5 feet 5 Inches of Pure Perfection

Its been a month and I come back to see that blogspot has moved my cheese , by changing the whole look.

Dont you just hate changes?

Why do we seek to improve on things that needs no improvement. We invented it for godsake and since we did, i think , we can at any point of time, lay it on the table , look at it and then say with a deep exhalation of breath:

There. Perfect. Its finished.

But nooo. Continous improvement. Seeking prefection. Its a never ending moving of cheese for people like me who likes to stand still and wait for the inevitable ceasing to be. Its annoying. Just when you start to get the hang of it, I bet they will change it again.

Isnt it strange that when we seek perfection, we are rather admiting that there is no perfect things that does not require further perfecting?

Like the perfect man.

Now. I consider myself a perfect man.

Really.

My wife begs to differ.

But there are other women, who are not married to me, who thinks that I am the perfect husband, mothers who have not borne me, declare what a perfect son I would make, girl friends who have not fucked me, saying that I would be the perfect boyfriend.

Conclusion?

Iam perfect. By default.

My wife seems to be oblivious to being in close proximity to such perfection.

One of my friends send me this joke :

FIVE RULES FOR WOMEN TO FOLLOW TO A HAPPY LIFE:

1.. It's important to have a man who helps at home, cooks from time to time, cleans up, and has a job.

2. It's important to have a man who can make you laugh.

3. It's important to have a man who you can trust, and doesn't lie to you.

4. It's important to have a man who is good in bed, and likes to be with you.

5. It's very, very important that these four men do not know each other.


There you go.

Women.

For men this is a no brainer. We just want to sleep with five women if we had the opportunity and pray that they never meet each other. For all the rest of that stuff, we prefer one woman.Seriously.Name me one man who says that we needs 4 women to fulfill his emotional needs, and I will show you a predator. He's hunting.He baiting. Hes preying on the fact that most woman will not find complete fulfillment in one man, especially after marrying one.

I dont get women.

You can get a clue to their genetical makeup by observing the fact they need more than 5 pairs of shoes and a handbag for each day of the week.

And they say we need variety.

Draupadi must be the ideal marraige for a woman. Five men to fawn over her and shes pining for someone else.

Women.

Truth be told, I dont make any attempt in understanding them as women. I see them as persons. With boobs.

Remove all the garb that has been piled upon our species in the name of society, cultual, moral what nots, and you will find underneath all that self proclaimed garbage an animal who is pretty much doing what they have been doing for the last 10,000 years.

Iam personally suspicious of this propoganda by the women in the name of equality, trying to make men into women.

What the fuck is a metrosexual male?

Do women actually like men with hairless chest? Or do they stand together in the bathroom and snigger at the poor bloke who in his insecure , delusional , vulnerable phase has been convinced that sporting a hairless torso is the latest way to get into a woman's pants?

We all know that we will do anything for love but we wont do that. Now they got us doing just that.

Men dont have emotional IQ. They dont need it.In the larger scheme of things, its an unnecessity. The only good it seems to do is to enable us to try make some sense of a gender that does not want to make sense.

Try making sense of that.

They call it being mysterious. I call it fucking irritating.

Iam a man.

How we guage our need for a woman is by asking ourselves if we have to take a long trip,a really long trip into an unknown part of the world alone, who would we have by our side?

It would probably be someone who will help us with the cooking,clean up etc, someone whose company we enjoy,someone whom we can trust , who will not betray or hurt us , someone who finds us the sexiest man alive and for whom we mean the world.

It will be just one woman.

It will always be just one woman.

It just isnt practical to go on a road trip with more than one. The conversation alone will kill you.

Fazed Book

I should write a book on how to lose and repel people.

Just write about sex, masturbation and insanity.

I can almost see the tumble weed rolling across the ghost town this place has become.

You are so fortunate that I do this for the sake of it; otherwise I would have felt ignored and hurt. Imagine that!

I have been doing Facebook.

It’s a strange place.

People say the weirdest things.

They call it status update.

How many statuses does a person have?

Apparently a lot.

It’s like that river and you never step into it twice kinda thingy. Our status is constantly changing and the world now gets to hear of it.

Yippee.

I didn’t realize that status in Facebook means the state of your mind at any particular time. So in the beginning, I kept writing things like:

Married.
Not sure if I am still married.
Definitely married. I think
Not sure.
Yep. It’s confirmed. Married.
No longer.
Make up your mind woman!!!

