New Delhi, June 27: Rohan is wearing a black tee and a black and white polka-dot sarong which makes him resemble Macho Brawn in an advert for beach wear. The Gurgaon farmhouse where we are now couldn't be further from a beachhead, but nearby guys and girls (that's what they look like in bad lighting) are having a rain dance party for the gay squad and there's a lot of mucky sand being thrown about in the air. Sticky and gooey, like decaying fishpaste. Rohan (his real name), looks handsome, very virile. You could go for him if it wasn't for the giggle he passed off in a high-pitched nasal tone, "Come on daaarrling, let us girls go and b***h about the men." Before you can say, "I'm changing my mind, pass my purple eyeshadow with the glitter," you're being hurried through a scraggly crowd of queens, pansy boys and some very attractive masculine physiques. Considering most of them lean the other way in their sexual preference, you presume they aren't likely to have one iota of chauvinism between them. So join the butt-kicking frenzy. On a verbal account.
At 11.00 pm, the party is still young and the crowd getting to know each other, so there is a lot of camaraderie going on across this stretch of green grass dotted with trees and standing lights. You're told they go on till early hours of the morning, by which time the 'male sides' in this ying-yang confusion thing come to the fore and there's a lot of brawling and fisticuffing about who is laying eyes on whose husband or wife. Your friend explains, "It's usually the women in a gay relationship who get emotional when their partners are being fingered or eyed. A lot like 'regular' relationships. Whatever regular means these days."
Located off-centre is a construction fitted with a sprinkling machine and the sand trench where a tiny thing in a two-piece bikini is flirting lustily with a Adonis in all black. Babuji zara dheere chalo plays the sound on amplifiers, and the tiny thing moves into wild gyrations. Adonis looks incredibly disturbed. For a minute you are relieved to think you are not the only woman in this orgasm.
You mention this to your companion who chuckles, "Of course you are. This is an all guys' party. All guys." So what about the tiny thing. "One of those sex-change operation cases," he says casually. Everyday you learn a little.



There is an ancient looking man sharing his dinner with a very young looking male counterpart. He looks hollow and festered. His companion is brimming with life. Like Rohan here who has led us to the food stall, pinching half a dozen bottoms on the way. And he doesn't get rapped on the knuckles for it. His victims must have male blood running through their veins to keep from beaming him with their fists.



A dishily dressed young thing with long brown hair, a long face and the most friendly, sad, green eyes walks by with a shirtless hunk whose muscles bulge in all the right places. At least Rohan, who has a daytime job in PR and event management seems to like them. But his little mind is smashed and a little stoned, so his powers of biological selection aren't at their peak. Every few minutes he'll sigh, "I'm drunk, I'm drunk, listen to me."



You think the expression on the guy's face makes him look ditsy. As in blonde. And he's too short. But Rohan's pinching his six-pack with two fingers and caresses his shoulder. "We like. We like," he croons, "show us some more." The guys' partner looks on poker-faced, as Rohan woman-handles her man.



He's probably doing it for our benefit anyway, because he knows we're from the media. Probably thinks we go to church everyday and pray to god to keep our world a safe, place where the moral police are fed on French nouvelle cuisine. Nothing more flavoursome than playing the devil in the nunnery.



But Rohan's pinches are getting too insistent. Mr Six Pack Gut is looking pensive. His companion says ever so sweetly, "He's my boyfriend." Rohan lays off with a mischievous, "When you're finished with him darling, please pass him on to us." A foxy Someone Else chooses this moment to show some thigh in black evening gown and fishnet stockings. "Are you a queen?" she asks Rohan, who is asking her to "show us some more." As the minutes tick, it becomes his favourite catch-their-attention line. Now comes a coochie lady in tussar with slits down the side she's tied together to keep the soaking wet away. She's moving to the gate after a drenching of artificial rain. Rohan loosens the knot of silk with a deceptively firm-looking hand and says he likes her body. Just then a Romeo with Latin-lover look written on his face comes to give Rohan the once over, "You're okay with all your funning, harmless and clean." Pats his cheeks.



There are cross-dressers and straight dressers and exchanges of "How are you, b***h?" and "You're such a b***h." With seven men grouping around to gupshup, you realise you have never felt safer in the company of so many males. "That's because they're all your sisters," titters your friend. The same friend who got an SMS about a party in a Gurgaon farmhouse. As things get into the mood, the tiny thing is holding the centrestage at the mudbath arena where a couple of hands are grabbing at her. And then you get pushed backwards for a second, missing what could have been your first experience of the full Monty, or should that have been Montess. By the time you have managed a front view, she is no more on view, covered in mud and your shoes are wet from the spray. In the melee, no one seems to notice you aren't a woman woman. Or whatever they call the real thing in these parts.