I Want to Marry a Gay Man

Oh yes I do! After going through a series of dalliances or what I like to also call temporary aberrations of the mind, no longer am I willing to suspend my disbelief. Am I the only one who thinks sex is overrated? What about L.O.V.E? I see my friend reading her Mills and Boons...yes yes girl porn for some of you Neanderthals, and the obvious question is, can I even dream of being kissed demandingly, hungrily, obsessively or whatever hyperbolic way one can be kissed? And the answer is no!

The way things are going and here I mean it in the best way possible (knock knock all my male friends)…the chances of me swooning over a hunky are outnumbered 1 to 100. Chances of me being violently nauseated by most men in my city…now we’re talking! Projectile vomiting is not a remote possibility. Add to that I have the misfortune of living in Delhi…a place that makes Fred Flintstone look like a suave man about town.

When you been approached by men whose idea of pick up lines range from “Axecoose me is this chair taken?” to “Hello myself Vishal” to “My father have steel factory”. More horrors, “Sssssssssss” to “I from jaipur may I enter club with you “and like one well meaning Sikh gentleman who threw any attempts at above such lines to just rubbing up surreptiously next to us gaggle of girls at a popular night spot. All under the pretext of dancing.

And don’t even get me started on the dress code!!!

Exhibit A, paunchy, wearing black tyre hugging t-shirt with the words ‘FEEL THE HEAT’ writ large across his ample bosom in hot pink spangles and glitter font. Accessorized with thick gold chain, the kind that’ll give a Rottweiler a complex.

Exhibit B, a kind of universal dye of Delhi men, slick gelled back hair, dark shiny shirt in non natural fibre, shoes that will enter the room 20 minutes before he does, Issey Miyake and sweat drenched, body odour emitting natural catastrophe.

Exhibit C Street dancer/ disco fighter Sardar…aka Capt Bobby “I fly Jet airways” Shergill. His moves had us hooting but then he decided to be smart…”If you want to be air hostess I can get you in”. What part of broadcast journalist do you not understand?

All of whom would drive any woman to celibacy.

And then of course there’s the annual Bobby Darling Fan Club that meets in Hype, a club owned by Bollywood’s most prolific, DJ Aqeel. To reserve a VVIP booth, shell out a cool 40 grand. On a Thursday night? Fearless Jaat boyz occupy bragging rights.

Which makes me desperately want to marry a gay man.

An idea that gets propelled when I'm in a room full of gorgeous men on a Saturday night in Claridges. All of whom are talented, cultivated, good looking and know how to talk to a woman.

All that dizzying amount of testosterone and none of it making me want to barf. So how did the evening end? It ended up with breakfast almost in bed. Thanks to Baldy, me and a friend took three men home with us. And what did we do? Talked into the night, laughed till we cried and bitched like it was going out of style. All very satisfying. And the clincher, Laly and me were asked how we liked our toast? Crunchy, extra crunchy or soft?!

Mommy I want to marry a gay man!