After living life for a while, awkward situations get easier. Or easier to handle at least. For example, you develop skin thick enough to take criticism (of the non-constructive kind), or have the wisdom to say No to seeing someone again because your incompatible as people but have great sex.
When I started work there was inevitably going to be a wide array of awkward situations that I will find new and difficult to deal with. One of them just hit me in the face.
My office is about 3 doors down from the office of one of the main partners in the Corporate Finance department. He's about 65, very pleasant, and I've worked with him on several smallish matters. When he found out I was from the middle east, he told me how he'd spent years in Dubai working for the this law firm.
On the 23rd of December before heading off for Christmas he came into my office and asked if I would like to have "supper" with him on the 30th. The invitation was very kind, and I said yes.
Today, as I am at work, I start getting nervous. Does he think this is a date? I noticed he does not wear a wedding ring. He comes into my office on random occasions to discuss his trips, tennis, the like. On one hand, being probably the most junior person in my department, I'm flattered by the interest but on the other hand I'm terrified by the possibility that he sees this in any way as romantic.
He's a very pleasant person and I have no reason to not give him the benefit of the doubt. As my friend also pointed out, it wouldn't hurt my career to be friendly back. But at the same time, I'm afraid I'm going to be labelled as Whora Flynn Boyle.
The "supper" is tonight in a very nice restaurant in Mayfair. God help me, I have to go home and pack for Brussels tomorrow!
Tuesday 30 December 2008
Tuesday 23 December 2008
Tuesday 16 December 2008
On sex and fulfillment
In the few true relationships that I have had, with one exception, sex has posed in one way or another a problem. I guess the kind of person I'm interested in on an emotional level often times is very different from the kind of person i'm interested in bed. Or something. At least that's what I'm convincing myself for the time being. That sweet, decent, mature guys who aren't emotionally insecure are rarely good in bed.
But then again, what is good in bed? For some being had with each limb tied to a bedpost; for others a little vanilla? I think in the beginning I had a very rigid approach to what I wanted. Now with more experience I see that every person strikes a different chord and chemistry. I start to wonder if I have begun molding myself to match the guys I 'date' sometimes. No, I guess I don't. There's nothing wrong with responding to chemistry, but I certainly find room for self-expression.
After the collapse of my short but intense relationship with JD, and having not seen him for a month prior, my desire for physical intimacy was peaking. In almost no time I found myself on several dates a weekend, most of which have ended with sex. It wasn't just sex, it was good sex. My carnal pleasures were fully tended to for the first time for a long time and for a while, I was feeling the high.
Then last sunday night, I was getting ready for bed alone for the first time that weekend, and suddenly felt overwhelming pain. I missed JD. I missed that sex with him, though not the most varied or expressive sometimes, meant a lot more to both of us.
On Monday night my Friday night date called when I was at work, letting me know that he was at an office event near my place, and that he'd like to see me. This is CM, a sweet and genuine Canadian guy. Though I wasn't sure we were a physical match at first, he made up for that in bed impressively. I replied back asking him to wait for me while I wrapped things up at work and stopped by my Dad's (who is visiting London) to give him his birthday present.
He waited. I took him to my place, and as I was tired I jumped right into bed, not thinking twice that last thing I wanted tonight was sex. We slept next to each other, and it felt good. I have no intention of seeing him romantically, just not at all prepared for that right now, but it is amazing how special the moments are that you can share with complete strangers.
But then again, what is good in bed? For some being had with each limb tied to a bedpost; for others a little vanilla? I think in the beginning I had a very rigid approach to what I wanted. Now with more experience I see that every person strikes a different chord and chemistry. I start to wonder if I have begun molding myself to match the guys I 'date' sometimes. No, I guess I don't. There's nothing wrong with responding to chemistry, but I certainly find room for self-expression.
After the collapse of my short but intense relationship with JD, and having not seen him for a month prior, my desire for physical intimacy was peaking. In almost no time I found myself on several dates a weekend, most of which have ended with sex. It wasn't just sex, it was good sex. My carnal pleasures were fully tended to for the first time for a long time and for a while, I was feeling the high.
