WHEN a gay fashion designer invites one for the opening of his new signature store, be ready for both drama and surprise. Not that all gay people are dramatic. Some folks are subtle, and prefer maintaining a low profile (such as my friend Sunshine).
But coming back to the evening, post working the zombie hour for a couple days with pasty skin and disheveled kurtas, this soiree presented a nice opportunity to transform from geek to goddess. It was time to deck up to the nines, with heels, pencil jeans, chunky silver jewellery, the works. It was also time for eye shadow. Powder blue.
I landed up at chic little boutique, which had stark white décor and found myself in a room teeming with gay men. A familiar face popped out of the woodwork, and some air kissing happened. He introduced me to his friends. One of them was a doctor who also choreographs. Another owned an art gallery and sweetly invited me to explore it on a Sunday.
Post white wine, sushi and banter, someone christened me with an epithet that is popular in the gay world. It sounded a lot like ‘Fat Hag’. I stared at the boy curiously, and turns out he meant Fag Hag; a straight woman who hangs out with gay men (detailed description available on Wiki). Someone then asked me if I had noticed so-and-so’s brand new shoes. I said,” No”. “Then you’re an FFH…a Fake Fag Hag,” he said, tweaking epithet with precision.
In the course of the evening I chatted with this chap who grew up in a predominantly Roman Catholic country. His coming out (at the age of 12) was a horrific journey, and I was shocked to hear that he was beaten up every day by family and at school kids were encouraged to throw things at him. Daily living was a nightmare and he finally fled to the US. Since then he has been very happy with an Indian partner, who’s own coming out story was much more tender. His mother cried for one night. Now, all is well.
Post the inauguration, we proceeded to a nightclub owned by a well-known fashion designer in Delhi. One of the straight boys in the group (who hails from my hometown), looked bewildered, flabbergasted, flummoxed by this explosion of effeminate men, who air kissed, dressed chic and expressed themselves with a certain joie de vivre. The doctor who choreographs took me under his wing and began scoping out straight men in the vicinity, and with a vengeance.
While he went off to continue with his R&D, one chap came up to me and asked for my number. This very forward gesture by a Delhi straight male, reminded me of something I was told when I first came to the city. It is the gay capital of the country. “Also, everyone is sleeping with everyone,” the person said of people in the upper middle class and upper class, where promiscuity reigns supreme. Indeed, the folks oozed sexiness from every pore. As they canoodled with one person, they also scoped out remaining eye candy in the room.
I shooed away the chap, figured that all straight (or most) men in room looked kinda daft and joined some people on the dance floor. A couple was grooving together just a stone’s throw away, when one of them dropped his beer.
Two drops fell on my sleeves, and he apologised profusely. Seizing the moment, I told him that he could make good by buying me a drink. And he did. And guess how much this measly pint of Kingfisher cost? Rs 300. “This would have cost me Rs 5 or something to that effect in Goa, “ I whispered to a friend.

