We take so much technology for granted in our daily life. I know I do. I wake up in the morning to the gentle blips of my smartphone. Weather, news and facebook updates are instantly delivered to my inbox. My half-open eyes scan this impatiently until my conscience finally overpowers me and I roll out of bed. Stumbling towards the shower, I flick my iTouch to turn on my soundsystem downstairs to my morning playlist. I eat breakfast watching BBC on my laptop, then on the underground i'll read another chapter of the Antichrist eBook on my phone (and I'm one of the old fashioned Londoners. These days you need a Kindle)
And just like Apple's transformed what we do and how we do it, Google has revolutionised what it is we have access to on a daily basis. Today I sat in my office slightly worse for wear, the usual Monday blues, when my fingers anxiously punched away at the keyboard looking for the 21st century equivalent of reminiscence - googlemaps.
I scanned the eastern coast of the Sinai, carefully on 'satellite view', until my eyes finally spotted it. I zoomed down from outer space onto that very ledge where, less than two years ago, I fell asleep at the edge of the water. I still remember how that wine tasted and how sleepy I was, and how bright the milky sky shone. I sat in my chair immobile for a few minutes, staring down at the ledge. It's so far yet it it's so close. The colour of the sand jogs my memory well. "Oh to be there!" weeps the satellite.
Monday 14 December 2009
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Out of Africa
Whoever thought of dance floors? They're too functional. In Cairo, our City Victorious, people dance on, and in between, tables. Places with dance floors rarely become that successful, people do not compartmentalise their groove that way. The joi de vivre is a palpable daily drug, consumed irresponsibly after each sunset. S and I sat in Tamarai oh so few nights ago as Cairo's most eligible partied and schmoosed, and after midnight it was electric. But, I guess, that pretty much summarises Cairo, especially when one hangs around someone like S: a stressful, surreal, extravagant blur of parties, alcohol, cigarette smoke and socialites.
And though I owe S for the best night out I've had, probably since NYE in Madrid (or maybe even more), my time in Cairo did comprise of other endeavours. I head a considerable amount of red tape to go through, always the rude awakening to the Third World. I also did a considerable amount of "2antakha" with my buddies from high school and AUC. There is (what now feels to me like) an unusual amount of warmth between people in that city. I never thought after 6 years that I would feel so foreign, sadly.
The Cairene street has become an unfathomable, other-worldly war-zone, approachable only in certain times of the day. Still, I drove through it with nothing but nostalgia and yearning for the time when I ruled the motorways, when I was indifferent to the honking of crazy taxi drivers or microbuses, when I was able to drive stick-shift, text, yell on speaker phone and down a can of Heineken all at the same time.
But alas, back in London, life continues. Not that one should complain, there's plenty of madness here. Just not the warm type.
And though I owe S for the best night out I've had, probably since NYE in Madrid (or maybe even more), my time in Cairo did comprise of other endeavours. I head a considerable amount of red tape to go through, always the rude awakening to the Third World. I also did a considerable amount of "2antakha" with my buddies from high school and AUC. There is (what now feels to me like) an unusual amount of warmth between people in that city. I never thought after 6 years that I would feel so foreign, sadly.
The Cairene street has become an unfathomable, other-worldly war-zone, approachable only in certain times of the day. Still, I drove through it with nothing but nostalgia and yearning for the time when I ruled the motorways, when I was indifferent to the honking of crazy taxi drivers or microbuses, when I was able to drive stick-shift, text, yell on speaker phone and down a can of Heineken all at the same time.
But alas, back in London, life continues. Not that one should complain, there's plenty of madness here. Just not the warm type.
Wednesday 21 October 2009
And when the other shoe dropped...
So yes, re "Houston, wir haben ein problem" below, it took a great deal of relaxing and bringing my feelings down to earth for things to work and, eventually, one night on my turf, everything worked perfectly.
Ever since, the sailing has been smoother, but also sans teenage infatuation. This is the point where you start looking beyond the looks for the strength of character and personal appeal in someone. The time we spend together remains amazing, but I catch my mind posing questions and making comparisons it should never make.
We all fall into that trap. Your first true love becomes the standard against which you measure all future relationships, or so some have claimed. But I am making a conscious effort not to go down that road. AD is an apple, my ex JS was an orange. It's no use pointing to the bothersome seeds at the apple's core when you know very well that, even though oranges have no such seeds, their peel is equally frustrating. Conversely, it makes no sense saying "umm" how crunch that apple seems when you know very well that the orange will always be juicier. In short, any sort of comparison, whether it accentuates what you now have or not, should be avoided at all cost. You don't end up giving the person you are with a clean slate, the benefit of doubt, or a chance to make their own lasting impression on you.
As with most things, it's easier said than done.
Ever since, the sailing has been smoother, but also sans teenage infatuation. This is the point where you start looking beyond the looks for the strength of character and personal appeal in someone. The time we spend together remains amazing, but I catch my mind posing questions and making comparisons it should never make.
We all fall into that trap. Your first true love becomes the standard against which you measure all future relationships, or so some have claimed. But I am making a conscious effort not to go down that road. AD is an apple, my ex JS was an orange. It's no use pointing to the bothersome seeds at the apple's core when you know very well that, even though oranges have no such seeds, their peel is equally frustrating. Conversely, it makes no sense saying "umm" how crunch that apple seems when you know very well that the orange will always be juicier. In short, any sort of comparison, whether it accentuates what you now have or not, should be avoided at all cost. You don't end up giving the person you are with a clean slate, the benefit of doubt, or a chance to make their own lasting impression on you.
As with most things, it's easier said than done.
Friday 9 October 2009
Huston, wir haben ein Problem
The second date went even better than the first. We rolled into Lab in Soho for a choice of cocktail (out of a menu of 400) which turned into 3 cocktails and a shot of Mumm (yes, champagne shots as a side to fruity vodka are in), then walked across WC1 to Carnaby Street where we found a funky Chinese wok restaurant. From there, we hit Sketch (for about 3 seconds) and ended up at the Polo Bar for a bottle of the Widow (Cliquot, who else).
Needless to say, that was a lot of alcohol, even for my Nordic liver. I was entirely composed throughout, which is a relief, but the moment of truth arrived at the Polo Bar and we decided to spend the night together. I swung by my flat, picked up work clothes and got back in the cab to his place.
I sound like a pathetic teenage girl, but this guy ticks all my boxes. MY boxes. That is, he’s fun to be around, he’s drop dead gorgeous, and he’s kind. I’m still trying to get used to his (heavy) Australian accent, and sure, this morning he asked me whether Moscow was 3 hours ahead of us or behind. I only have envy for those who go through life with some sort of blissful ignorance.
At his place the clothes came off, fast. We were lip-locked and inebriated. That’s when we both realised there was a glaring problem. I wasn’t hard.
I didn’t get it. Here I was with one of the most attractive men I have ever come across, and King Henry won’t even fly at half mast. I was so freaked out by this unusual situation that mentally I became even less prone to getting hard.
He didn’t react very well to it either. First, he was sure it was him and that I wasn’t attracted to him enough. Then he asked: do you have a boyfriend? Nope. Are you in love with someone else? No. Are you HIV+? Nah uh.
As we lay there in bed, frustrated, I decided it was time for me to go back home. He wouldn’t let me, and I wasn’t sure how much more humiliation I could stand for one evening.
Sharing this with a friend of mine, she immediately responded, “Wow, you must really like this guy.” The truth is, she’s right. Maybe, I haven’t been able to move him down from the realm of fantasy into the very real world of intercourse. I feel almost inadequate in his perfect presence, and the vulnerability affects me in ways I didn’t think possible.
The thing is, now it will be even harder (no pun intended) to get this going off the ground. Now I have something to prove, pressure to perform. It’s a downward spiral waiting to happen. For a quick second, I even contemplated artificial inducement. WHAT THE HELL? I’M twenty £)£$%ing three!
Wednesday 7 October 2009
SOIs
My friend and I used to have a term we'd give to guys that were so beautiful, they actually inspired something within us completely separate from what or who they were. Sources of Inspiration, or SOIs for short (the French meaning completely accidental), are the kind of people that are so attractive, you cannot imagine them if you tried. They are unbelievably real, and you'd kill to be even a drop of water trailing its way on any part of their glistening skin.
Last Sunday afternoon was one of those London days that sears itself into your memory. Sun and spontaneity; good energy, good food, good wine, good company. At around 5 in the afternoon Charlie and I sat at our favourite cafe on Old Compton street, which was buzzing with afternoon socialites. Across the street I spotted him, sitting down with his friend. One hell of an SOI.
My immediate reaction to seeing an SOI has always been uniform. My heart jumps so violently at the magnificent sight that I deny myself the pleasure and look away abruptly, almost standoffishly. Usually, I see or meet SOIs in passing, and therefore I never have the opportunity to correct my reaction. This time was different, because we were both sitting with a friend directly across the small street from one another.
I did something I never did before, or at least, not ever to someone this attractive. I asked Charlie to watch my phone and I walked across the street, pushing through the bursting tank tops and Tom Ford jeans, to where He was sitting. He eyed me in mild bewilderment and smiled. His smile gave me courage and I introduced myself, politely acknowledging his friend also. That's when He surprised me, and asked me for my number.
I gladly provided it, half thinking he might have been pre-empting an awkward conversation by taking my number for now and scooting me back to where I came from. Holy shit, I thought to myself. Humiliation in forms I haven't yet experienced, like I needed more.
I insisted that was not the case and walked back to my seat and continued my conversation with Charlie, nonchalantly, all the while virtually trembling inside.
Minutes later, He came by to wish us a good afternoon. My fears were set aside.
One date and 4 days later, I can't get over how smitten I am by this creature. His conversation proved to be just as delightful as his features. I have no vision of what this is or where it is going, but I feel like I have a new lease on the days to come thanks to him.
Last Sunday afternoon was one of those London days that sears itself into your memory. Sun and spontaneity; good energy, good food, good wine, good company. At around 5 in the afternoon Charlie and I sat at our favourite cafe on Old Compton street, which was buzzing with afternoon socialites. Across the street I spotted him, sitting down with his friend. One hell of an SOI.
My immediate reaction to seeing an SOI has always been uniform. My heart jumps so violently at the magnificent sight that I deny myself the pleasure and look away abruptly, almost standoffishly. Usually, I see or meet SOIs in passing, and therefore I never have the opportunity to correct my reaction. This time was different, because we were both sitting with a friend directly across the small street from one another.
I did something I never did before, or at least, not ever to someone this attractive. I asked Charlie to watch my phone and I walked across the street, pushing through the bursting tank tops and Tom Ford jeans, to where He was sitting. He eyed me in mild bewilderment and smiled. His smile gave me courage and I introduced myself, politely acknowledging his friend also. That's when He surprised me, and asked me for my number.
I gladly provided it, half thinking he might have been pre-empting an awkward conversation by taking my number for now and scooting me back to where I came from. Holy shit, I thought to myself. Humiliation in forms I haven't yet experienced, like I needed more.
I insisted that was not the case and walked back to my seat and continued my conversation with Charlie, nonchalantly, all the while virtually trembling inside.
Minutes later, He came by to wish us a good afternoon. My fears were set aside.
One date and 4 days later, I can't get over how smitten I am by this creature. His conversation proved to be just as delightful as his features. I have no vision of what this is or where it is going, but I feel like I have a new lease on the days to come thanks to him.
Friday 2 October 2009
Kink
Wednesday night, the boys and I, all suited and booted, descended on the No. 11 Hotel in Chelsea for an Italian jeweller's very small, but very opulent, launch event. Inside the tight Parisian hall of mirrors and gold leafed accents, fabulous and overdressed women mingled with the gay crème de la phlegm (flu season was clearly also making its debut along with ruby encrusted rings). Pointless conversations were only interrupted by the clink of Prosecco flutes and the snap of an oversized camera. Needless to say, after a day of labour this was a welcome treat.