Then I was told very gently that this is not what that space is meant for.

These things are difficult for me.

I look at it and I wonder, what do I say?

State of my mind?

I leave that blank.

Question.

When someone posts something about a child that is hooked up into various tubes? Isn’t pressing Like a little distasteful?

Yesterday, I saw this link someone had send about the funeral of that Tibetan kid who burned himself to death for his countries freedom. It had 39 likes!

These are nice people. Really. I checked. They care. Then what is that they liked about something as morbid as that? It’s a bit confusing.

Commenting.

My wife is worried about me ever since I signed up for this. There are these key words, if I see, that tends to make me go into frenzy. It’s like waving a bed sheet at a bull.

God, religion, soul.

I dont know why but I am then compelled to put in my 2 bit. And that will be the end of a beautiful friendship that has lasted more than two decades.

That’s the thing about Facebook.

These are people you know or who knows you or who know someone who knows you. These are the walking proof of the six degree of separation. These guys know you, they know where you live, and they know your wife, your kids.

It’s probably best you deal with them nicely.

But commonsense has never been one of my stronger suits.

Face book scares me.

But there is comfort in knowing the even the most stupid thought in your head, if put into words, in that little cyber space, will have at least one like.

There’s always someone who agrees with you in Facebook.

It’s a beautiful, polite, considerate world.

People are so politically correct there. I guess you will think twice before saying: Fuck you niggers!!! , when with a click of a button, someone can find out where you live.

It’s wiser to be nice and neutral.

Me? I can’t resist.

I find it hard to control myself, when that 43 year old cousin of mine repeatedly posts pictures of her posing like an 18 year old. I mean it’s her life but doesn’t it require an honest opinion? I mean isn’t it why she is putting it out there?

So who gets to say the emperor is naked?

That’s where I come in.

Oh, my cousin has officially unfriended me.

Fuck. That’s not even a word.

All sane with a pinch of madness

There’s a rumor going around that I might be bipolar.

This is insulting.

Just because I look like a planet is absolutely no reason for people to get nasty.

Personally the term bipolar brings to my head this image of a polar bear that swings both ways.

Anyhow.

Since the possibility exists that what I am maybe actually a medical condition, I felt that I need to explore the matter, after which, I aim to ignore it completely.

I am jobless that way. Some one once asked me, if people's opinion of me matters to me. I would not be blogging if it did.

So with the help of a friend, who has tremendous experience dealing with someone who has this condition, I set out to find out more about this.

I am also the king of denials. My wife can attest to this fact.

It’s never my fault. Ask her.

The problem is I am so good at fooling myself; I am not sure if I will be able to see if truth stands in front of me and does a strip tease.

I do not think I am bipolar but this, if it turns out to be the case, gives me the perfect excuse for all my actions hence forth.

It will be my very own Get Out of Jail Free card.

My own PMS.

This will be great.

So, I did a survey.

I spoke to my friends.

The conversation went like this.

Me (on the phone): Hey, Hi. I just wanted to ask you a question.
Bloke friend: No. I didn’t borrow any money from you.
Me: No no. It’s something else.
Bloke: Oh, ok. Shoot.
Me: Do you think I am crazy?
Bloke: yeah man, totally. You are the craziest arsehole I know.
Me: no you fuck face. Do you think I am, like, you know? Mentally unstable?
Bloke: Of course man. You are totally insane.
Me: oh, fuck it. Where’s the cash you owe me?
Bloke: you are crazy; I never borrowed any money from you. You are just imagining things. Go see a shrink.


I come away confused.

You really can’t ask a male friend if you are crazy. They just lack perspective.

So I turned to my girl friends. Well, actually they are all my wife's friends. There's this unspoken deal between my wife and them that they should check in on me once in a while, since she’s not here anymore. My wife is convinced that I will loss the plot when she’s not there to buffer me from myself.

So I called them.

Women.