Then last sunday night, I was getting ready for bed alone for the first time that weekend, and suddenly felt overwhelming pain. I missed JD. I missed that sex with him, though not the most varied or expressive sometimes, meant a lot more to both of us.
On Monday night my Friday night date called when I was at work, letting me know that he was at an office event near my place, and that he'd like to see me. This is CM, a sweet and genuine Canadian guy. Though I wasn't sure we were a physical match at first, he made up for that in bed impressively. I replied back asking him to wait for me while I wrapped things up at work and stopped by my Dad's (who is visiting London) to give him his birthday present.
He waited. I took him to my place, and as I was tired I jumped right into bed, not thinking twice that last thing I wanted tonight was sex. We slept next to each other, and it felt good. I have no intention of seeing him romantically, just not at all prepared for that right now, but it is amazing how special the moments are that you can share with complete strangers.
Friday 12 December 2008
Thursday 11 December 2008
How Stella Got Her Party Groove Back
When S said he was visiting me in London for a week, I instantly felt anticipation. S, one of the most fabulous Cairenes I know who I've incessantly and extravagantly partied with every time we found each other in the same country, is in his own way a legend. His visit lived up to its mighty expectations.
Friday night I came home from work to beautiful flowers, a birthday card, and organic Eastern inspired accessories. With no delay the iPod was thrown into full blast as we prepared for our first night in London together.
First, dinner at I's gorgeous North London flat. After champagne, delicious food, and exotic indian furniture the cab picked us up and made its way to the Shadow Lounge. "Only 2 hours" we kept saying to ourselves, but that really turned into 3. The music was good, and the alcohol kept flowing, I was trying to make sure it wasn't too crazy a night so that tomorrow we still have energy for more. At 3am we walked over to Low-Profile for more clubbing, and from there we ended up at Ghetto, which true to its name had us screaming all the way back to my flat (in a rickshaw!).
Saturday, after getting restless sleep, we got up to have some brunch and hit the liquor stores - we had planned a birthday celebration at the flat and we were to make sure it was well supplied. The first guests started arriving at 7pm, but an explosion of 25 or so guests took place at around 9.30-10. Blondi & Kaki, beautiful girls that went to high school with me, were there. So were a bunch of Palestinian bankers living in London, who made frequent visits into my bathroom en mass. "I'm dreaming of a 'white' christmas" said one of them sarcastically as he put his nostril to a rolled up £20 note. Meanwhile, the bubbles were flowing in the living room as people got up to dance. The hour was, however, approaching midnight and there was no way we were spending the whole evening at home.
A fleet of cabs took a chunk of us to the Shadow Lounge (again!). The music was 3 times better, the crowd beautiful. Blondi and Kaki dominated the pole, whereas S himself was getting a lot of interest from tall Irish farmers and nicotine addicts. I went out for a smoke, the first in years. Later, I had some 'snow' myself. The beat was hotter, the colours brighter.
At 3.30, we went to have dinner at Balans with SM, and Blondie. After munching on chicken salad, S decided it was time to hit the gay sauna near my flat. Having never realised one existed so close, and since it was his only weekend here, I obliged. An hour after hanging out with perverts, I decided I'd go home and clean up. It was dawn, and I could not get any sleep anyway. I lay in bed sleepless, probably because of what I'd snorted. I went to have lunch with my father and quickly returned home because it was Sunday - Rapido night.
At 7pm we were making our way into the fabulous Koko Theatre for Amsterdam's most famous party.
Dancers on stilts in outrageous costumes made their way through the thumping atrium as a sea of muscle-bound men danced their palpitating hearts out. The drug of choice tonight was mdma, but I wasn't going to go very far tonight with this little sleep. True to my vow, I went home at 1, but S continued with my friends and later hit Fabric at 2am, and Orange at 5am. He came home just as I started to wake up at 8am.
Over the next 2 days, though I had work to do, S made it Heaven, to G-A-Y and G-A-Y late, and we had dinner at Beach Blanket Babylon. I haven't partied like that in, literally, years and though it was excessive I was grateful for the random and not-to-be-repeated-for-a-long-time experience. S, be sure to get your ass back here!