Our entourage included Juan. Juan was an acquaintance, and we got along well when we met. As we all stood and chattered in a group, the conversation devolved (as it often does) into weekend partying. First it started as a joke, we were eyeing a certain over-pretentious Mr X and joked about how he would handle himself at the Hoist or XXL (as is probably obvious through the names, both these London establishments, and particularly the Hoist, are known for their over-the-top, out-of-this-world fetish indulgence). I decided to share a story, for better or for worse, of when I needed to use the bathroom at the Hoist and the only urinal available was in fact a small man of Asian descent on his knees with his mouth open and eyes rolling with ecstacy. Having been already 3 vodka-on-the-rocks into my evening, I wasn't going to pass up the release, and if he got a kick out of it then what the hell, right?
Juan looked it me with gaping eyes. "But...you're a lawyer!" I wasn't sure what to make of that. He explained: "You look so innocent and young, I am so surprised...". Even though he was married and our relationship was at best superficial (if not cursory), I could see in his eyes a new found...respect! Maybe even a hint of curiosity that was not there before, as if he started thinking of me in a sexual way for the first time.
I was intrigued by this reaction. What is it about gay men, whether it is that Asian guy at the Hoist, or Juan that makes them weak in the face of some kinkiness? Do men have to have an unpredictable, almost abusive side to them for them to get attention? It's a social experiment that's proved itself time and time again. I, in my customary shirt and tie and unabashed preppiness, time and time again find that I throw people off guard (and get their attention) by going into bizarre details of my life.
If you, like me, believe that our relationships with our fathers in many ways influence our relationships with our sexual partners in bed, this obsession is a telling sign of...well, something. Maybe kinkiness and fetish in all its forms are mere reflections of a particular facet of a man's relationship with his father. So much to think about. I'll conjure up the spirit of Freud, but in the meantime, bonne weekend!
Friday 18 September 2009
Bonds Notwithstanding
A lot of bullshit flies after the end of a relationship. "I really think the world of you" or "Please know that I'll always be here for you" or best of all "I'd like to stay your friend". I know, because I have delivered these very manure-laden words myself.
You spend some time with someone, they become a focal point in your life for however long it is. Usually, if they cross the 3 month milestone you know it's relationship material that you'll actually remember a year down the line. But there's no telling after that what you will or will not appreciate and share once your relationship breaks off.
Today I sat at my desk, trying to focus on reading a ratio decidendi on jurisdiction, when suddenly my office phone rang. The number was private, and having only given out my office number to very few people I picked up thinking, of course, it's that freak from BNP in Paris up my ass again about that letter I sent a month ago.
But it wasn't. I put on my headset, "M speaking."
"Hello?" The voice rang in my ear. It was croaky and American.
"Who is this?" My heart was pounding already because the voice was familiar, and not in a good way.
"JD, man. How are you?"
I paused. Caught off guard and surprised. "I'm well," I managed, but that is where my eloquence ended. Since our breakup, we've probably exchanged a few words (some nicer than others), and only by text.
"Good, good." The silence was awkward.
Of course, where are my manners! "How are you doing JD?"
"I'm doing ok. I just thought I'd give you a call, you know. I remember it's your mom's anniversary today, isn't it?"
That's when I stopped talking altogether. I stammered something incomprehensible.
"It's ok, you don’t have to say much, I just wanted to make sure you're ok." His voice was soft and forgiving.
"I am. Thank you for calling JD."
"You're welcome, man."
I put down the headset, stupefied. This is the guy that didn't even remember my birthday when we were dating. How does he remember this? Even my closest friends have no idea.
Minutes later, I received a text message from JS, my partner of 3 years, saying, "Hey baby, I'm in church lighting a candle for you and your mom."
As my eyes returned to scan the pages of the All England Law Reports I felt a strange warmth. Perhaps it came from knowing that these guys, who I once upon a time shared a lot more than a bed with, still see that what we had wasn't all for nothing. Even though the relationships ended, the three people I have been involved with seriously have remained, in one way or another, a part of my life and all we have for each other right now is a level of respect and care. Sure, I'll joke around with my friends about how 'awful' it was or their 'shortcomings' in bed but the reality is we've shared, and still apparently do share, bonds notwithstanding the bifurcation of our lives.
I don't believe there is only one person out there that is the perfect Mr Right. Ask me, I'm looking for my fourth.
Thursday 10 September 2009
The Line of Beauty
There it was, sitting on the crystal adorned mirror tray placed casually at the corner of a maple-brown bureau.
Alistair and Rupert (A&R) have been friends of mine for almost 4 years. I met them at a cocktail party in Knightsbridge thrown by a Austrian heir, Wolfgang. I'm not sure why I was there. Wolfgang hated my guts at the time, and it may have had something to do with his trophy boyfriend slobbering all over me. I could only attribute my invitation to Wolfgang's fiercely competitive nature. He may have even enjoyed our subtle repartee. I met A&R amongst many others that I now only occasionally bump into at functions, and the three of us got along a little better perhaps because we were younger than the rest and weren't about to inherit a castle in the schwarzwald.
There exists a world, in the upper-crust, pretentious strata of modern societies (both Eastern and Western it seems) that defines itself on, ironically, a very tribal and suspicious set of values. I was always proud of the fact that I was not tied down by such pressure or wealth. Still, something about me attracted the rogue members of this clan, i.e. the gay ones. The ones who loved to hate it but could not survive without it.
I think it all went a step too far when I realized I was being judged by these very people for my non-conformism to bourgeois culture. This happened recently, at a pretentious penthouse party thrown by A&R. We were half-way through aggressive wine tasting. when two of the guests, a Russian girl and an American guy in a kilt, asked me to join them in the study next door. The glint in their eyes gave me a solid hint as to what was waiting for me there.
We stepped into the quiet study and sure enough, there it was, sitting on the crystal adorned mirror tray placed casually at the corner of a maple-brown bureau. The Line of Beauty, I think it was Alan Brightman who had called it so with a deep sense of irony. 2 Grams (at least) of cocaine neatly stacked into a wide trail. Being a good Muslim boy for Ramadan, I asked them to go ahead without me. Whilst we were making friendly conversation, Alistair walked into the room.
"I have to rush, we just realised some of the bottles are corked and I have to go find something drinkable from the shop," he moved swiftly towards the tray and then realised I was seated on the opposite end of the room. "M! Aren't you having any?"
"No, I'm hoping for an early start tomorrow," I lied. Alistair looked confused but wasn't going to let it stop him. He bent over the rolled up 10 pound note and snorted half a fat line with his right nostril.
"M, when are you going to settle down and find a long term relationship?"
The comment, and tone, caught me off guard. Excuse me? My mind rushed for an answer while his left nostril snorted the other half. Wait, what was the question? I looked around me and realised both in this room and the next, everyone was in some sort of long term relationship. And I use the word relationship loosely, because in some cases it involved no more than an exchange of love for money.
"I don't know, but really can you blame me?" I managed to stammer awkwardly.
The silence in the room indicated that perhaps, yes, they could blame me.
Somehow everything fell into place, became clearer. Why I was assigned to a table where I knew no one at Alistair and Rupert's wedding, why I'd never even heard of their best man and man, why I am not invited to their weekly yoga and brunch even though they talk about it freely in front of me. I need a husband! And not just any husband: a bourgeois over achiever who, like me, has to be in either finance or law.
Another thing that dawned upon me, in light of Rupert's audacious flirty comments, is that perhaps married couples are avoiding me to avoid trouble. A "pretty young thang" like me could trip up their relationships faster then they'd care to know.
Alistair left the room but my discomfort remained. I knocked back the hint of wine I was tasting and walked out into the main room. It may have been the 1999 clos pegase but I suddenly felt like saying "Fuck you!" I'm not going to go boyfriend shopping so I can fit into a posse of pussies. I took comfort in the fact that they were on some level threatened by me, they should be.
But I suppose there's another possibility. Maybe I've jumped to a conclusion here, and Alistair was actually expressing a genuine wish for me to be happy and settle down. Likely scenario?
Peace
M
Alistair and Rupert (A&R) have been friends of mine for almost 4 years. I met them at a cocktail party in Knightsbridge thrown by a Austrian heir, Wolfgang. I'm not sure why I was there. Wolfgang hated my guts at the time, and it may have had something to do with his trophy boyfriend slobbering all over me. I could only attribute my invitation to Wolfgang's fiercely competitive nature. He may have even enjoyed our subtle repartee. I met A&R amongst many others that I now only occasionally bump into at functions, and the three of us got along a little better perhaps because we were younger than the rest and weren't about to inherit a castle in the schwarzwald.
There exists a world, in the upper-crust, pretentious strata of modern societies (both Eastern and Western it seems) that defines itself on, ironically, a very tribal and suspicious set of values. I was always proud of the fact that I was not tied down by such pressure or wealth. Still, something about me attracted the rogue members of this clan, i.e. the gay ones. The ones who loved to hate it but could not survive without it.
I think it all went a step too far when I realized I was being judged by these very people for my non-conformism to bourgeois culture. This happened recently, at a pretentious penthouse party thrown by A&R. We were half-way through aggressive wine tasting. when two of the guests, a Russian girl and an American guy in a kilt, asked me to join them in the study next door. The glint in their eyes gave me a solid hint as to what was waiting for me there.
We stepped into the quiet study and sure enough, there it was, sitting on the crystal adorned mirror tray placed casually at the corner of a maple-brown bureau. The Line of Beauty, I think it was Alan Brightman who had called it so with a deep sense of irony. 2 Grams (at least) of cocaine neatly stacked into a wide trail. Being a good Muslim boy for Ramadan, I asked them to go ahead without me. Whilst we were making friendly conversation, Alistair walked into the room.
"I have to rush, we just realised some of the bottles are corked and I have to go find something drinkable from the shop," he moved swiftly towards the tray and then realised I was seated on the opposite end of the room. "M! Aren't you having any?"
"No, I'm hoping for an early start tomorrow," I lied. Alistair looked confused but wasn't going to let it stop him. He bent over the rolled up 10 pound note and snorted half a fat line with his right nostril.
"M, when are you going to settle down and find a long term relationship?"
The comment, and tone, caught me off guard. Excuse me? My mind rushed for an answer while his left nostril snorted the other half. Wait, what was the question? I looked around me and realised both in this room and the next, everyone was in some sort of long term relationship. And I use the word relationship loosely, because in some cases it involved no more than an exchange of love for money.
"I don't know, but really can you blame me?" I managed to stammer awkwardly.
The silence in the room indicated that perhaps, yes, they could blame me.
Somehow everything fell into place, became clearer. Why I was assigned to a table where I knew no one at Alistair and Rupert's wedding, why I'd never even heard of their best man and man, why I am not invited to their weekly yoga and brunch even though they talk about it freely in front of me. I need a husband! And not just any husband: a bourgeois over achiever who, like me, has to be in either finance or law.
Another thing that dawned upon me, in light of Rupert's audacious flirty comments, is that perhaps married couples are avoiding me to avoid trouble. A "pretty young thang" like me could trip up their relationships faster then they'd care to know.
Alistair left the room but my discomfort remained. I knocked back the hint of wine I was tasting and walked out into the main room. It may have been the 1999 clos pegase but I suddenly felt like saying "Fuck you!" I'm not going to go boyfriend shopping so I can fit into a posse of pussies. I took comfort in the fact that they were on some level threatened by me, they should be.
But I suppose there's another possibility. Maybe I've jumped to a conclusion here, and Alistair was actually expressing a genuine wish for me to be happy and settle down. Likely scenario?
Peace
M
Wednesday 2 September 2009
Wednesday 26 August 2009
On the challenges of Ramadan
This is the month I am supposed to get back on track. After a long period of disillusionment and 'coldness' I feel like I am due a resurrection of sorts. A rediscovery of the joie de vivre. And what better way to truly appreciate every drop of wealth and goodness around you than a fast. Peel away your flesh and bones and expose your raw soul by abandoning all that is animalistic within you between dawn and dusk.
