Where art thou, Loverboy?
*I’m writing this while playing a love playlist, so forgive me if I get passionate, corny, or painfully cheesy. I blame the great songwriters—they taught me what love is supposed to sound like.
Being a 24-year-old gay man infatuated with love in New York City means constantly putting yourself out there—decoding love languages that were definitely not in the original handbook. Hoping desperately to find the Hope Diamond (a boyfriend) in a crowded, sweaty, slightly questionable haystack also known as a circuit party.
If you don’t know what a circuit party is, I envy you. Protect your innocence.
Four years into being a somewhat New Yorker, I finally did it. I met my boyfriend last month. Yes, after years of yearning, wrong turns, and going down every possible emotional rabbit hole, I made it to my own magic carpet ride. Unlike Jasmine, I don’t have a tiger or a palace, but I do know all the words to “A Whole New World,” which feels just as significant.
I’ve always been a romantic. Blame the movies. Blame the music. Blame my culture.
I’m Indian, and romance is practically embedded in our DNA. We have monuments dedicated to love. Paintings, poetry, entire epics. The Taj Mahal alone is proof that love, when dramatic enough, can become real estate. It was built by a man so devoted to his wife that he turned romantic infatuation into marble and called it eternal. Subtle? No. Effective? Absolutely.
I’m from Mumbai—a city that feels like New York and Los Angeles collided and added a Bollywood soundtrack. There are film sets around every corner, couples canoodling in monsoon rain, cafés designed specifically for staring into your partner’s eyes over overpriced coffee. Love isn’t just present, it’s performed. Amplified. Marketed. Sold back to us as something grand and cinematic.
One of my favorite love scenes; It starts raining. Two people share an umbrella. They kiss. The umbrella flies away (because physics no longer matters) and suddenly they’re dancing barefoot in the rain. That’s what love feels like to me: reckless, dramatic, slightly inconvenient, but completely consuming. A spark that turns into a full production number. A feeling so intense it borders on extremely absurd.
Then there’s Hollywood—my second emotional education. Boomboxes outside windows. Office romances. Atlantic-Pacific Cruise encounters. Slaying cartoon dragons for love. Kate Hudson in a yellow dress. Richard Gere in a tuxedo. Quick, someone, play “Love” by Michael Bublé. Or even Adele. Get Whitney, get Luther Vandross, Keisha Cole, or Prince, oh- especially Prince. “Purple Rain” alone has probably been responsible for at least half of the population’s existence. So naturally, I grew up expecting love to arrive with a soundtrack. A grand gesture. A moment. A Prince Charming. But this time, it wasn’t like the movies…
My boyfriend has very much been there, done that. He keeps telling me to be patient and that the drama will come someday. But I’m a see-now, buy-now kind of lover. Where are my flower bouquets? Where are my handwritten love letters? My sonnets? My grand gestures?
Instead, we had a conversation. And all he said was, “Alright! We’re dating!”…. I’m sorry, what? No violins? No slow zoom? Not even a “We’re Dating!” balloon?
Let me be clear: he’s a great boyfriend. But our story? Not exactly cinematic. We met at a photoshoot: all work, zero romance. No box of chocolates, no white horse, just a box of film and a blank white wall. We even discussed international relations…just not ours.
Of course, we were shy. Nervous. But somehow, we ended up spending the entire weekend together. And that’s when something shifted. I loved looking into his eyes, running my hands through his hair, slow dancing in his living room to songs that only existed in our world. We cooked together. Talked for hours. Even sat in silence. He told me stories about his life, and I listened.
This wasn’t “Love on the Brain.” But it was… something. Something quiet. Something real. And that’s what confuses me. Is this what love has become? Effortless? Undramatic? Was it ever Crazy, Stupid, Love, or was I just crazy and a little stupid about love? Sleepless in Seattle now just left me… sleepless. What I thought would be strawberry wine turned out to be something stronger, and less sweet, maybe malt whiskey (a little bitter at first, but still worth drinking).
And I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m complaining. I just wish the movies hadn’t sold me a fantasy I invested so much into. Love, Actually should honestly be renamed Lies, Actually.
At this point, I’d like to formally request a refund from: Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan, Hugh Grant, Kate Hudson, Richard Gere, Shah Rukh Khan, J.Lo, Karan Johar, Tom Hanks, Audrey Hepburn—and of course, Cher. (Simply because I’m gay, and if I can say I got a refund from Cher, I absolutely will.)