Friday night I came home from work to beautiful flowers, a birthday card, and organic Eastern inspired accessories. With no delay the iPod was thrown into full blast as we prepared for our first night in London together.
First, dinner at I's gorgeous North London flat. After champagne, delicious food, and exotic indian furniture the cab picked us up and made its way to the Shadow Lounge. "Only 2 hours" we kept saying to ourselves, but that really turned into 3. The music was good, and the alcohol kept flowing, I was trying to make sure it wasn't too crazy a night so that tomorrow we still have energy for more. At 3am we walked over to Low-Profile for more clubbing, and from there we ended up at Ghetto, which true to its name had us screaming all the way back to my flat (in a rickshaw!).
Saturday, after getting restless sleep, we got up to have some brunch and hit the liquor stores - we had planned a birthday celebration at the flat and we were to make sure it was well supplied. The first guests started arriving at 7pm, but an explosion of 25 or so guests took place at around 9.30-10. Blondi & Kaki, beautiful girls that went to high school with me, were there. So were a bunch of Palestinian bankers living in London, who made frequent visits into my bathroom en mass. "I'm dreaming of a 'white' christmas" said one of them sarcastically as he put his nostril to a rolled up £20 note. Meanwhile, the bubbles were flowing in the living room as people got up to dance. The hour was, however, approaching midnight and there was no way we were spending the whole evening at home.
A fleet of cabs took a chunk of us to the Shadow Lounge (again!). The music was 3 times better, the crowd beautiful. Blondi and Kaki dominated the pole, whereas S himself was getting a lot of interest from tall Irish farmers and nicotine addicts. I went out for a smoke, the first in years. Later, I had some 'snow' myself. The beat was hotter, the colours brighter.
At 3.30, we went to have dinner at Balans with SM, and Blondie. After munching on chicken salad, S decided it was time to hit the gay sauna near my flat. Having never realised one existed so close, and since it was his only weekend here, I obliged. An hour after hanging out with perverts, I decided I'd go home and clean up. It was dawn, and I could not get any sleep anyway. I lay in bed sleepless, probably because of what I'd snorted. I went to have lunch with my father and quickly returned home because it was Sunday - Rapido night.
At 7pm we were making our way into the fabulous Koko Theatre for Amsterdam's most famous party.
Dancers on stilts in outrageous costumes made their way through the thumping atrium as a sea of muscle-bound men danced their palpitating hearts out. The drug of choice tonight was mdma, but I wasn't going to go very far tonight with this little sleep. True to my vow, I went home at 1, but S continued with my friends and later hit Fabric at 2am, and Orange at 5am. He came home just as I started to wake up at 8am.
Over the next 2 days, though I had work to do, S made it Heaven, to G-A-Y and G-A-Y late, and we had dinner at Beach Blanket Babylon. I haven't partied like that in, literally, years and though it was excessive I was grateful for the random and not-to-be-repeated-for-a-long-time experience. S, be sure to get your ass back here!
Friday 5 December 2008
We apologise...
Why is the entire service sector in England under the illusion that these words hold some magical effect? "Your phone won't be available until Monday sir, we apologise for the inconvenice of leaving you stranded and out of reach for the next 4 days"; "Sorry sir, you're flight's been delayed for 4 hours, but I hear there's a Slug and Lettuce around the corner"; "Please accept our apologies sir, the DLR and the Jubilee line are both closed for a reason we are not ready to disclose, and you have no way of getting home from work."
Everywhere you look, there's an apology. Your mail, the nearest dysfunctional ATM machine, and sometimes when you're lucky, when someone pushes you aside on the tube.
Yes, being in Britain is all about non-confrontation. But I'm just tired of getting the lame apology every time I'm disappointed. Maybe I'm too Americanised (though I beg to differ, as now I spell apologise with an "s" not a "z") but at this point I actually get angry when someone tries to say they're sorry. The poor call-centre folk have undoubtedly black-listed me at this point. I don't want an apology, I want my issue resolved or to be compensated in some way that does not involve empty meaning.