Me: Hey, do you think I am bipolar?
She: Totally.
Me: Do you even know what bipolar is?
She: Totally.
Me: Enlighten me.
She: It’s what you have.
Me: And that is?
She: You know? Where you swing between moods.
Me: I most definitely do not swing between moods. Fuck man, that sounds like a fucking monkey.
She: Will you stop swearing? I am going to tell mads.
Me: Fine. You go fucking tell mads that I am fucking swinging between moods.
She: Fine.
Me: Fuck you.
She: I don’t even know why I bother.
Me: You really think I am bipolar? I don’t feel like a bipolar.
She: Well maybe not exactly bipolar but there's something definitely wrong with you.
Me: What the fuck do you mean there's something wrong with me?
She: You are not exactly normal.
Me: Of course I am not normal, that is my whole USP. This me is a finely chiseled put together piece of art. One of a kind.
She: Fuck you tys.
Me: I am serious, I am yet to meet another me.
She: Fuck you. You know very well what I mean.
Me: Yeah (I don’t)
She: You need help.
Me: No, I just need sex.
She: Go fuck yourself. I am going to tell mads.
Me: Don’t flatter yourself. I am a far better company to myself than you can ever hope to be.
She: What?
Me: Never mind. Bye.

I am not convinced. So I asked mads.

Me: hey mads, how’s it going?
Mads: work. What about you?
Me: iam fine. Hey, do you think there’s something wrong with me?
Mads: like what?
Me: you know, the kind of person I am is due to some medical condition.
Mads: there’s nothing wrong with you.
Me: you sure? I mean, sometimes I don’t connect. I see things differently. I am unable to connect. The core is unaffected inside. Things happen on the surface and subside. Is that normal? Maybe the whole thing is just a mental disorder.
Mads: You are just alone tys. You are seeking some sort of validation. Just come home.
Me: Yeah. Soon.

Inside. None of it matters. These answers.

But a guy can still play with himself, can't he?

Next , the shrink.

I think I just hit the mother lode of material for my deprived blog.

Maybe we can start a bookie thingy here. Is he or isnt he? Maybe I might put up a poll here. We will take bets. Fortunes will be won and lost here.

The odds are against me.


My favourite bipolar joke :

I don't believe in Satan, I just think God has Bipolar Disorder

Sex and other such nonsense

Aah the pleasure of coming back here and seeing all those empty chairs.

Standing on this platform speaking to an empty void seems like the time I shouted 'I can’t hear you' from the viewing platform in Ponmudi to hear the echo shout back at me, repeatedly, my words, until it faded like dispersed fog. I was 12.

Nothing has changed.

I still have to talk to hear myself.

And you, my silent listener is the choiceful victim, led here by your fingers and hopefully staying here for your own reasons.

What shall we talk about today?

Let’s talk about sex.

Really. Let us truly talk about it.

Considering that I haven’t been having it for a very long time, you might understand and perhaps will not be harsh in your judgment of me, for bringing up a subject that for some, will be uncomfortable.

We will not lose focus and study why something that your parents did which resulted in you, is an embarrassing topic. We will not bother with why seeing naked people inserting, penetrating, sweating, licking, holding, which in a single beautifully descriptive word is called fucking, makes some cringe, while the same will watch with no discomfort the killing, maiming or other gores acts we commit to each other.

We will not bother with all that. We all have our reasons. So we will respect that and leave that alone.

We will not discuss what arouses us.

Is it what we see, or what we hear or what we read and what we taste? , or is it what they wear, or what they represent or what they do?

We will not go into all that. It happens. We do get aroused.

We will not discuss rape. Why some of us are uncomfortable with discussing it. Why we attach shame to an act where the victim gets raped twice. First by the rapist and then by the society.

Fuck all that.

We can discuss about masturbation, if that’s okay with you. But I guess you won’t. Act of self pleasure that can, if used correctly, is the remedy for sexual impulses.

Feel ridiculously horny?

Wank off. Go on.

Its way better than trying to seduce your secretary or your boss or your ex flame or your husbands best friend or forcing yourself on your maid or paying for an hour of tryst with a stranger. It’s more economical and less stressful.

And consider the range. For a person who likes multiple partners in real flesh, is still limited by the number of actual people who will respond to his or her needs. But for a well self trained masturbator, the world is his /her range. Everyone is available. All possibilities exist for you.

Wanna do some one? Anyone? This is your solution. You do hold the world in your hands.

Briefly.

After which you are requested to wash your hand and face the world with that out of your mind.

But we will not talk about it. I can see your discomfort. I can see the nervous giggle. I can see you looking over your shoulder to see if anyone can see what you are reading. I can see you calling your friend over to read it with you and laugh, so that in the pecking order of peer group all things that are shared are fine.