As one of two Muslims I know who are fasting this season in London, I often get asked the question: why? Why when you barely have time to make your own food at sunset and consume it alone, when you work ridiculous hours and live in a country where the day lasts from 3am to almost 9pm? Moreover, why when you consume alcohol on a regular basis, sleep with men, and indulge in prosciutto every morning?
The presumption behind all these questions is that I am doing this for someone. Doing it because I have to do it, whilst the reality is no such obligation exists in my mind. I do it because I want to do it. I've always been jealous of monks and nuns, Halaj and Rumi, able to dive into asceticism and shed their body to truly feel their soul. Sadly, I have a fetish for all things luxurious and cocktail brunches that makes such a life improbable for me. But all the same I get a chance every year, on some basic level, to experience what these people revel in all their lives.
But Newtonian physics would have their way with me after my first long day of fasting. The strong blow of spirituality produced and equal and directly opposite reaction. Saturday I could not believe myself when I finally was able to eat. I had gotten up at 5.30am, went shopping at noon and only returned home at 7pm, at which point I showered an headed out for iftar (disguised as a dinner date).
True to my Egyptian blood I over indulged (though at a Spanish restaurant in Soho).
I drank enough water and wine to sink the Titanic. After my dinner date I swung by an ex lover and took him home for some major deflowering. I woke up the next day so tired and hung over I couldn’t possibly survive 3 minutes without water. A liter of Volvic, a shower and several pills later, I was ready for a Sunday at the gay pond in Hampstead Heath. The day was magnificent and I, for the first time ever since I moved here, tanned in London. At the pond I was giving off an unusual energy (what with my aviators in one hand and a glass of rosé champagne in the other), as more and more handsome gentlemen made their way to our spot. Ready for round two, I picked a friend of a friend who was unusually sweet and rather attractive and took him home as well.
Shocked at my own behaviour, I woke up Monday morning wondering what happened. I know now that I probably should have eased myself into the process. The good news is I am now back on track and managing this one day at a time successfully. The challenges in Ramadan are many but if anything the biggest of all is gaining good insight into who you are.
Peace
M
As one of two Muslims I know who are fasting this season in London, I often get asked the question: why? Why when you barely have time to make your own food at sunset and consume it alone, when you work ridiculous hours and live in a country where the day lasts from 3am to almost 9pm? Moreover, why when you consume alcohol on a regular basis, sleep with men, and indulge in prosciutto every morning?
The presumption behind all these questions is that I am doing this for someone. Doing it because I have to do it, whilst the reality is no such obligation exists in my mind. I do it because I want to do it. I've always been jealous of monks and nuns, Halaj and Rumi, able to dive into asceticism and shed their body to truly feel their soul. Sadly, I have a fetish for all things luxurious and cocktail brunches that makes such a life improbable for me. But all the same I get a chance every year, on some basic level, to experience what these people revel in all their lives.
But Newtonian physics would have their way with me after my first long day of fasting. The strong blow of spirituality produced and equal and directly opposite reaction. Saturday I could not believe myself when I finally was able to eat. I had gotten up at 5.30am, went shopping at noon and only returned home at 7pm, at which point I showered an headed out for iftar (disguised as a dinner date).
True to my Egyptian blood I over indulged (though at a Spanish restaurant in Soho).
I drank enough water and wine to sink the Titanic. After my dinner date I swung by an ex lover and took him home for some major deflowering. I woke up the next day so tired and hung over I couldn’t possibly survive 3 minutes without water. A liter of Volvic, a shower and several pills later, I was ready for a Sunday at the gay pond in Hampstead Heath. The day was magnificent and I, for the first time ever since I moved here, tanned in London. At the pond I was giving off an unusual energy (what with my aviators in one hand and a glass of rosé champagne in the other), as more and more handsome gentlemen made their way to our spot. Ready for round two, I picked a friend of a friend who was unusually sweet and rather attractive and took him home as well.
Shocked at my own behaviour, I woke up Monday morning wondering what happened. I know now that I probably should have eased myself into the process. The good news is I am now back on track and managing this one day at a time successfully. The challenges in Ramadan are many but if anything the biggest of all is gaining good insight into who you are.
Peace
M
Friday 21 August 2009
Vile scenes and bitter queens
A kind visitor of my blog commented on my recent post (A Life of Excess) suggesting that perhaps I wasn't very supportive of gay pride parades. Dear visitor, M loves to party and will find almost any excuse to do it. My dislike for gay prides stems not only from the freakish display of flamboyance and gender confusion (no judgment, but I am gay and I don't feel very represented in these parades, but then again a gay Arab lawyers parade would probably bore us to death), it more so stems from my dislike of the values and attitudes that are espoused by the vast majority of the people in these parades.
S is good friend of mine. His relationship ended very recently, in the least flattering of manners. Against my better advice, he was entangled with 19 year old (Teddy) of a deceptively sweet disposition. Like most 19 year olds, including myself at one time, Teddy was a selfish people pleaser. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too, and hid whatever truths necessary to make sure he did. So Teddy slept around while the cat was away, and in all honesty when you're 19 you're both dumb and horny so again no judgment is warranted.
So how did S discover this infidelity? Let's rewind.
A 'friend' of his (let's call him Ugh), just as S started dating Teddy, informed S that he had a thing for Teddy. You know, usual 'friendly' home-wrecker I'm-gonna-steal-your-boyfriend conversations.
I have never met Ugh, but what I can gather from his own words on his insufferable blog is someone with an usually empty life that is need of drama to spice it up. Ugh sought the ultimate scenario for drama (and maybe even material for his blog): he lured Teddy into his trap by fooling around with him behind S's back. Nothing serious, a blow job and some tonsil tickling. He then convinced Teddy never to tell S. Soon after, Ugh tracked S down for a conversation and, overcome with what I am sure was very sincere guilt, he told S everything, including the fact that Teddy has already slept with two other guys in the past month.
I wish I could tell you, dearest reader, that Ugh is an exception to the rule (and I have a feeling he may think he is), but I would be unforgivably lying. This is what it means to be gay and in the scene these days, whether you're in Cairo or Zurich. Cheap, insincere and conniving. We need a radical shift from this culture, but one will not be possible if we keep celebrating our moral bankruptcy.
S, if anything you're a victim of your own choices. Ugh is not a friend. Teddy is not boyfriend material. If you share values with a more appropriate repertoire of people, you will somehow find yourself surround by such people.
Peace
M
Tuesday 18 August 2009
Sterility
When you grow up in Cairo, you learn to respect sterility. In a city where noise, smoke, clutter, dust and a multiplying population are the overwhelming norm, clean-cut minimalism has an almost paranormal appeal. For me, the attraction was more of a necessity. At the age of 18, I was diagnosed with a 'mild' linear OCD (after I stormed out of a NMUN meeting at AUC, projectile vomiting because the "chairs weren't in rows") that, thankfully, only manifests itself from time to time.
So here I am, sitting on top of my glass tower in London, not a paper out of place, not an angle betraying 90 degrees. And what do I miss? A little haphazardness, a little unpredictability. Yes, the grass is always greener.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
A Life of Excess
Do you get those moments when, as you look around you, you suddenly feel like you've landed on another planet where amazingly humanlike creatures populate the scenery, where the colours are far too bright and where, despite being a visitor of this planet, you feel that you can navigate and camouflage yourself in its humanoid population?
It all started, I suppose, when I was checking my FB messages just days before S and I were to hit Barcelona (and hit it hard) with 25 of our 'closest acquaintances'. There it was, in my inbox, a video clip from Madrid gay pride in early July of 2009. I was about 1 second away from closing the window and moving on to more productive things (like dudesnude! after all I had no interest whatsoever in the freak show and the imposed gay culture of 'pride' parades) when something caught my attention. The video was of a crowd, a large one that clogged up a wide avenue of downtown Madrid. A sea of people. In the middle was a large truck. It was covered in feathers and embroidered cloth of white, cream and pink varieties. I remembered my friends had put together their own float with the theme of Marie Antoinette. I looked closer and the camera zoomed in on the humanoids. Everyone on the truck was Arab. Armani was front centre, with his outfit just so. The boys were all beautiful, jumping around, dancing and dominating the crowds all the same. The colours were all too bright. The heavily decorated faces! Iraq, Egypt, Lebanon, Israel. It was surreal. People that back home wouldn't so much as hold a guy's hand in public were in silver tights, wigs and Max-Mara (pun intended for those of you who speak Arabic) make-up. The crowd below seemed in awe, and so was I.
In Barcelona, where S established himself as the undisputed Reina Sofia in every party of the 2009 Circuit Festival, the surreal bubble only continued. What I remember most are flashes of the time we spent there. Promenades on the nude beach, the muscle gods of Nova Mar Bella Barceloneta, S skipping through the streets of Eixample hand in hand with Rachel, the endless line of Lebanese and Dubai-based boys outside Casanova at 6.30 AM, Vodka Pink Berrys, sunglasses and the best beach party in the history of Sitges. S dominating the go-go box at The Week International at 8 AM after his first caffeine pill.
At some point in Plata Universitat as we sat around waiting for one thing or another, one of the boys asked why gay men go to such extremes to enjoy themselves. Dark rooms, drugs, 24 hour partying, sex for sex's sake – why are we so weird?
I honestly think it is more rebellion than substance. Gay men aren't weird, they've been told they're weird growing up and now they're kicking it in everyone's face. Drugs? Bring it on. Anonymous sex in dark dungeons? Why the hell not. When you're brought up in the Arab world especially (but by no stretch of the imagination is that only applicable there), you learn from a very early age that your whole existence is...wrong. That's why a lot of us go into gay scenes thinking we have nothing to lose. In a sense it is a lack of maturity, but the blame doesn't lie on us entirely.
Even though we have been marginalised by mainstream society and religion, this doesn't mean we have to live marginal lives of hedonism. We have to be attracted by wholesomeness and stability, and this can only come if we deep down accept who we are. I think the greatest irony is that those of us who swish around in parades celebrating 'pride' are actually usually the ones that have the most to prove to themselves.
Peace all
M
It all started, I suppose, when I was checking my FB messages just days before S and I were to hit Barcelona (and hit it hard) with 25 of our 'closest acquaintances'. There it was, in my inbox, a video clip from Madrid gay pride in early July of 2009. I was about 1 second away from closing the window and moving on to more productive things (like dudesnude! after all I had no interest whatsoever in the freak show and the imposed gay culture of 'pride' parades) when something caught my attention. The video was of a crowd, a large one that clogged up a wide avenue of downtown Madrid. A sea of people. In the middle was a large truck. It was covered in feathers and embroidered cloth of white, cream and pink varieties. I remembered my friends had put together their own float with the theme of Marie Antoinette. I looked closer and the camera zoomed in on the humanoids. Everyone on the truck was Arab. Armani was front centre, with his outfit just so. The boys were all beautiful, jumping around, dancing and dominating the crowds all the same. The colours were all too bright. The heavily decorated faces! Iraq, Egypt, Lebanon, Israel. It was surreal. People that back home wouldn't so much as hold a guy's hand in public were in silver tights, wigs and Max-Mara (pun intended for those of you who speak Arabic) make-up. The crowd below seemed in awe, and so was I.
In Barcelona, where S established himself as the undisputed Reina Sofia in every party of the 2009 Circuit Festival, the surreal bubble only continued. What I remember most are flashes of the time we spent there. Promenades on the nude beach, the muscle gods of Nova Mar Bella Barceloneta, S skipping through the streets of Eixample hand in hand with Rachel, the endless line of Lebanese and Dubai-based boys outside Casanova at 6.30 AM, Vodka Pink Berrys, sunglasses and the best beach party in the history of Sitges. S dominating the go-go box at The Week International at 8 AM after his first caffeine pill.
At some point in Plata Universitat as we sat around waiting for one thing or another, one of the boys asked why gay men go to such extremes to enjoy themselves. Dark rooms, drugs, 24 hour partying, sex for sex's sake – why are we so weird?
