What Happens To Gay Relationships & Affairs

The first draft of this rant was interrupted too. Thanks to ‘his’ plans to go out for a movie, a quick dinner and maybe a nap? But sorry, the movie didn’t happen since he only has one bicycle, and I have none. And we’re too late to use public transport to get to a place 2 kilometers away. Damn!

It’s a mélange of vagueness, some windy early Spring weather in Berlin, and a man whose company I enjoy, or have learnt to enjoy in just a month’s time.

I’m probably gonna end up confusing you more than what I intended. Or not. Or maybe I’m just fucked up. But there’s a reason.

This is not the first time I’m running through this mess. In my head. As usual.

The first draft of this rant was interrupted too. Thanks to ‘his’ plans to go out for Tosca at the opera, a quick dinner and maybe a nice, long fuck session? But sorry, the opera visit  didn’t happen since he only had one bicycle, and I have none. And we were too late to use public transport to get to a place two kilometers away. Damn!

The second draft began with a mixture of feelings – kisses, sense of immediate erection in the phallic area, some smoked-ham and Ceylon tea, and a feeling that the cheerfulness that met me today might be a fading phenomenon like damping in a sinusoidal sound wave.

I’m happy every time I find a man who can fill my heart with desire, my loins with fire and my head with orgasms. And in addition, cheer me up so much that I think I could marry him (settle down, you know). And then there’s that phase of getting to know each other, getting used to each other, discovering each other’s quirks, jerks and ticklish spots. It normally takes me two hours to get there, but if a man has substance, it takes longer. Sometimes a month or a couple of months, and in this case- a week.

There was a time when I moved countries and cities, risking work, visas and other belongings, despite what my friends would think of it – to follow my love, to his country, his city, his territory. A week-long love affair triggered a move 900 miles away from my home city, then. The honeymoon phase followed; the doing-things-together and enjoying them, getting to know family. Then came the fights, the cranky sex, and then no sex, and no fights, no talks. And finally, I left him weeping on the platform of a station, my Euro-Night Express carrying my belongings and cold heart to a place safer, better and less ‘hateful’. All this over two months.

There was another time, when I courted someone for a month – we fell in love, got introduced to each other’s friends, even parents, and spent a great time getting to know ourselves. The next 8 months, he lived in a country many time zones away. His night was my day, his day my night. None of us knew what the other one was really up to, but trust and a bit of Skype helped keep it alive for a while. His parents in Mumbai meanwhile grew closer to me than him, and I was almost like an adopted son. It all came to a standstill when one festive day, I felt like a part of the furniture in their house, part of the family, sealed forever with fate and its tidings. Something brought pangs to my heart, telling me that my Freedom was just minutes away from being stolen.

And then an Angel appeared out of nowhere. A visitor from outside. Call me Snow Queen, but this Caucasian stole my heart. Vibes, beeps, bleeps, shock-waves, you know – those sparks between two people, when their hearts reach out. The next two weeks, we met- for food, sex, cuddling, kissing, traveling around the country and constantly smiling at each other.

That was when I knew I had to move away from the other guy. And I did. In fact, my honesty was met with applause. The other guy thanked me for not making a fool of him and myself. I was relieved.

And now, I feel I am on the verge of distancing myself from this person I just met a week ago. Scholar, he is and quirky and funny too. Uses microdermabrasion creams and overnight biological peels in winter. Is scared of pets, organic food and loose-fitting clothes. Loves Indian food, Kurosawa movies, Virginia Woolf, trekking, deep-sea diving and culture. Semi-fluent in Hindi, Nepali and Tamil. Oh, and cooks low-carb, low-calorie food. Sleeps and drinks a lot. Is a nerd (something that I definitely love). Oh, and has a butt to die for, a cock that turns me on in seconds, and a smile that would make any queen swoon at first sight.

I know I don’t want to hurt him. I’ll be the coward and distance myself. Slowly.

I’ll be the whore again. Or just a saint.

We’ll see.

P.S. It’s utterly sad that you know what’s going to happen to the affair/relationship before the other person does. Damn!




About the author


Distracted as ever - by life and its vibrant hues, Srini discovered writing recently when a bushy eye-browed Muse with luscious lips tickled his senses with her couplets. Fat man grew up to be a fitness conscious cook, a gardener by grandma's inherited green thumb and an Agnostic who used to believe in myriad rituals and gods and goddesses of the Southern landscapes, landscapes where rice paddies and Gopurams made people believe in the gifts of music, culture, art and nature's miracles. With a face that's expressive enough to throw off a couple of stubborn people off their stools, and an arse that can dance to drum and base, he's constantly trying to bridge his semi-German thoughts with his roots back in the Land of the Peppers. He writes, occasionally.