Prostitution.

My friend, philosophies that to drink milk one need not buy a cow, but merely go to the supermarket and take your pick.

Demand and supply.

That’s about it. We need not go there. We can get academic about it. We can, if you want, talk passionately about the violent crimes that revolve around it. We can get our pulses racing about issues like human trafficking, the abuses, children sold into it. We can go on. But we won’t.

Here we will stick to sex. The kind that involves feelings, that happens between consenting people. The one that involves some amount of foreplay, then the act and possibly some post coital rituals like a cuddle or a smoke or some innane conversation.

You will now ask me what about orgies, what about teenage sex, what about voyeurism, porn, ménage a trios, wife swapping, affairs, etc.

You might even ask me if our discussion will involve more than just sex, will we talk about tools. Handcuffs, whips, lubes, costumes, chocolate syrup....

I say why not. Yes there is consent. That’s the sex we are planning to talk about.

Now what is it we were talking about?

Ah, sex.

There isn’t much we can talk about it when its stripped off all its clothes, is there?

Much like an onion.

Like the saying goes: Just do it.

Living with the gap.

Iam not an avid reader of newspaper.

Don't watch news on TV either.

I live my life within a 2 meter radius. What happens in front of me is my news. Sure, you can judge me but it wont make me pick up a newspaper.

I don’t do news.

I can only recall a few times when I watched the news with some sort of morbid interest.

Once I was meeting up an ad agency,run by these two amazingly creative brothers, to discuss a rejection which in my perspective was due to the artwork and in theirs was due to our failure in noticing it. I walked into their office, already anticipating the needless, fruitless arguments that lay before me. When I walked into their offce reception, I saw the whole office which consisted of about 12 , standing and watching the TV which was mounted on the wall.

Everyone was quite. The television showed the image of a familiar looking tower which seemed to be on fire or something. There were huge clouds of black smoke bellowing out. I was searching in the meagre crowd for my client, when I heard a collective gasp. My eyes went onto the TV ,where I watched in a numb silence a plane crashing onto the second tower.

We stood there, 12 arabs and one Indian, watching the tragedy happening in real life. We saw people jumping out of the building, like specks of raining black dust. We saw the towers' collapse, sending a tidal wave of dust from which people screamed and ran. We saw people walking around stunned, dressed in suits , carrying suitcases, their faces not comprehending the events that was happening around them, how a normal weekday became this madness.


We stood there , watched in silence. One of the brothers caught my eyes and I nodded towards the artwork I held in my hand. He came and hugged me. There was nothing for me to do. I went back to my press and did a reprint.

That night I watched the news.

I followed the news while it turned from a human tragedy into a crusade. Who is right , who is wrong but someone has to pay for it. I watched the sadness, turn to anger , then to hatred.

I watched the aftermath. I watched the war.

Again the killings.

News papers carried pictures of dead children. I collected it. Made a huge collage of dead children, bodies disbowled, eyes vacant, blood mixed with dust. I stuck it all onto a canvas, then I gave over it a coating of opaque white acrylic paint. Then I put it deep inside my cupboard.

I remember a similar situation long ago. The collapse of another building. This was December 6th , 1992. I was with our collage band performing in Rajputana Hotel in Jaipur. It was a week long celebration for the annual meeting of all the major heads of the Welcomgroup chain of hotels. That evening there was supposed to be a Rajastani jewellery and fashion show to be held in the roof top restaurant. By evening there was a tension in the air. The Rajasthani troop had cancelled. There was talks about riots. We were on stage and watched our guests whispering to each other, most got up and headed to their rooms. The music slowly puttered out, we all gathered around the television in the restaurant.

We saw a crazed crowded razing the ancient Babri Masjid brick by brick to the ground.

There was a sense of shock. There was a silence. We went to our rooms to pack. We were told to get out as 'Old Jaipur was burning'. There was talks about Muslim and Hindu families who goes back centuries, now killing each other.

We reached the airport to find that our flight had taken off early due to the riots . We arranged a bus to take us to Delhi. The journey was like a horror ride. I had the window seat.

I recall feeling numb. Not fear, not anger, nothing. Just an overriding feeling of numbness.

From Delhi, I flew to Madras.

I stayed with a friend who worked in Ambassador Pallava. Once in a while I performed with the hotel band. I stopped watching the news. I had seen enough.