I honestly think it is more rebellion than substance. Gay men aren't weird, they've been told they're weird growing up and now they're kicking it in everyone's face. Drugs? Bring it on. Anonymous sex in dark dungeons? Why the hell not. When you're brought up in the Arab world especially (but by no stretch of the imagination is that only applicable there), you learn from a very early age that your whole existence is...wrong. That's why a lot of us go into gay scenes thinking we have nothing to lose. In a sense it is a lack of maturity, but the blame doesn't lie on us entirely.
Even though we have been marginalised by mainstream society and religion, this doesn't mean we have to live marginal lives of hedonism. We have to be attracted by wholesomeness and stability, and this can only come if we deep down accept who we are. I think the greatest irony is that those of us who swish around in parades celebrating 'pride' are actually usually the ones that have the most to prove to themselves.
Peace all
M
Sunday 2 August 2009
Sarastro
You: Handsome and quirky, floppy haired and dark
Me: Starry-eyed and awkward, smiling back at you from my lunch table with my family
You: Lingering gaze and wide smiles
Me: Lingering smiles and wider gazes
You: Watched me with sad eyes as I left the restaurant
Me: Waited outside till you were done with your friends
You: Practically jogged down the street to where I was standing
Me: Watched the afternoon breeze play with your hair and the sun light up your eyes
Wednesday 22 July 2009
“Enter post title”
Those of you, few but faithful, who know my actual identity, have asked for another post. But I haven’t had the inspiration for anything. I’ve been listening to “Sistereis”, sitting back into my armchair, swinging a glass of merlot, and generally refusing an outlet for my imagination. I enjoy too much the brimming bottle that is my constant, relentless emotional build-up as I introspect myself into molecules.
Tuesday 7 July 2009
Long live the King
I have dreamed of that fedora, that certain glove for so long. But now the Man in the Mirror is gone. Rest in Peace Michael.
www.geocities.com/moosey90.
www.geocities.com/moosey90.
Thursday 2 July 2009
Revelations
A few things going through my mind today:
How far would you go, to know the your "Destiny"? To see the "Future"? How do you see time and space? Chance and coincidence?
There is no doubt that humanity is obsessed with the unknown. There is also no doubt there exists a common consensus that our day-to-day lives, however palpable, are dream-like and somehow amiss... that beyond the the 9-5 jobs and the mortgage payments, there exists something more fundamental and True, but unfortunately also something we recognise as out of our reach.
Do you agree that this is the case? Or is it be possible that we are just desperately hoping that there's more to life than "this"? Have we been in denial, refusing to believe that our daily routines are in fact what this life is all about?
Friday I was in Paris for work, and arrived in London at 9.30PM, tired, sweaty but also looking forward to going to a friend's birthday party. 1 shower, 2 spritzes of Allure, and 3 cab rides later (+ 1 Hail Mary for my return for civilisation), Charlie, Inigo and I were on our way to Bethnal Green for the affair.
It was then when I realised there was a new 'gay accessory' that was all the rage with London guppies (gay urban professionals).
In London, a city of expats and social eccentrics, and in the middle of a treacherous recession, who would have known a personal fortune teller and clairvoyant was the new Fendi Spybag equivalent?
Charlie swears by her. "She even got that dates right," he said as the cab wormed through Commercial Street, "she told me that I should expect a huge opportunity at work around the 20th of June." Lo and behold, come the 19th Charlie landed himself a spot in the middle of a large cross-border team on a new project.
Inigo wasn't entirely impressed by his. Though she'd told him a lot about himself, he says she predicted him meeting and falling for an "older Swiss-German gentleman" within in the next few months. "Older Swiss-German gentleman!" He exclaimed. Anyone who knows Inigo knows that whatever he drools on is at most 21 years of age and almost always of Mediterranean origin.
Nonetheless I was fascinated. Growing up in the a Middle-Eastern/Mediterranean, it was not unusual for my mother to host the occasional party with a guest clairvoyant, who stares into your emptied coffee cup and foretells both your happiness and pain.
How far would you go, to know the your "Destiny"? To see the "Future"? How do you see time and space? Chance and coincidence?
There is no doubt that humanity is obsessed with the unknown. There is also no doubt there exists a common consensus that our day-to-day lives, however palpable, are dream-like and somehow amiss... that beyond the the 9-5 jobs and the mortgage payments, there exists something more fundamental and True, but unfortunately also something we recognise as out of our reach.
Do you agree that this is the case? Or is it be possible that we are just desperately hoping that there's more to life than "this"? Have we been in denial, refusing to believe that our daily routines are in fact what this life is all about?
Friday I was in Paris for work, and arrived in London at 9.30PM, tired, sweaty but also looking forward to going to a friend's birthday party. 1 shower, 2 spritzes of Allure, and 3 cab rides later (+ 1 Hail Mary for my return for civilisation), Charlie, Inigo and I were on our way to Bethnal Green for the affair.
It was then when I realised there was a new 'gay accessory' that was all the rage with London guppies (gay urban professionals).
In London, a city of expats and social eccentrics, and in the middle of a treacherous recession, who would have known a personal fortune teller and clairvoyant was the new Fendi Spybag equivalent?
Charlie swears by her. "She even got that dates right," he said as the cab wormed through Commercial Street, "she told me that I should expect a huge opportunity at work around the 20th of June." Lo and behold, come the 19th Charlie landed himself a spot in the middle of a large cross-border team on a new project.
Inigo wasn't entirely impressed by his. Though she'd told him a lot about himself, he says she predicted him meeting and falling for an "older Swiss-German gentleman" within in the next few months. "Older Swiss-German gentleman!" He exclaimed. Anyone who knows Inigo knows that whatever he drools on is at most 21 years of age and almost always of Mediterranean origin.
Nonetheless I was fascinated. Growing up in the a Middle-Eastern/Mediterranean, it was not unusual for my mother to host the occasional party with a guest clairvoyant, who stares into your emptied coffee cup and foretells both your happiness and pain.
I am not cynical. And I believe it is almost downright stupid to think that the world is limited to your 5 pitiful senses. Still, as I heard Charlie and Inigo's revelations, I wondered how much of it was a mindgame.
If you believe (with kabbalistic Certainty) that you are bound for big things on X date, you will attract that energy and those things into your life. August for me has always been a 'lucky month'. But it is only that because my heart has a firm expectation in what it brings, and as a result almost every August I've had has been magical. What these clairvoyants may be doing, therefore, is giving you the power to create the destiny you so seek by "predicting" certain events. In reality, what they are actually 'reading' is your personality, and what you hold dearest. They then 'predict' events based on this and a good personality leader will sow the seeds for the events to actually take place.
On what I thought was a separate note: the next day I sat quietly in church as the priest delivered his sermon in the awe-inspiring Brompton Oratory. My ears perked when he said the following:
"We mustn't forget that [our religion] is not an opinion or a matter of Earthly theories. It is a Revelation. It is Certainty. It cannot be arrived at by the human mind, unaided."
My mind instantly struggled with this declaration. Though seemingly benign, it spat in the face of millenia of mystic teachings and even some religions. In Islam, for example, and though we believe the word of God came from Moses, Jesus and Mohamed, we are insistent that religion and spirituality are things you are born with and that you only start to lose sight of with socialisation.
But there's another interpretation. Maybe what Jesus did (and what Moses did, and what Mohamed did) was reveal an unique energy into the world and instill Certainty in his people; do what the fortune teller is doing to Charlie on a 1,000,000 times larger and infinitely more wise scale. Predicting the prosperity of those who follow his teachings and promise great reward. All you need is faith, and faith is not belief or opinion, it is Certainty. This is how your life succeeds.
Monday 29 June 2009
Pride and Prejudice
"I miss you..."
There it was, 4 months after I threw him out of my life in a nasty and scurilous text message, the validation I so secretly desired. It came in the middle of the night, of my slumber. It took my eyes several moments to focus on the screen of my phone. When I finally processed the 301 US area code, I felt a horrible mixture of guilt, triumph, and yearning.
I'd been thinking of him the past few days. It was, as I remembered well, his birthday on Thursday.
But in the morning as I bit into my apple, I realised that the ball was where I always hated it to be in relationships - my court.
My pride spoke first. That message is too little, too late. Even if it was true, that's a can of worms I need to stay away from. The exorcism of JD from both my mind and heart has been a long and bumpy road. Was I to make a U-turn after so much progress?
My yearning spoke next. The truth is, I miss him too. Isn't the truth supposed to 'set you free'? Isn't pride something you set aside when one dwells in matters of the heart?
But when you come right down to it, he sent 3 words. One of my recurring frustrations with him has always been his inability to match my expression. In the world of verbal and written communications, he was a frumpy jersey from Lillywhites and I was a fitted Romeo Gigli. So where is the moral dilemma? How/if to respond?
I picked up my phone and sent: "Me too."
Just because I will never put myself back into that relationship doesn't mean I can't be honest with myself and him. Just because things went belly-up doesn't mean we can't be grown-ups and move past this healthily. I made sure I finally restored the balance of expression, I childishly sent two words to trump his three. Maybe one day, if he's willing to talk, I'll admit that the failure of this relationship was partly my fault. I was the one with the 'experience', he had only spent time with one other guy before me, and it wasn't a relationship. I was the wise sage who always preached against long-distance relationships and their hazards, yet I raced into this one without thinking twice.
There it was, 4 months after I threw him out of my life in a nasty and scurilous text message, the validation I so secretly desired. It came in the middle of the night, of my slumber. It took my eyes several moments to focus on the screen of my phone. When I finally processed the 301 US area code, I felt a horrible mixture of guilt, triumph, and yearning.
I'd been thinking of him the past few days. It was, as I remembered well, his birthday on Thursday.
But in the morning as I bit into my apple, I realised that the ball was where I always hated it to be in relationships - my court.
My pride spoke first. That message is too little, too late. Even if it was true, that's a can of worms I need to stay away from. The exorcism of JD from both my mind and heart has been a long and bumpy road. Was I to make a U-turn after so much progress?
My yearning spoke next. The truth is, I miss him too. Isn't the truth supposed to 'set you free'? Isn't pride something you set aside when one dwells in matters of the heart?
But when you come right down to it, he sent 3 words. One of my recurring frustrations with him has always been his inability to match my expression. In the world of verbal and written communications, he was a frumpy jersey from Lillywhites and I was a fitted Romeo Gigli. So where is the moral dilemma? How/if to respond?
I picked up my phone and sent: "Me too."
Just because I will never put myself back into that relationship doesn't mean I can't be honest with myself and him. Just because things went belly-up doesn't mean we can't be grown-ups and move past this healthily. I made sure I finally restored the balance of expression, I childishly sent two words to trump his three. Maybe one day, if he's willing to talk, I'll admit that the failure of this relationship was partly my fault. I was the one with the 'experience', he had only spent time with one other guy before me, and it wasn't a relationship. I was the wise sage who always preached against long-distance relationships and their hazards, yet I raced into this one without thinking twice.
Thursday 25 June 2009
Qind - Queer Blogazine
The new issue of Qind is out, you'll be thrilled to know that "the Affirmation" contributed to the "Organic Growth" section.
Actually, the 4 articles in this section are very interesting, celibacy and orgies juxtaposed with glorious art.
Peace
M
Actually, the 4 articles in this section are very interesting, celibacy and orgies juxtaposed with glorious art.
Peace
M
Sunday 7 June 2009
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a freak show”
As fate would have it, there I was, sitting in row X with the vista of the O2 Arena before me, crowds in a consistent howl-applause mixture, lights flaring from every direction. At centre-stage, the Big Apple Circus had begun its routines. Men floated around in rolling hoops, women flew in the air and landed on strings, clowns on giant stilts stared at the crowd, pointing and laughing, and a ballerina balanced a giant metal cube on his nose.
