells me he is a bottom.

What is a bottom? I ask him.

Rebello explains to me who is a bottom, who is a top and who is a versatile gay. Versa tiles are gays who reciprocate roles with their partners of mutual attraction and desirability unlike the one-way tops and bottoms.

I tell him it is hard to believe that he is an Indian with his flawless accent of the English of a native speaker and his ruddy complexion and impossible blue eyes!

Rebello affirms he is an Indiwan and had his education in schools run by the English.

"As far my complexion, my parents are Indian but I don’t know about their parents. But I am sure about my eyes. That is, my great granny’s great grand granny’s great grand granny, sprained her ankle while getting out of a boat.

Vasco-de-gamma who had just set foot on the Indian shores, full of gallantry rescued the damsel in distress and that speaks for my blue eyes!

Rebello giggles. His laughter has the timbre of anklet bells. I keep watching his graceful body movements.

"I belonged to a wealthy family of hoteliers who run a chain—of hotels in India and Dubai.’’

"Why belonged?’’

"Because it is history now. My father and brothers were men of ruthless business acumen who valued only money. I grew up like a butterfly among bulls and bears.

Everyone hated a pansy like me except my mother who was a beautiful woman… . and… . my father the ugliest man on earth, who always called my mother a slut and ranted—, "He cannot be my son, you must have slept some time somewhere with some street lecher and brought forth this god dam ass hole!!’’

My mother who was a heart patient bore the brunt of these cruel accusations silently and suffered more from heart breaks than attacks and when she couldn’t take any more she quit the world for good"

I had a painful child hood with bestial cruelties inflicted upon me to change me. They were more painful to my mother and worsened her heart’s condition.

I was taken abroad for a hormonal treatment…

The hormones not only refused to change… . but turned ticklish with gay titillations as the doctors were found so handsome…

But when the docs realized that the treatment was turning in to a comedy of horrors they threw me, like a hot brick and heaved a sigh of relief with a good bye and good riddance!

Next—I was taken to a psychiatrist… for an aversion therapy.

He showed me the photographs of great looking nude and semi nude men and forced me to hate them. I said’ I loved them! I told the psychiatrist I loved him and wanted to see him too, nude and chased him.

The psychiatrist grew phobic and horrified and ran away shrieking for help.

When the whole fraternity of psychiatrists feared a danger of psychiatrists losing their sanity because of me, with immediate deportation orders had me thrown out of the continent straight back in to my country with a permanent invalidation of my documents."

Rebello giggles and adds— Tell me, why do psychiatrists give a milk chocolate to eat and force you to admit it’s bitter?

Then I was referred to an exorcist in a remote Indian village in Orissa who declared that a female ghost, a nymphomaniac had taken hold of my body and spirit.

He charged a hefty amount to exorcise the she — devil in me, and lashed me with a whip but the female refused to leave me.

She turned into a fierce she monster and deftly caught him by throat, bit the flesh out of him and the exorcist ran for life, became a clean blank, and a bundle of nerves and finally landed in an asylum.

And the ghostly nymph lived happily ever after in me and with me…"

Rebello giggles like a teenage girl.

I keep watching Rebello’s effeminate mannerisms when he is talking. He flings his arms, arches his brows and throws amorous glances at good looking men around including the waiters.

His overt coquettish behavior makes many a head in the restaurant turn to us. I feel tingled with embarrassment.

You are so effeminate…like a…. I grope for the right word. He takes it as a compliment while I did not mean it.

"Are your mannerisms natural or studied?’’

Both, he says with an air of conceit. It is my way of communicating my sexuality to the world. And most importantly my way of feeling liberated and happy… . rather my way of being gay abandon!

"But it could also be gay abandoned when people scornfully runaway from you!

I don’t care! I can’t wear a hetero’s mask and feel stifled!

Living with a false face is against my conscience!

I am honest about my feelings… . Honest in a full blooded way! Am I not? Is it Oscar Wilde who said that it is an insane world which despises virtue and upholds vice and hypocrisy? I have no fear of gay bashing, blackmail and cops—

In fact being locked with a tough rapist cop in a seduction cell is one of my fantasies!’’ Rebello once again giggles.

‘But you may end up making people freeze with homo phobia. ‘‘

"There is a gay streak in every man and I want to tickle it!

Effeminacy is one of the facets of a gay’s personality. There are gays who look tough and masculine but like me turn into delicate blossoms for good looking men!

I think there are three sides namely masculine and non masculine (not feminine) and feminine in everyman’s personality. And no man is wholly masculine —that is being masculine is not an absolute but a thing of a range. The non effeminate gays may probably fall in the second and the likes of me, in the third.

But I feel happy and great about my being a bottom and being assertive of my sexual preferences. Do you think I am right?’’

"I think you are, I am a bit hazy about such things and that’s why I am here talking to you to know more from you.

What about your relationships? Can there be steady relationships among gays?’’

‘I don’t think so! I did have a lover who jilted me; he was a great looking Greek who looked like Gregory Peck of McKenna’s’ Gold. Otherwise I had only flings and I lost count of them.

Gays are on an unending quest for men of their fantasy! Gay relationships are mostly based on physical attraction and desirability.

As far steady relationships who doesn’t want a true and faithful lover? And where does such love exist?

Aren’t most heterosexual relationships calculated, need based and money based with mundane commitments of making money and property or raising a family and all that crap?

"Okay. Tell me of your latest fling!’’

They aren’t just flings but treasured memories, treasured and cherished forever and ever again experiences!

Rebelo’s voice turns husky. A few weeks ago I met a boy of twenty. He is Bhasker! Well built and very ‘butch’ for his age. He is so brash and wild. I took him to my place a couple of times. He comes to me whenever he needs…

Need what?

"A release’’

But he only uses you for a release while you love him with soul stirring passion… isn’t that unfair?

"No, it isn’t! The straight with all their intelligence and reasoning cannot understand this equation of a bottom’s pleasure principle!

I love being used by him while he enjoys my total slave like adoration and submission to him".

Rebello takes me round the park. It is in a neglected condition except for a well maintained open air auditorium with galleries where public functions are held and movies are screened.

Rebello tells me that the park is quite ‘a happening place’ with people coming here not for watching movies but for sleazy sex!

You find a greater number in the morning hours coming here ostensibly for jogging as they are safer and less prone to suspicion.

Walking with Rebello I find many men moving in the shadows.

They look like any another men but Rebello tells me that they are all men cruising for men for a partner.

Suddenly a whiff of strong perfume touches my nostrils.

A strange looking a young man walks past me. I keep staring at him. He walks as if he is doing a cat—walk on the ramp with the grace and elegance of a ramp model.

He is young and white skinned wearing a heavy make—up with lips painted in deep scarlet shade and eye lids touched with mascara.

He is daintily dressed in black velvety ‘T’ shirt with floral embroidery on the chest with a chunky necklace around his neck.

He reciprocates Rebello’s greeting with a careless ‘hello’ and walks away deliberately ignoring him.

Rebello flings his arms with envy and in disgust. "You know he is Julian! He