On the eve of the begining of 1993, outside the hotel, I was sitting and watching the crowd. As I sat there, lost in just the watching, I saw the most amazing thing.

I saw crowd seperated in the colors they wore. I saw a huge crowd pass by , screaming and shouting ,all in saffron, then I saw people doing the same thing, now in green. Pink. Black. Yellow. White. There were just colors. Changing like some sort of psycedelic disco bar. And screams.

I recall the feeling. Intense fear. Its like an overwhelming feeling of panic that strikes you paralysed. I stood there and watched my mind crumble.

It took me 2 years to climb out of something which the doctors called Psychotic Maniac Depression. I had snapped. I had to rebuild my personality since I had no recollection of the person I once was. I no longer identified with him. I dont even remember him as a person, rather as an observer. I recall his feelings but its like something that I have watched as an outsider. Something I have no direct experience of.

You see, I dont understand religions. The day it justified killing each other, fighting each other, distrusting each other, it stopped being divine in my eyes. Its just another invention to control. Theres no god in it. I use the term god very loosely. Religion has nothing in it than past.The religions are dead, memories. Nothing can be added onto them, nothing removed.

If there is a god, then we must be his religion.

I have seen people being whipped up into a frenzy by a few mad individuals with personal agendas. I have seen people revealing their most base nature when they see an opportunity to do so and get away with it. I have seen people justifying their actions on the basis that everyone else were doing it.

Yet in the midst of it all, all I recall is when the tragedy occured. When the first domino fell, there was only a silence. In that silence we existed. In that silence we were all one. It was happening to all of us.

From that silence, some acted, some reacted.

Some stayed

The sound of a man

I snore.

So they say.

I have never heard it. Never been woken up by it. Never lost my sleep because of it. Never wanted to smother a pillow on my own face while screaming 'Stop snoring you bastard'. That part is also kind of impossible to do.

But they say I do and so it must be true. I am a very trusting guy. I never doubt what others say about me. Most of the time what I hear from them about me is a revelation even to me. It’s always nice to know what others think about you. Giving a fuck about it is another story.

Back to snoring.

It was first brought to my notice by my wife.

She had one day woken up to the sound of a Harley Davidson in her bedroom and discovered that the sound was emanating from a large piece of human lard, her husband, who had also stolen the blanket.

Jesus said that faith can move mountains. But then he hasn't woken up next to me.

10 years later major sleep deprivation have made an energetic lovely woman into a bundle of nerves.

Scientists have recently done a study ( on the same line as the research to find if the penguins actually look up to watch a plane flying over them until they fall over. They don't. They actually cross their three toes, since it’s considered unlucky by them to watch anything that stiff fly) on women and men who are sleep deprived.

The studies have shown that women can be dangerous when sleep deprived.Even murderous. Sleep is a necessary part of their make up. Men on the other hand do not seem to suffer as much. Aren't we the lucky ones!

I believe this research.

A woman who is not rested is an evil thing. They are down right scary. Ask any man who had to deal with a woman, who had been kept up all night by a colic baby, the next day. Deal with that and man, facing a firing squad will seem pleasant.

Go on, tell her what a beautiful day today is and ask what’s for breakfast.

Then watch your arse explode beneath you.

Sleep deprivation is a bitch.

Ask any woman. Now they got science to back them up.

Another step down for men. So along with chest hair, lord of all he surveys status, non existent emotional IQ and other sundry things that gives having a penis such a pleasure, we lose the I am more tired than you battle.

Well we still have the stand up to pee bit.

Hooray.

Back to snoring.

Last time my friends and I went camping, I woke up to find a lynching crowd gathered around my tent the next morning. I had a wonderful sleep. Mountain air is so refreshing. I had apparently also cleared the place of all wild animals in the vicinity, who had gathered around the Al Ain zoo wanting to be let in.

My friends exaggerate.

I have always had great flights. Never have I had to face a rude hostess. Never have I not been helped to stove away my baggage into the overhead cabin (which is every time), never have I been insulted, cuffed or had hot scalding liquid poured on my lap.

That’s unless I sleep.

There’s always a chill in the air when I wake up on a flight. Nobody is actually rude. But there’s definitely a change in the attitude. I get these looks from my co passengers like I was responsible for something bad. The same looks you get from the guy who steps in when you exit an elevator you had farted in. It’s that look which that girl gave while she slipped off Stallone's grip in Cliff Hanger.