JD, true to form, posts as his facebook status yesterday "JD is waiting for you to call". Though I am well aware that the world does not revolve around me, I couldn't help but wonder if the status was directed at me. Me call you? On my birthday, and after all you've done?
Still, I found a certain charm in the fact that he did not attempt an apology. Just then I remember I haven't checked voicemail in days. As I had guessed, he did call. Not to say happy birthday, not to say I'm sorry, but to return my earlier call and say that he missed talking to me.
I've decided I'm not three, and I don't need a happy birthday- and definitely not an apology. Maybe later tonight I'll give him a call. He has a lot of self-proving to do in a very short time.
Everywhere you look, there's an apology. Your mail, the nearest dysfunctional ATM machine, and sometimes when you're lucky, when someone pushes you aside on the tube.
Yes, being in Britain is all about non-confrontation. But I'm just tired of getting the lame apology every time I'm disappointed. Maybe I'm too Americanised (though I beg to differ, as now I spell apologise with an "s" not a "z") but at this point I actually get angry when someone tries to say they're sorry. The poor call-centre folk have undoubtedly black-listed me at this point. I don't want an apology, I want my issue resolved or to be compensated in some way that does not involve empty meaning.
JD, true to form, posts as his facebook status yesterday "JD is waiting for you to call". Though I am well aware that the world does not revolve around me, I couldn't help but wonder if the status was directed at me. Me call you? On my birthday, and after all you've done?
Still, I found a certain charm in the fact that he did not attempt an apology. Just then I remember I haven't checked voicemail in days. As I had guessed, he did call. Not to say happy birthday, not to say I'm sorry, but to return my earlier call and say that he missed talking to me.
I've decided I'm not three, and I don't need a happy birthday- and definitely not an apology. Maybe later tonight I'll give him a call. He has a lot of self-proving to do in a very short time.
Wednesday 3 December 2008
Ghosts
I had a very surreal and, at the time, terrifying experience this morning. It was about 7.15 AM. I wasn't quite awake yet, but I also wasn't really sleeping. I knew my alarm would go off as it usually does at around 7.45. I would then snooze it till about 8 before I make a real move. Bottom line is, I had about 45 minutes that I intended to spend in bed drifting in and out of consciousness.
I turned to my side, and could feel myself drifting back to sleep. The room, as it always is, was dead silent, and the only light was the omniscent, soft mood lighting that came from under my bed. My eyes became heavy, and I felt myself dosing... In an instant I felt someone get in bed behind me. My heart sank as I regained consciousness. Was that a dream? No. I was paralyzed. My muscles stopped responding. I was being pinned down, and one of my captor's arms held me still from the neck. I needed to yell, scream, say something. I couldn't even turn around to face him. I knew it was a man, because he was singing, in colloquial egyptian, something strange and non-sensical.
Though I couldn't utter the words, my mind started reciting prayer. I was in terror. I gave one big push backward and suddenly I was free, my muscles back to normal.
I sat up in bed, wondering how much of that was actually real. The comfortable answer was: none of it.
I got into my suit, walked all the way to the tube station only to realise I'd forgotten my wallet and work pass. Cursing myself, I walked back to my flat and took a cab. At noon, I had a date with an Australian guy (Mr R) I had met that rampant Friday at the Adams Street priv club (see "Great expectations").
Mr R was pleasant, and very handsome. Perhaps a little too pleasant, but I guess you exepect a certain amount of pomp when you're dealing with bankers. We had a civilised lunch at Carluccio's in the Wharf, where the conversation drifted from personal backgrounds and work, to plans for the future.
As he spoke the heavily accented words came slowly from his mouth. A bustling Carluccio's sometimes made it difficult to catch every single word of every sentence, to the point where I was picking up every Xth word...Like LED banners, the words flashed in front of me in a disjointed and jumbled manner. I lost track of the sentences, and his point.
"Beach"; my brain jolted into the past. D, the beaches of Ras Shitan, of the Egyptian North Coast. Man it was warm there. Man it's freezing in London today.
