G Boyz

I live in one of the most stratified cities in the world. Islamabad has more sectors than Berlin ever did. There is a grid system at work which was designed by a man who was also experimenting with the cannabis that grows wild in these parts. Broadly there is an "A to Z " which runs from left to right and and a 1 to 1oo which works from up to down. This leads to stuff like D 89 (which doesn't exist-yet) and F16 (which is not a military fighter plane.) The residential bits generally run from E to H and getting someone's sectoral coordinates will give you a fairly good indicator of background, bank balance and social desirability. Not sexuality, but I'm working on that one. (E7 has shades of Little Castro to it.)

Of all the Sectors at work, the G's have a rough time of it. Apart from G6 (which is about as old as it gets - the Plymouth Rock of Isloo) the rest of the G's are borderline, aspirational but never inspirational. Architecture by Bosch on acid. From Bauhaus to ...well, nothing actually. My flamboyantly Queeny Friend was distraught when he moved from an F to a G. The Horror. The Shame. You will come to see me won't you? Ofcourse, I will. Can we keep an eye on my car to make sure the wheelcaps are still there when I come out. Or the car for that matter. You get my drift. Right ? Can I have my mail forwarded to your office. But ofcourse you can. Darling.

G Boyz are a breed apart. They wear rip-off low rise high maintenance Diesel pants (via Bangkok) sport bandanas and shiny Nikes. They wear Thai t shirts with Dadaist slogans. ("Drink More Milk" or "Pleasurable sunshine be yours on Phuket beachfront".) They have an endearing turn of phrase: "Lesbians" become "Lebanese" or "Limousines" and Bisexuals are known as "Taxis" - because anyone can hop on. Geddit ? They insist on speaking English (or something like it) drive white altos and travel in packs of six. Six packs ? If there is attitude anywhere in the city, G Boy has it .

My friend the Adman called in a flurry. "Check your email. NOW." Ok. Said email revealed an amateurish collection of pictures of a cafe au lait man, striking only those poses which showed off his torso and biceps to pleasurable perfection. The email admonished me for my overdrawn celibacy and recommended that I call the subject of the "artwork" immediately to put me out of my misery. I dwelt at length about my inherent superficiality. Is a nice torso all it takes ? Surely I need someone with something more? What if the torso came with a Ph.D in French Cinema ? Do I need another brain around me ? Surely mine's enough for two and then some? Damn. The angst of frustration. To cut a long story short, "Studley" and I were to meet Chez Moi at 7. I usually never meet strange men at home, but the adman assured me that Studley was "safe." I still decided to hide my new Nokia behind a cushion. No chances were being taken.

The anointed hour arrived. Shock. This was not the man in the pictures. This was a...a... G BOY. Too late. Gulp. Where were the biceps ? I could figure out matchstick arms through the denier of the T shirt. And the legs were skinny to boot as well. The outfit was G Boy classic though. The haircut was an overgrown ducktail- a tough old duck at that. The voice hit a high note the moment he entered. Cafe au lait was really Nescafe. Studley was Dudley. The photographs had clearly been doctored. The prototype bore no connection to the man I had slavishly drooled over. I was paying the price for my lasciviousness, my superficiality and my sheer stupidity. This was textbook Adobe PhotoShock. The next hour went by in a haze. I tried imagining him in different lighting or maybe even on a different planet. To no avail. The skinny G Boy refused to remorph to my bidding. Even my otherwise fervid imagination gave in. This was an unmitigated disaster. I think I am going to renew my vows of celibacy at St. Peters in London, the next time I am there. Cross my heart. And my legs.