The lights dimmed and from the ceiling bodies emerged, spinning at unbelievable speeds, hanging on to nothing but rope. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” solemnly spoke the MC, “this is a freak show. This…..is a freak show.”
The lights screamed once more and Britney Spears descended from heaven in a diamond orb.
The next 1.5 hours were nothing short of orgasmic as the legendary Miss Spears got her groove on oh so many times. And though you can certainly pinpoint a certain blandness in her expression- after a turbulent year and being virtually on lock-down by her father whilst on tour- she did not fail to make the zillion people in the audience gyrate with her. It was her against the music.
And it was, after all, a freak show, a circus. The return to good old penny-in-the-hat entertainment. But as we all stood gaping, laughing, dancing and screaming all at once, I couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for Miss Spears. And I have a feeling I wasn’t alone. We all probably related to her a little bit that night. Parental lock-down. Relationship melt-down. Perseverance and kicking ass nonetheless.
When the MC had said that this was a freak show, I didn’t think one could limit that to what was on stage. The best performances integrate the audience, usually in crafty irony. A lot of us know we are freaks of nature. And for those who feel they are not I can only feel pity, life must be insufferably predictable.
So in dancing and screaming her name, we all celebrated a little bit of ourselves that night. The luckiest of us are freaks and performers. You want a piece of me?
Wednesday 3 June 2009
Gilgamesh
We shot ourselves in the foot, I realised one day as I flicked through the timeless Epic of Gilgamesh. As homosexuals, constantly wrenching ourselves away from the influence and conventions of heterosexuality, we've landed flat on our faces in the same dull traps they have fallen into since time began - only for us the shoe simply does not fit. Our moisturised heels are swimming in standard issue caterpillar boots.
Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the oldest written story of our human race was a love written in the stars, free and pure. I assure you they did not worry about Proposition 8. Nor did Gilgamesh's mother, in Tablet I, have an epilepsy and send him to therapy after realising the destiny of her royal son lies with another man.
True, such great journeys and epic adventures as seen through the eyes of Gilgamesh rarely materialise in our physical world today, but it is not too difficult to see (and some enthusiasts of the esoteric may even wish you to believe that) the monsters and the journeys in Gilgamesh's tale could also be demons and journeys you conquer within yourself.
But hey, who has time for profound connections and spiritual voyages with true love if we're too busy fighting for the hypotheses of gay marriage and test-tube babies? Why do we buy into simulating heterosexual relationships with all their ideosyncracies and force-transcribe them as our own? From the ring on your finger to the debate on monogamy, its tiresome and in most cases irrelevant.
I owe the freedom in my life to many an activist before me who has fought for what I deserve as a homosexual - equality of treatment. But often we lose sight of this, confuse equality with immitation.
In my tenacity to numerical explanations: if everyone aspires to be society's perfect 10 (accepted, respected, etc), heterosexuals usually achieve this through a simple 5+5. Yes, 5+5 gives you a perfect 10, but so does 2+8, or 6+4, and it is up to those of us who arrive at the perfect 10 from different variations to prove the obvious - that we are equally worthy. But instead, what we consistently pursue are the traditional "5+5" societal institutions, such as marriage and procreation, partly because the standards have been embedded in our brains and partly because we want the ligitimacy and respect that they entail.
Our mission, if one exists, should be to ensure we are equally acknowledged and respected regardless of how it is we conduct our lives so long as we follow our heart, and not to seek equality through immitation.
Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the oldest written story of our human race was a love written in the stars, free and pure. I assure you they did not worry about Proposition 8. Nor did Gilgamesh's mother, in Tablet I, have an epilepsy and send him to therapy after realising the destiny of her royal son lies with another man.
True, such great journeys and epic adventures as seen through the eyes of Gilgamesh rarely materialise in our physical world today, but it is not too difficult to see (and some enthusiasts of the esoteric may even wish you to believe that) the monsters and the journeys in Gilgamesh's tale could also be demons and journeys you conquer within yourself.
But hey, who has time for profound connections and spiritual voyages with true love if we're too busy fighting for the hypotheses of gay marriage and test-tube babies? Why do we buy into simulating heterosexual relationships with all their ideosyncracies and force-transcribe them as our own? From the ring on your finger to the debate on monogamy, its tiresome and in most cases irrelevant.
I owe the freedom in my life to many an activist before me who has fought for what I deserve as a homosexual - equality of treatment. But often we lose sight of this, confuse equality with immitation.
In my tenacity to numerical explanations: if everyone aspires to be society's perfect 10 (accepted, respected, etc), heterosexuals usually achieve this through a simple 5+5. Yes, 5+5 gives you a perfect 10, but so does 2+8, or 6+4, and it is up to those of us who arrive at the perfect 10 from different variations to prove the obvious - that we are equally worthy. But instead, what we consistently pursue are the traditional "5+5" societal institutions, such as marriage and procreation, partly because the standards have been embedded in our brains and partly because we want the ligitimacy and respect that they entail.
Our mission, if one exists, should be to ensure we are equally acknowledged and respected regardless of how it is we conduct our lives so long as we follow our heart, and not to seek equality through immitation.
Sunday 31 May 2009
Weirdness
A little confused by this one. The music is, if anything, retro. It's all shot in or around cairo but at the most polar of extremes. Pretty girls and generally unattractive guys (with one exception). Verdict pending.
Thursday 28 May 2009
Seasonal Anxieties
I woke up rattled the other day. I was positive (certain even!) that I was late for an exam and had not prepared for it. In this intermediary dream phase I looked at my phone. Slowly, as the image of my calendar made its way through my optical nerve, I regained memory of my life now. A certain joy crept in…I work now, I never have to take an academic exam again!
Still, the bizarre experience got me thinking - true, this was the first May that has come along for me since my toddler years when I haven't had to revise for some mammoth debacle of a proefung - but is my brain on some sort of clock I am not aware of?
Yup, definitely. This morning I woke up laughing at how everyone fucked up our graduation song (from high school!). Though it was a much more entertaining dream, it confirmed that I'd somehow been programmed. I think my brain is expecting certain anxieties and manifesting these expectations in dreams. There's only one more seasonal anxiety I can think of: if I have a nightmare about not fitting into the blue speedo I bought on Ipanema beach in Rio last summer, I swea ta gawd I'm going to sprinkle xanax in a bottle of Pinot Grigio and do it Marilyn Monroe style.
The good news is, however, that you also get your positive seasonal associations this time of year. It is after all, summertime! Good food, good sex, a permanent tan and lazy afternoons. There's a certain liberty in the smell of summer, the feeling that anything is possible. Every real relationship I have had has begun in August. And though I don’t think that's exactly what I'd like to be in store for me this August, I'm hoping I can redirect that good energy to other things I need more right now. I know I'm 24 days early but HAPPY SUMMER EVERYONE.
xoxo
M
Still, the bizarre experience got me thinking - true, this was the first May that has come along for me since my toddler years when I haven't had to revise for some mammoth debacle of a proefung - but is my brain on some sort of clock I am not aware of?
Yup, definitely. This morning I woke up laughing at how everyone fucked up our graduation song (from high school!). Though it was a much more entertaining dream, it confirmed that I'd somehow been programmed. I think my brain is expecting certain anxieties and manifesting these expectations in dreams. There's only one more seasonal anxiety I can think of: if I have a nightmare about not fitting into the blue speedo I bought on Ipanema beach in Rio last summer, I swea ta gawd I'm going to sprinkle xanax in a bottle of Pinot Grigio and do it Marilyn Monroe style.
The good news is, however, that you also get your positive seasonal associations this time of year. It is after all, summertime! Good food, good sex, a permanent tan and lazy afternoons. There's a certain liberty in the smell of summer, the feeling that anything is possible. Every real relationship I have had has begun in August. And though I don’t think that's exactly what I'd like to be in store for me this August, I'm hoping I can redirect that good energy to other things I need more right now. I know I'm 24 days early but HAPPY SUMMER EVERYONE.
xoxo
M
Friday 22 May 2009
Atheism and Natural Law
On of those scorching days in Cairo, with my sunglasses and car keys in one hand a decaf cappuccino in the other, I made my way up the AUC's Falaky building for my Sufism seminar. All was well during the first few minutes; the class was, as was typical with these bizarre electives, very international in its constitution and we all got along well with one notable exception (a militant Wahabi, surprise surprise).
After studying Sufism for a year I'd come to the conclusion that, without even knowing it, I was a Sufi. Sufism is essentially Islam's mystic tradition. Syncretic, panentheist, and far cry from the "Thou shall" and "Thou shall nots", it brought out the richness of the Islamic traditions of Persia, Turkey and Egypt without the bitter after-taste that so often comes from the modern Arab-Gulf Wahabism and even the moderate versions taught in North Africa (which, if I may add, are becoming less moderate). Sufism, like all mystic traditions, places great value on gnosis, and identifies that aim as a life-long process.
That day we were going through the story of Hayy Bin Yaqzan, by Ibn Tufail. This book posits the hypothesis of a human that has grown up with no education or influence from human society - alone on an island where he was abandoned and brought up by animals. A 'jungle-book' so to speak, but examined from a spiritual dimension. Will this character, Hayy (which is Arabic for "alive"), independently come to the conclusion of a Higher Power? Or will he mimic his surroundings and remain more true to animalism? The story reaffirms the primordial covenant and that humans are, by nature, embedded with the 'DNA' of gnosis, of spirituality. Towards the end of the story, Hayy, who even discovers prayer/meditation as he searches for Truth in his heart, finally comes across more humans. In time, he discovers they too worship, but theirs is a religion of fear and rules, of intolerance and dogma. The book ends on a sad note on the truth of humanity, which Ibn Tufail saw in the 13th century, and which is nonetheless true today.
Bahar, an Iranian Baha'i, was listening to all of this two rows ahead of me. He put up his hand. "There's something I really do struggle with whenever I learn more about Sufism," he started, "it seems to me that Sufis are very elitist. Even in this book, all I can hear is 'we Know, but poor uneducated souls who are trapped in dogma forever swimming around in circles and tormenting their souls'. Why isn't Sufism for everyone, and not just the intellectual and spiritual heavyweights? Surely they would be interested in everyone following their ways?"
Bahar hit it on the head. The reality is, as a Sufi myself, I despise the Muslim masses, Sunni or Shiite, and detest the restricted world they live in that shuns any creativity or curiosity in religion. In fact, calling them Muslims is a mistake in of itself, since the sacred Word as it was passed down to us first demanded the pursuit of knowledge. That aside, it may be the case that mystic traditions are, by nature, exclusive. Mysticism is a step out of the ordinary, and is unregulated. For the masses you need rules, and eventually the rules supersede the purpose for those rules, thus creating 'mainstream religion'. All the same, I reject the notion that mysticism if for the 'intellectual heavyweights'. If philosophies like that of Hayy Bin Yaqzan have taught us anything, it is that every person possesses the capacity, it is only a question of how much they really want to (or even dare to) know. How far into the unknown they are willing to step.
This is why I've come to the conclusion that it is better to be surrounded by a society of atheists than it is by a society that revels in religion. The atheists forget the rules, and in matters of morality follow their conscience and intellect, i.e. the natural law of things, and paradoxically are more spiritual for doing so. I don't think I am the first one to say so either. The great Islamic scholar of the 19th century, Muhammad Abdo wrote that when he visited the West he found Islam but no Muslims and upon his return to the Arab world he countenanced many Muslims but no Islam. As I looked outside the window that day and saw young Egyptian girls in headscarves, I realise how bad things have gotten in my country, and how desperately we need a reformation.
M
After studying Sufism for a year I'd come to the conclusion that, without even knowing it, I was a Sufi. Sufism is essentially Islam's mystic tradition. Syncretic, panentheist, and far cry from the "Thou shall" and "Thou shall nots", it brought out the richness of the Islamic traditions of Persia, Turkey and Egypt without the bitter after-taste that so often comes from the modern Arab-Gulf Wahabism and even the moderate versions taught in North Africa (which, if I may add, are becoming less moderate). Sufism, like all mystic traditions, places great value on gnosis, and identifies that aim as a life-long process.
