[Editor's Note: Meet our newest (and first ever) Homegrown columnist, who prefers to stay anonymous. Intrigued? You should be. Look out for a new Guysexual post every Thursday as our ever unreliable narrator "talks about his escapades in dating and otherwise, proving that there really is no difference between gay and straight when it comes to love, sex and relationships, or who fits the bill when you know that things are so bad that you probably might never ever see each other again."]
The Guysexual is your average guy-next-door who loves his beer and hates pigeons, talking about out-of-the-closet experiences of the third kind. He might not know the right spoon to eat his crème brulee with, or what colour shirt goes with a leather jacket, but he does know that there never really is only the One. There’s a Two, a Three and a Four, and probably more. It will work out with some of them, and sometimes it will not. Scroll on to meet number ONE, as we kick off the journey ’50 First Dates’ style.
I meet him for a coffee at a second-world swanky café in the suburbs. He arrives, all nervous and a thousand apologies. I shake them off like I shake him off as soon as I meet him – stubbing my cigarette and my smile. One: he’s slightly shorter than I would like him to be, and slightly happier too. I don’t have the heart to tell him I love my men broodier, sulking into their coffees one minute and writing dark sonnets the other. He has a free-spirited way of carrying himself, and he moves around as he talks, like a trapeze artist at the circus, without the lithe seductive body. The aloofness unnerves me (the lack of said lithe, seductive body notwithstanding) and so does his choice of footwear. Crocs, dark brown, like the colour of my current mood.
In his late thirties, the man writes scripts for plays and musicals, like most gay men in their late-thirties do, and occasionally reviews theatrics for an upper crust news periodical. Wait. Is it only me, or is he reviewing me too?
We order our coffee with the barista, a thin man with a cute face and a forgettable name – or was it the other way around? A double espresso, with a side of sleepless night for the playwright. A tall Americano, with no added substance for me. He’s midway between penning a political thriller for the stage, and creating an adaptation of the Lion King for a boys-only boarding school up in the north. It’s all very difficult when he doesn’t belong to the city, and I don’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t belong in this conversation.
“Where’s home?” I ask him, politely. My Americano is only half-empty.
He’s from Shillong, but he’s hasn’t been home since the past three years. He likes to flit from city to city, like I flit from boy to boy, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that either. Now he stays with an erstwhile theatre critic who doesn’t question his preferences of coffee, or his preferences in bed. He likes the city though, and wouldn’t mind calling it his base forever- it’s got enough to be written about, and still not seem like you’ve read it somewhere before. I don’t have the heart to tell him about the strong sense of déjà vu I feel that very moment. As we inhale our coffees, he tells me how the city works, and I realize how he does.
He’s taking about homosexual norms, and I coolly tell him I don’t conform to them: I watch the occasional cricket, and drink beer by the pitcher. His eyes slide over my lime green shorts. Side note: never wear lime green shorts to a date. Side note to side note: never wear lime green shorts ever. Period. We don’t even get to my leather satchel bag and before we know it, we are already outside on the curb.
His eyes twinkle away in the deep velvety night, but they don’t create constellations with mine. He reaches for my hand, and I reach for my walls. It’s the moment of truth – when he leans in for a kiss, and I kiss him back even if I don’t want to. “Would you like to-” he hesitates, “write something with me?”
That’s an odd question. I push my walls slightly lower. I smile in the affirmative, and tell him I have a story with him in mind. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I plan to write the script for how we met later that night.
Words: That’s for us to know, and you to find out.
Artwork designed by : Siddha Kannur
Siddha is a self taught and a self declared artist, he infests his works with a sense of weirdness and an equal dosage of quirk. Siddha’s work heavily borders on unconventional graphics and catchy illustrations. He believes that self education is an unprecedented form of learning.