Oh, come on. You know that look. It’s the one that says: How could you do this to me?

Actually the look I get on the plane is the same as the one the guy who I met in the lift would give if he saw me again another day. In the same lift.

It’s the post betrayal look.

It’s cold. It’s accusatory. It’s judgmental.

And I would be wondering if there was an alien takeover while I slept.

Now I know.

It’s the snoring. It must be. Aliens’ taking over people’s body while I slept is so far fetched. It has to be my snoring.

Thing about snoring is that it’s a lot like demonic possession. You have no idea that you are doing it. You cannot be held responsible for something you are not aware of. Our justice system supports that. That’s why you can kill thousands and say God made me do it where the judge will go like, oh why didn’t you say so? Now off you go.

Technically I cannot be held responsible.

But try saying that to that woman who looks like that girl from Grudge, who is sitting at the foot of your bed staring at you when you opened your eyes.

Scared?

You should be.

Gay pride and me

Having studied in a boy’s only school for a major part of student life, I would have thought that I will be fine with gays.

I am fine with gays. But I think thats because I don’t know any.

Of course we did have the occasional touching feeling and in some case boys who went about as couples in our school, looking back I think it was more a case of making do with available resources. And like prisoners, when they stepped out of the restrictive situation, everything fell back in the right places and things went where they are meant to go. It seemed like a temporary lapse, nothing more.

Except even now, I shudder when I drop the soap in the bath and bend down to pick it up. Hopefully it will pass with the unavoidable Alzheimer’s that is due to make its presence felt in the next 10 years or so.

Age brings along with it certain mellowness. I would have loved to say wisdom but that seems to be elusive. You tend to recognize that most of your ideals and prejudices were all handed down to you and that you been just chewing someone else’s cud. Being a jerk, I tend to avoid the popular thought that is prevalent just because I can.

I do realize that now it’s all about right of freedom to do what you feel like. I have not problems with that. As long as it’s not my arse on the line, I don’t have any problem who is shagging who.

But by god, am I curious.

I want a gay friend. I have so much to ask.

You do too, don’t you?

That’s the problem when you start patronizing people. You make them into strangers. You might think you are on their side but your very support is the wall that separates you and them. Because in reality, your acceptance doesn’t require any expression. And if that acceptance is there, they would not be feeling like freaks.

Personally I find naked men nasty. Especially if I find one in my bed. Sex would probably be the last thought on my head. Whatever doubts I have had about my sexuality disappeared the day I was introduced to Adv.Anjali in the Debonair magazine in school. I was hooked. Fat bottom girls made my world go round since.


Then came today.

Everyone’s coming out of the closets. Hell, I think there are more people in there than clothes. There are parades. Sexuality is celebrated. It is now shown in mainstream movies.Basically people’s sexuality will soon become a non issue. Its really great.

Nope. You still can’t fuck a goat.

Yes, I know you think that it’s unfair but if you wait maybe a decade longer, we perhaps will get our head around to it. Yes, we do see your point. Yes, we do notice that the goat is really attached to you but somehow it’s not bringing good vibes to me buddy. That’s my food you are fucking.

I really think sexuality should be a non issue. Like the color of peoples skin. I mean, it’s really stupid if you think about it. It’s amazing how it lasted so long as it did. But then stupid ideas have a tendency to stick. Eh, god? You concur?

But for all the gays out there, I know absolutely no one. I mean personally. I have no gay friends. Which is a shame. I do get hit on once in a while. It’s kind of flattering. And I feel very weird when I say that I just want us to be friends. And the sound track in my head is going Man, feel like a woman...

We did have a college friend who was very feminine. Then we realized that he is a bhartanatyam dancer and a real sneaky womanizer. He catches them unaware. They all assume he is gay until too late. Almost like Jaws.

Well the truth is it would really not matter if my friends are straight or gay (why can’t it be straight or zigzag?). The way I am going, I doubt if I have any friends left.

Thing is I believe that a gay friend will be my ticket to finally understanding women. Of course this very inspired thinking came from my assumption that since a gay is a man who likes men, then it stands to reason he will be like a woman.

Brilliant deduction I must say.

Now to find a gay who will hopefully help me with this and will not try and seduce me.

This brings me to the next question:

Can a gay and straight be just friends?

Watch this space for the answer to that question.

Gay? Call me.