That day we were going through the story of Hayy Bin Yaqzan, by Ibn Tufail. This book posits the hypothesis of a human that has grown up with no education or influence from human society - alone on an island where he was abandoned and brought up by animals. A 'jungle-book' so to speak, but examined from a spiritual dimension. Will this character, Hayy (which is Arabic for "alive"), independently come to the conclusion of a Higher Power? Or will he mimic his surroundings and remain more true to animalism? The story reaffirms the primordial covenant and that humans are, by nature, embedded with the 'DNA' of gnosis, of spirituality. Towards the end of the story, Hayy, who even discovers prayer/meditation as he searches for Truth in his heart, finally comes across more humans. In time, he discovers they too worship, but theirs is a religion of fear and rules, of intolerance and dogma. The book ends on a sad note on the truth of humanity, which Ibn Tufail saw in the 13th century, and which is nonetheless true today.
Bahar, an Iranian Baha'i, was listening to all of this two rows ahead of me. He put up his hand. "There's something I really do struggle with whenever I learn more about Sufism," he started, "it seems to me that Sufis are very elitist. Even in this book, all I can hear is 'we Know, but poor uneducated souls who are trapped in dogma forever swimming around in circles and tormenting their souls'. Why isn't Sufism for everyone, and not just the intellectual and spiritual heavyweights? Surely they would be interested in everyone following their ways?"
Bahar hit it on the head. The reality is, as a Sufi myself, I despise the Muslim masses, Sunni or Shiite, and detest the restricted world they live in that shuns any creativity or curiosity in religion. In fact, calling them Muslims is a mistake in of itself, since the sacred Word as it was passed down to us first demanded the pursuit of knowledge. That aside, it may be the case that mystic traditions are, by nature, exclusive. Mysticism is a step out of the ordinary, and is unregulated. For the masses you need rules, and eventually the rules supersede the purpose for those rules, thus creating 'mainstream religion'. All the same, I reject the notion that mysticism if for the 'intellectual heavyweights'. If philosophies like that of Hayy Bin Yaqzan have taught us anything, it is that every person possesses the capacity, it is only a question of how much they really want to (or even dare to) know. How far into the unknown they are willing to step.
This is why I've come to the conclusion that it is better to be surrounded by a society of atheists than it is by a society that revels in religion. The atheists forget the rules, and in matters of morality follow their conscience and intellect, i.e. the natural law of things, and paradoxically are more spiritual for doing so. I don't think I am the first one to say so either. The great Islamic scholar of the 19th century, Muhammad Abdo wrote that when he visited the West he found Islam but no Muslims and upon his return to the Arab world he countenanced many Muslims but no Islam. As I looked outside the window that day and saw young Egyptian girls in headscarves, I realise how bad things have gotten in my country, and how desperately we need a reformation.
M
Monday 18 May 2009
Texting 101: The Do's and Dont's
[This post has been edited following S's declaration of innocence] S, our gem and fellow international party whore, recently shared the following post he picked off the internet. My comments in black and bold.
#1: DO say the words text me when you give out your number to a new guy. Giving a new guy your number and telling him to call can be iffy. Start with a text. Oh dearest benefactor, riding the waves of change. If I give my number out and the first thing I get is a text, I can already see myself leaving the guy. But that's because I appreciate some balls (pun intended).
#2: DON'T just text "Hi." Even if the only reason you're texting him is because you're thinking about him, this kind of short and shy flirtexting typically leads nowhere. Agreed. You may start to sound like you're 'special'.
#3: DO text him back within 24 hours. Anything beyond that reads "I'm just not that into you -- or your texts." And vice versa, if you don't get a reply within 24 hours, rename the contact as *No* on your mobile. Texting is so easy and non-committal, there's no excuse for that kind of delay. On the other hand, turn on your delivery reports! Yes, I have a stalker streak in me.
#4: DON'T purposely send him a "mis-text." Women tend to use this move as a way to make single men jealous. But he'll see right through your needy outreach and move his texts on to the next. Hmm guilty. Did it once during university. I was trying to figure out if this dude sucked cock by mis-texting him and suggesting I was into leather. I followed it up with an apologetic message though within 5 minutes. Awkward? Me? Never.
#5: DO ask him out over text. If you like him, gauge his interest by sending a light-date invite without hesitation. Try: "Don't know about you, but I predict I'll be starving after work Thursday. Dinner?" Text-to-date is an interesting approach. I personally opt for the phonecall because I'm a lot more charming that way. If you're not sure about his degree of interest texting is an easy way out. I don't like easy ways out.
#6: DON'T kid yourself. If he only texts you past 10 P.M., he's probably looking for an encounter you'd rather avoid. The late-night flirtexter does not want to date you. Respond at your own risk. A) 10pm?! Is that the threshold for a 'late-night'? Yikes girl, we's gownna push dat BACK a coupla hours for the real world (i.e. outside of Arkansa). B) Why would you want to avoid that kind of an 'encounter'? Are you 'saving yourself' and keepin a lid on your hot pocket? C) On the other hand, that late at night he may have had a few drinks and lost his inhibition, spelling out what he really wants. Though that goes back to my moxie/balls point. If you ain't got it, me don't want it.
#7: DO use the phone on certain occasions. For instance, if he calls you and you like him, you absolutely must return the call. Texting back in response to his call reads uninterested. Bingo.
#8: DON'T go overboard with abbreviations and acronyms. Things like "MTFBWU" (May the force be with you) and overzealous "LOL" usage should be reserved for texts with your tween cousin or BFF, not to a PBF (potential boyfriend). Muffin, if you're texting guys MTFBWU we have bigger problems than text messaging protocol. That aside, I couldn't agree more. In fact I would go to the other extreme and highly recommend the use of full sentences, spelling, and punctuation. Your message will be clearer and you won't come across as a hormonal teenager (S, for you that effect is inevitable sometimes but at least that way you can delay it :) You know you love me.)
#9: DON'T send a sensual message before you are in an exclusive relationship. Doing this puts your secret fantasies at a high risk of being forwarded to all of his male coworkers. ?! Is there something I should know? This sounds a little too 'close to home'.
#10: DO learn how to send him into the friend zone. Throwing a "Buddy," "Pal," "Kiddo" or "Sport" somewhere in your texts usually accomplishes this. If he's smart, he'll take the hint. Girls interested in dating him don't typically call him "Kiddo." "Buddy, pal, kiddo, sport"?! That just screams closet queen. I would go with a more suave "dude" or "man".
#11: DON'T text your ex. This rule is especially important to remember when you're feeling lonely and vulnerable. Drunk dialling sucks. I have shattered phones to prove it.
#12: DO send a thank-you text, post-date. Even if there were no sparks, it's just proper flirtext etiquette. But if you had the best date ever (we're talking full-on fireworks), call him the next day to say thanks. If he felt the same way, he will definitely appreciate the reassurance! Capital suggestion. I would do just that.
That's all folks,
M
#1: DO say the words text me when you give out your number to a new guy. Giving a new guy your number and telling him to call can be iffy. Start with a text. Oh dearest benefactor, riding the waves of change. If I give my number out and the first thing I get is a text, I can already see myself leaving the guy. But that's because I appreciate some balls (pun intended).
#2: DON'T just text "Hi." Even if the only reason you're texting him is because you're thinking about him, this kind of short and shy flirtexting typically leads nowhere. Agreed. You may start to sound like you're 'special'.
#3: DO text him back within 24 hours. Anything beyond that reads "I'm just not that into you -- or your texts." And vice versa, if you don't get a reply within 24 hours, rename the contact as *No* on your mobile. Texting is so easy and non-committal, there's no excuse for that kind of delay. On the other hand, turn on your delivery reports! Yes, I have a stalker streak in me.
#4: DON'T purposely send him a "mis-text." Women tend to use this move as a way to make single men jealous. But he'll see right through your needy outreach and move his texts on to the next. Hmm guilty. Did it once during university. I was trying to figure out if this dude sucked cock by mis-texting him and suggesting I was into leather. I followed it up with an apologetic message though within 5 minutes. Awkward? Me? Never.
#5: DO ask him out over text. If you like him, gauge his interest by sending a light-date invite without hesitation. Try: "Don't know about you, but I predict I'll be starving after work Thursday. Dinner?" Text-to-date is an interesting approach. I personally opt for the phonecall because I'm a lot more charming that way. If you're not sure about his degree of interest texting is an easy way out. I don't like easy ways out.
#6: DON'T kid yourself. If he only texts you past 10 P.M., he's probably looking for an encounter you'd rather avoid. The late-night flirtexter does not want to date you. Respond at your own risk. A) 10pm?! Is that the threshold for a 'late-night'? Yikes girl, we's gownna push dat BACK a coupla hours for the real world (i.e. outside of Arkansa). B) Why would you want to avoid that kind of an 'encounter'? Are you 'saving yourself' and keepin a lid on your hot pocket? C) On the other hand, that late at night he may have had a few drinks and lost his inhibition, spelling out what he really wants. Though that goes back to my moxie/balls point. If you ain't got it, me don't want it.
#7: DO use the phone on certain occasions. For instance, if he calls you and you like him, you absolutely must return the call. Texting back in response to his call reads uninterested. Bingo.
#8: DON'T go overboard with abbreviations and acronyms. Things like "MTFBWU" (May the force be with you) and overzealous "LOL" usage should be reserved for texts with your tween cousin or BFF, not to a PBF (potential boyfriend). Muffin, if you're texting guys MTFBWU we have bigger problems than text messaging protocol. That aside, I couldn't agree more. In fact I would go to the other extreme and highly recommend the use of full sentences, spelling, and punctuation. Your message will be clearer and you won't come across as a hormonal teenager (S, for you that effect is inevitable sometimes but at least that way you can delay it :) You know you love me.)
#9: DON'T send a sensual message before you are in an exclusive relationship. Doing this puts your secret fantasies at a high risk of being forwarded to all of his male coworkers. ?! Is there something I should know? This sounds a little too 'close to home'.
#10: DO learn how to send him into the friend zone. Throwing a "Buddy," "Pal," "Kiddo" or "Sport" somewhere in your texts usually accomplishes this. If he's smart, he'll take the hint. Girls interested in dating him don't typically call him "Kiddo." "Buddy, pal, kiddo, sport"?! That just screams closet queen. I would go with a more suave "dude" or "man".
#11: DON'T text your ex. This rule is especially important to remember when you're feeling lonely and vulnerable. Drunk dialling sucks. I have shattered phones to prove it.
#12: DO send a thank-you text, post-date. Even if there were no sparks, it's just proper flirtext etiquette. But if you had the best date ever (we're talking full-on fireworks), call him the next day to say thanks. If he felt the same way, he will definitely appreciate the reassurance! Capital suggestion. I would do just that.
That's all folks,
M
Sunday 17 May 2009
A True Eurovision
Few events rock the European gay calendar like the Continent’s annual Eurovision bash. For decades, the cheesiest of Europe’s singers have gathered in this bizarre endeavour that has become synonymous with campness and light-hearted competition. (Intentionally so, perhaps, as it is probably a post-war manifestation aimed at bringing more harmony to a continent that has seen its fair share of wars for millenia.)
I’m not big on Eurovision, but inevitably there were half a dozen parties being thrown in honour and I had to agree to at least one. As we sat around, gobbled sushi and downed Veuve I looked at the scorecard with the list of all the countries on it. My mind stumbled a few times. Israel? Turkey? Azerbaijan?! This is a Europe very different from the one we are all used to.
As the show began, and Cirque Du Soleil put us in sheer awe, I noticed the sea of flags waving in the crowd. It was an awesome spectacle. Greece and Turkey, Germany and France – it is a rare and amazing reminder of how far these peoples have come.