"Bank of New York"; walking for what seemed like miles from SoHo in New York downtown to the financial district with J. Why does NY just get better weather than we do?
"Music teacher"; a high school crush, one of those deeply psychotic ones where you never tell anyone about it and just obsess for hours. Listening to my CD player (remember those!), a pubescent teenager going home after badminton practice on the after school bus.
"Lamb stew"; I don't like stew. Tried it once where it was actually decent. That was with JD. That asshole.
This went on for a while. At some point I think Mr R realised my gaze had become strange, as if I was looking through him, not at him. He realised he was talking too much.
We walked back through the Canada Square mall to the underground entrances of our respective buildings. Where the path forked I thanked him for an enjoyable time and sincerely expressed my wish to see him again. We decided we'd keep in touch as to the next opportunity.
As I walked into my building, I realised that perhaps the concept that ghosts live among us dull humans isn't entirely inconceivable. Here I was attempting a civilised early lunch, and in many ways all I did was bring my ghosts to the table. I'm fairly certain that, to some extent, a ghost or ghosts followed him to that table too. What happened this morning in bed, if on any level 'real', was a mere extension of this presence, probably induced by dream-like mode.
I turned to my side, and could feel myself drifting back to sleep. The room, as it always is, was dead silent, and the only light was the omniscent, soft mood lighting that came from under my bed. My eyes became heavy, and I felt myself dosing... In an instant I felt someone get in bed behind me. My heart sank as I regained consciousness. Was that a dream? No. I was paralyzed. My muscles stopped responding. I was being pinned down, and one of my captor's arms held me still from the neck. I needed to yell, scream, say something. I couldn't even turn around to face him. I knew it was a man, because he was singing, in colloquial egyptian, something strange and non-sensical.
Though I couldn't utter the words, my mind started reciting prayer. I was in terror. I gave one big push backward and suddenly I was free, my muscles back to normal.
I sat up in bed, wondering how much of that was actually real. The comfortable answer was: none of it.
I got into my suit, walked all the way to the tube station only to realise I'd forgotten my wallet and work pass. Cursing myself, I walked back to my flat and took a cab. At noon, I had a date with an Australian guy (Mr R) I had met that rampant Friday at the Adams Street priv club (see "Great expectations").
Mr R was pleasant, and very handsome. Perhaps a little too pleasant, but I guess you exepect a certain amount of pomp when you're dealing with bankers. We had a civilised lunch at Carluccio's in the Wharf, where the conversation drifted from personal backgrounds and work, to plans for the future.
As he spoke the heavily accented words came slowly from his mouth. A bustling Carluccio's sometimes made it difficult to catch every single word of every sentence, to the point where I was picking up every Xth word...Like LED banners, the words flashed in front of me in a disjointed and jumbled manner. I lost track of the sentences, and his point.
"Beach"; my brain jolted into the past. D, the beaches of Ras Shitan, of the Egyptian North Coast. Man it was warm there. Man it's freezing in London today.
"Bank of New York"; walking for what seemed like miles from SoHo in New York downtown to the financial district with J. Why does NY just get better weather than we do?
"Music teacher"; a high school crush, one of those deeply psychotic ones where you never tell anyone about it and just obsess for hours. Listening to my CD player (remember those!), a pubescent teenager going home after badminton practice on the after school bus.
"Lamb stew"; I don't like stew. Tried it once where it was actually decent. That was with JD. That asshole.
This went on for a while. At some point I think Mr R realised my gaze had become strange, as if I was looking through him, not at him. He realised he was talking too much.
We walked back through the Canada Square mall to the underground entrances of our respective buildings. Where the path forked I thanked him for an enjoyable time and sincerely expressed my wish to see him again. We decided we'd keep in touch as to the next opportunity.
As I walked into my building, I realised that perhaps the concept that ghosts live among us dull humans isn't entirely inconceivable. Here I was attempting a civilised early lunch, and in many ways all I did was bring my ghosts to the table. I'm fairly certain that, to some extent, a ghost or ghosts followed him to that table too. What happened this morning in bed, if on any level 'real', was a mere extension of this presence, probably induced by dream-like mode.
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