Israel’s show was either 2nd or 3rd, and it was partly sung in Arabic. Iceland, one of the most hated nations following the recession, came in second place. Azerbaijan 3rd. What is amazing about Eurovision is not only does it unite all these random cultures, but also that it puts them all on equal footing. Germany, Europe’s largest economy and most populous nation, wasn’t even in the top 20. Iceland, with a population of less than a half a million people, came in second. The slates had been wiped clean before the show, and everyone was there to have fun.
My personal favorite was Moldova! They had amazing energy. Sadly though, they did not win!
Wednesday 13 May 2009
Friday 8 May 2009
America: The Virgin (Meat) Market
Hola from the City by the Bay. Yes, after about a week of inebriation in New York, going out with 8 ft tall transvestites at 5am and knocking back Greygoose like a Russian on crack at swish bars and perfume launches, it is definitely time for some sun and relaxation a la California. And as I have left New York, a city that really bares little resemblance to the rest of this vast land, and have ventured to the edge of the world aka the West Coast, a theory of mine has confirmed itself yet again.
It is hard to think of America as a 'virgin' anything. We're talking about a country that invented the art of commercial exploitation. The country where evangelical leaders tour its flat states, like a circus or a rock band, and prostitute fundamentalism to masses on wide screen TV's standing in front of neon crosses.
That said, I can't help but realise that the vast stretch of land from Maine to Baja California is in its twisted way...a Gay Mecca.
Hear me out! Yes, I'm well aware that by now about a third of the population of this country is at least 20lbs overweight, and probably the same proportion is deep in a religious fundamentalism that makes Cairo look like Amsterdam. That said, it is also the case that there are hundreds of thousands, probably millions of gay men in this country that live in between the alcohol free, Joseph Smith extreme of Salt Lake City and the pseudo-European simulation of New York City. That is where the gems truly are.
See, the gay New Yorkers, they're just like the gay Western Europeans. Rubbed up against each other, alcoholic, rarely ever drug free and generally cynical about the idea of a long term relationship. When they're good looking, they know it all to quickly, and sincerity is rare.
On the other hand, the deeply religious homos of Salt Lake City (which I am using as a metaphorical epicenter, psycho-religious gays are everywhere in the States) more often then not loathe themselves, revel in abstinence, and the repression often drives them to the former extreme.
But if farmer Joe wasn't brought up a devout Mormon, and grew up in the Heartland of cornfields and Ford pick-up trucks, only to realise one day that he has a thing for other guys, chances are Joe is the gay Holy Grail. And here's why:
Aesthetics first (of course): Americans have the widest gene-pool of any nation. Chances are Joe's parents or grandparents were a mix of Irish/Italian/Russian/German/Jewish (yes, technically a race)/ad infinitum and we all know mixed breeds are a delicacy. Manual labour, and corn fed chicken are more common in the Heartland. That is of course in addition to the American craze and appreciation for outdoors sports. In other words, Farmer Joe is probably buff and handsome. En plus, 80% of men are circumcised in the good ole US of A, and hygiene is an integral part of social acceptability. Aside from sometimes painful accents and abominable taste in clothing (both things you can train with a handy whip from Ann Summers), I'd say we have a winner.
Second, lets look at the psyche: Farmer Joe probably grew up in a quiet town, with one traffic light, or even better, on a farm. His education may not be a strong-point, but growing up in a relatively more normal family and environment, he probably has deep rooted family values and principles. He is religious, but logical and pragmatic in that quintessential American fashion. He appreciates simplicity, and sees his happiness in perhaps having a family and an extra SUV. Even if farmer Joe grew up in a city like Cincinnati, chances are the mentality is not all that different.
I have seen my fair share of Joe's, who've tunneled their way to the East/West Coast (or even Europe) in search of 'city life', and I remain infatuated by what they represent. A kinder, less insatiable alternative to popular 'gay culture'. God-fearing, stable and attractive.
So girls, start booking those 15 connecting flights to Iowa (which recently legalised gay marriage!), Brokeback Mountain ain't no fantasy.
Sun and watermelon martinis,
M
It is hard to think of America as a 'virgin' anything. We're talking about a country that invented the art of commercial exploitation. The country where evangelical leaders tour its flat states, like a circus or a rock band, and prostitute fundamentalism to masses on wide screen TV's standing in front of neon crosses.
That said, I can't help but realise that the vast stretch of land from Maine to Baja California is in its twisted way...a Gay Mecca.
Hear me out! Yes, I'm well aware that by now about a third of the population of this country is at least 20lbs overweight, and probably the same proportion is deep in a religious fundamentalism that makes Cairo look like Amsterdam. That said, it is also the case that there are hundreds of thousands, probably millions of gay men in this country that live in between the alcohol free, Joseph Smith extreme of Salt Lake City and the pseudo-European simulation of New York City. That is where the gems truly are.
See, the gay New Yorkers, they're just like the gay Western Europeans. Rubbed up against each other, alcoholic, rarely ever drug free and generally cynical about the idea of a long term relationship. When they're good looking, they know it all to quickly, and sincerity is rare.
On the other hand, the deeply religious homos of Salt Lake City (which I am using as a metaphorical epicenter, psycho-religious gays are everywhere in the States) more often then not loathe themselves, revel in abstinence, and the repression often drives them to the former extreme.
But if farmer Joe wasn't brought up a devout Mormon, and grew up in the Heartland of cornfields and Ford pick-up trucks, only to realise one day that he has a thing for other guys, chances are Joe is the gay Holy Grail. And here's why:
Aesthetics first (of course): Americans have the widest gene-pool of any nation. Chances are Joe's parents or grandparents were a mix of Irish/Italian/Russian/German/Jewish (yes, technically a race)/ad infinitum and we all know mixed breeds are a delicacy. Manual labour, and corn fed chicken are more common in the Heartland. That is of course in addition to the American craze and appreciation for outdoors sports. In other words, Farmer Joe is probably buff and handsome. En plus, 80% of men are circumcised in the good ole US of A, and hygiene is an integral part of social acceptability. Aside from sometimes painful accents and abominable taste in clothing (both things you can train with a handy whip from Ann Summers), I'd say we have a winner.
Second, lets look at the psyche: Farmer Joe probably grew up in a quiet town, with one traffic light, or even better, on a farm. His education may not be a strong-point, but growing up in a relatively more normal family and environment, he probably has deep rooted family values and principles. He is religious, but logical and pragmatic in that quintessential American fashion. He appreciates simplicity, and sees his happiness in perhaps having a family and an extra SUV. Even if farmer Joe grew up in a city like Cincinnati, chances are the mentality is not all that different.
I have seen my fair share of Joe's, who've tunneled their way to the East/West Coast (or even Europe) in search of 'city life', and I remain infatuated by what they represent. A kinder, less insatiable alternative to popular 'gay culture'. God-fearing, stable and attractive.
So girls, start booking those 15 connecting flights to Iowa (which recently legalised gay marriage!), Brokeback Mountain ain't no fantasy.
Sun and watermelon martinis,
M
Friday 1 May 2009
Eyes Wide Shut
I read through some of my blog posts the other day (narcissist that I am), and I was surprised to see that I have been pimping London out almost as much as Sarah Jessica Parker pimped out New York in here televised turn-of-the-century bible. And though as I watched her do it on television with a mild repugnance - after all, how much of a farm girl do you have to be to love 22 square miles of concrete that much? - I now understand, in ways I didn't before, what it means to be infatuated by a city. Whilst Cairo will always be my home, my stomping ground, its surreal contrasts of dusty Middle Eastern alleys and glitzy nights of savoir-faire forever burning a candle inside me, I have spent my adult life so far on this chilly island and it is a different thing altogether to find adulthood in a city like London.
So, my dearest reader of formidable patience, this post will be nothing less than another ode to the happenings of this city eternal, the centre of the universe.
But tonight's tale is a little different, because after all I was in search of something a little different myself. I had spoken to my friend Victor (of Qind, a London-based gay magazine targeting a more thoughtful audience) recently one lazy afternoon in Soho at Qind's issue launch about his thoughts for the future.
"We want to talk about sex but in a slightly different way," he said. "We may be out, but sex seems to be very much in the closet. Demonised and fetish-ised, a thriving industry has been built on it. Then there is the guilt and shame, which can lead to its expression in not-so-healthy ways. We are bringing sex into the light, with a focus on respecting your sexual space and desires. We want to put sex in its rightful place as something healthy, normal and natural from mild to wild."
As liberal as even a place like London could be, the reality is that much of our carnal pleasures are still reserved either literally or metaphorically for dark dungeons. But the question poses itself: how liberal does one want to be in these regards? Where do you draw the line between healthy and unhealthy expression? These are questions that will probably remain unanswered, but I got closer to an understanding of the whole issue much sooner than I expected. Friday night was not a good night for it either. I had to catch an 8am flight out of Heathrow to JFK the next day, but my curiosity was far too overwhelming…
So, my dearest reader of formidable patience, this post will be nothing less than another ode to the happenings of this city eternal, the centre of the universe.
But tonight's tale is a little different, because after all I was in search of something a little different myself. I had spoken to my friend Victor (of Qind, a London-based gay magazine targeting a more thoughtful audience) recently one lazy afternoon in Soho at Qind's issue launch about his thoughts for the future.
"We want to talk about sex but in a slightly different way," he said. "We may be out, but sex seems to be very much in the closet. Demonised and fetish-ised, a thriving industry has been built on it. Then there is the guilt and shame, which can lead to its expression in not-so-healthy ways. We are bringing sex into the light, with a focus on respecting your sexual space and desires. We want to put sex in its rightful place as something healthy, normal and natural from mild to wild."
As liberal as even a place like London could be, the reality is that much of our carnal pleasures are still reserved either literally or metaphorically for dark dungeons. But the question poses itself: how liberal does one want to be in these regards? Where do you draw the line between healthy and unhealthy expression? These are questions that will probably remain unanswered, but I got closer to an understanding of the whole issue much sooner than I expected. Friday night was not a good night for it either. I had to catch an 8am flight out of Heathrow to JFK the next day, but my curiosity was far too overwhelming…
***************
"33 Grosvenor Road. We'll see you there at Midnight."
My friends Archie and Lawrence were also invited to this 'event'. Somewhat intimidated myself but perhaps too suave-sounding to admit it, I'd suggested we all go together. Like glamazombies in dark trench coats, our black cab pulled up to the Georgian style mansion in silence on a warm spring evening. "Are you sure this is it?" I wanted to ask. Though it was a main road, it was quiet and no light or sound seemed to come from the building in question. My question was irrelevant, because Archie had already made his way between the Doric columns to announce our arrival. A light breeze flapped through Archie's coat as he lifted the knocker, twice.
My friends Archie and Lawrence were also invited to this 'event'. Somewhat intimidated myself but perhaps too suave-sounding to admit it, I'd suggested we all go together. Like glamazombies in dark trench coats, our black cab pulled up to the Georgian style mansion in silence on a warm spring evening. "Are you sure this is it?" I wanted to ask. Though it was a main road, it was quiet and no light or sound seemed to come from the building in question. My question was irrelevant, because Archie had already made his way between the Doric columns to announce our arrival. A light breeze flapped through Archie's coat as he lifted the knocker, twice.
After what was a very quiet minute, a handsome butler slowly opened the door. "Welcome," he motioned us in the foyer. It was an old but well preserved house. Sky-high ceilings, wooden banisters and Louis-quainz furniture. A dim, giant chandelier floated above us.
Lawrence looked at me with a dry smile. "This must be the Main Audience Chambre," he snickered. I giggled uneasily.
"Gentlemen, your coats?"
Seconds later we were being guided through a corridor with thick maroon carpets. The old architecture was enchanting, but its flawed acoustics hinted at what awaited us not too far ahead. The sound of laughter, a woman's laughter, came vividly. We went down a short flight of stairs and the environment grew, emboldened.
A tall, slim, and frankly gorgeous woman wearing very little walked by in her aviator sunglasses, joking in Russian. The music was evident, and it was coming from somewhere inside. But the journey to the dancefloor was all too exciting. A red, ancient lounge chair with soft omniscient lighting stood alone in one corner. We walked by. Shelves displaying shoes so vintage the brands were barely recognizable. This was a glamorous, alternative affair.
Enfin, the dancefloor appeared. A DJ was spinning, and a waiter walked around with champagne flutes. It was hardly packed, but it had an unusually cosy feeling. At one end of the room, a couple of steps led to a warm jaccuzi and, further on, a bed.
What followed was surreal, to the point that I struggle in finishing these sentences. But using Victor as my inspiration, for bringing sex out in the open, my perspective and expectations were very broad.
Bodies intertwined. The clothes came off at the request of our glamorous hostess, and all that remained was 40 or so guys in tight speedos. As the vodka et al kept flowing, the intensity grew. I was in the middle of a very large orgy. Naked bodies surrounded me, rubbed against me. Lips engulfed several parts of my body. And the same applied to everyone arround me. My tongue explored foreign skin, tasting every inch of it.
Hours it lasted. Threesomes, foursomes, and more. Why did this not feel sleazy?
Now, 5.15 am as I write this, with only hours before my flight, I realise that this was a long time coming. Sex is a biological necessity, like nutrition, and when you truly see it that way, you will realize that that orgy could easily be compared to a dinner party.
A tall, slim, and frankly gorgeous woman wearing very little walked by in her aviator sunglasses, joking in Russian. The music was evident, and it was coming from somewhere inside. But the journey to the dancefloor was all too exciting. A red, ancient lounge chair with soft omniscient lighting stood alone in one corner. We walked by. Shelves displaying shoes so vintage the brands were barely recognizable. This was a glamorous, alternative affair.
Enfin, the dancefloor appeared. A DJ was spinning, and a waiter walked around with champagne flutes. It was hardly packed, but it had an unusually cosy feeling. At one end of the room, a couple of steps led to a warm jaccuzi and, further on, a bed.
What followed was surreal, to the point that I struggle in finishing these sentences. But using Victor as my inspiration, for bringing sex out in the open, my perspective and expectations were very broad.
Bodies intertwined. The clothes came off at the request of our glamorous hostess, and all that remained was 40 or so guys in tight speedos. As the vodka et al kept flowing, the intensity grew. I was in the middle of a very large orgy. Naked bodies surrounded me, rubbed against me. Lips engulfed several parts of my body. And the same applied to everyone arround me. My tongue explored foreign skin, tasting every inch of it.
Hours it lasted. Threesomes, foursomes, and more. Why did this not feel sleazy?
Now, 5.15 am as I write this, with only hours before my flight, I realise that this was a long time coming. Sex is a biological necessity, like nutrition, and when you truly see it that way, you will realize that that orgy could easily be compared to a dinner party.
Tuesday 28 April 2009
The End is Nigh
It is virtually impossible to avoid the media frenzy that has consumed the world over the past few days. Pig flu? At least SARS had an ominous and foreign ring to it. Spanish influenza sounds more like a dance and even the bubonic plague hints biblical glory. What an unglamorous way to go, a pig virus.
Of course, in my kidding I disguise uneasiness. Though I'm not quite ready to get on the mask-wearing, news-channel flipping, hypochondriac bandwagon, the notions of apocalypse that follow any forecast of a pandemic excite me.
The recording angel opens its hundred eyes and snaps the spine of the Book of Life.
What is it about eschatology that rouses a primordial yearning within people? And all the same…scorn! When that clan in Russia trapped itself underground last year in bitterly cold permafrost, certain that the end of the world would come within days, I wondered as to the value of eschatology beyond the feeling of control that it gives people. The finality and the end of mystery excite those who dwell in Armageddon.
Monday 27 April 2009
Correlation(ships)
The weekend brought more sunshine than the BBC would have ever dared to publicly admit. The unspoken rule is, when in doubt, forecast rain. If the sun creeps out, everyone will be in too good a mood to care about inept predictions. But if the opposite had happened, their credibility would have been at stake. I would march in protest if the weatherman had me out on a Saturday in hot shorts and sunglasses, only to be drenched in rain.
So on a lazy sunny weekend Roy, Suli, Yolanda and I sat out on Roy's roof terrace having something bubbly to drink and barbequing hamburgers, with Regents Park and the whole vista of London before us. It was picture perfect, though a chilly wind was picking up.
Not long into our lounging, in walked Romanus, and I nearly choked. Romanus was the size of a bus. Not fat, no no, he was 100% steroidal (and after what must have been a morning under the UV rays of a sunbed) roast beef. Had he not been wearing a ridiculous pair of denim shorts and a navy blue wife-beater, I would have easily assumed he was a professional bodybuilder.
His effeminate clothes provided a contrast that was difficult to appreciate, especially after 3 glasses of champagne. Though, in truth, I struggled in my head to put him in any outfit that would even match the uber-masculinity his body seemed to suggest. Romanus did have saving graces- he was sweet, unassuming and handsome. Roy told me that he used to be thinner than I am (which, for the unprivileged who haven't met me, would amount to emaciated), though Roy himself admits he was much more attractive back then. The current Romanus was a result of a couple of years' worth of injections and plastic surgery.
As the evening progressed I noticed something else that struck me about Romanus. He was brutally honest about himself, in the way that victims of war or cancer patients sometimes are, reducing events and experiences that undoubtedly were very painful to an austere matter-of-factness that sometimes makes others uncomfortable.
I had missed the beginning of a conversation, which was evidently about his dating life. But my ears perked when in the manner I described above, he turns to us and says, "I don’t know, I just have not been able to go on a second date with someone for what seems to be years."
Suli automatically assumed the lack of interest was on Romanus' part, and told him that eventually he'll get butterflies from someone. In a sense, Suli probably didn't expect that someone so good looking and that pumped up could have trouble getting a second date. "No, it's not me who loses interest, the problem is not on my end," replied Romanus, "they just loose interest in me."
At this point I'd had a little more to drink than I should and I jumped at the opportunity to berate him. "How long did you say this has been happening?"
"More than year, with quite a few guys," he innocently responded.
"Well since you're the only common factor in all these first dates, I'd say the problem certainly is on your end."
He stared at me, but not in indignation, I couldn't quite place it.
I tried to explain the blindingly obvious: that he was, in effect, attracting the same kind of guy in to his life, and that if this was ever going to change he'd have to change not only his approach but how he sees himself.
"Well, I've already paid for it but you just summed up my 2 years of therapy." Should I be charging money for my drunken antics?
It may be novel to Romanus but my fellow homos and I have been debating the Correlation for a while.
BEWARE OF THE FORMULA:
Muscle Mass divided by Age --> Boyfriend(hotness exponent) multiplied by # of Years LTR
or
This formula, unfortunately, has most gay men by the balls. The Correlation derived from the above formula is that the youngest guys with the most muscles get the hottest boyfriends for longest time. As age increases or muscle mass decreases, the integer on the left has a lower value, thus resulting in a less-hot boyfriend for less years.
The sad truth, therefore is, that gay men often times attach their worth as individuals to the left side of this formula. And like many other things in the gay world, it’s a vicious cycle, in this case with two faces:
Face 1: Expectations. You blame your current single-hood on your physical inability to attract the kind of guy you want. You are certain as Pythagoras that if your arms were a little thicker, your chest a little wider, or your waist a little thinner that your 'league' will change. You work, and you work hard at the gym. Maybe even experiment with a couple of steroids. You get bigger, and your waist is as thin as a 5-year-old girl's. Hotter guys start approaching you and checking you out. But now they're all too attainable, and the interest is physical - the emotional void grows and you're hooked on the approval, moreover, you still can't get the dreamy guys you want. You go up a bench-press weight, your pecks get a little bigger, and like equity shares, your expectations for a return on investment grow with them. You're looking for hotter guys now, whilst the truth is there is no ceiling to this vicious cycle. Deep down you know these guys that you never attracted when you were too thin or too fat are only now approaching you because of something entirely separate from your person. They're caught in the vicious cycle too. Which brings us to Face 2.
Face 2: Common vulnerability. The formula above preys on the self-doubting. What you have in effect is a community of self-doubters with amazing bodies. Emotional vulnerability and weakness of mind is masked with physical strength. The very people that fall victims are the same that perpetuate the Correlation - it is all they know and those who present an alternative are threatening their reality. Instead of building on their intelligence and maturity as gay men and identifying these traits as their greatest assets, the focus and worth lies in their appearance. As a result, you get statements like: "How the hell did he end up with him?!" when you see an 'attractive' guy with a non-conformer; or better yet "Oh look at the really old and saggy guy and the really young hot guy. I guess he really needs the money." Is it not possible that 'older' guys, in their life experience have gathered up enough charm and emotional security to attract younger ones? Is money the only option, the only other alternative currency of power or status in this fucked up gay community?
A disclaimer: there is nothing wrong with looking and feeling healthy. If you've got some extra flab you should by all means hit that treadmill. If you're feeling underweight by all means get a trainer, work on some muscles. A healthy body in the end only aids a healthy mind. The trick is not to associate this with your social status or worth. You will succeed in surrounding yourself with people, but will not feel much better about anything.
I'm rambling, and if you made it this far in the post than you clearly have more tolerance than I can hope for. It is just sad to see millions of guys with amazing potential become slaves to their bodies and the labels they wear.
Peace
M
So on a lazy sunny weekend Roy, Suli, Yolanda and I sat out on Roy's roof terrace having something bubbly to drink and barbequing hamburgers, with Regents Park and the whole vista of London before us. It was picture perfect, though a chilly wind was picking up.
Not long into our lounging, in walked Romanus, and I nearly choked. Romanus was the size of a bus. Not fat, no no, he was 100% steroidal (and after what must have been a morning under the UV rays of a sunbed) roast beef. Had he not been wearing a ridiculous pair of denim shorts and a navy blue wife-beater, I would have easily assumed he was a professional bodybuilder.
His effeminate clothes provided a contrast that was difficult to appreciate, especially after 3 glasses of champagne. Though, in truth, I struggled in my head to put him in any outfit that would even match the uber-masculinity his body seemed to suggest. Romanus did have saving graces- he was sweet, unassuming and handsome. Roy told me that he used to be thinner than I am (which, for the unprivileged who haven't met me, would amount to emaciated), though Roy himself admits he was much more attractive back then. The current Romanus was a result of a couple of years' worth of injections and plastic surgery.
As the evening progressed I noticed something else that struck me about Romanus. He was brutally honest about himself, in the way that victims of war or cancer patients sometimes are, reducing events and experiences that undoubtedly were very painful to an austere matter-of-factness that sometimes makes others uncomfortable.
I had missed the beginning of a conversation, which was evidently about his dating life. But my ears perked when in the manner I described above, he turns to us and says, "I don’t know, I just have not been able to go on a second date with someone for what seems to be years."
Suli automatically assumed the lack of interest was on Romanus' part, and told him that eventually he'll get butterflies from someone. In a sense, Suli probably didn't expect that someone so good looking and that pumped up could have trouble getting a second date. "No, it's not me who loses interest, the problem is not on my end," replied Romanus, "they just loose interest in me."
At this point I'd had a little more to drink than I should and I jumped at the opportunity to berate him. "How long did you say this has been happening?"
"More than year, with quite a few guys," he innocently responded.
"Well since you're the only common factor in all these first dates, I'd say the problem certainly is on your end."
He stared at me, but not in indignation, I couldn't quite place it.
I tried to explain the blindingly obvious: that he was, in effect, attracting the same kind of guy in to his life, and that if this was ever going to change he'd have to change not only his approach but how he sees himself.
"Well, I've already paid for it but you just summed up my 2 years of therapy." Should I be charging money for my drunken antics?
It may be novel to Romanus but my fellow homos and I have been debating the Correlation for a while.
BEWARE OF THE FORMULA:
Muscle Mass divided by Age --> Boyfriend(hotness exponent) multiplied by # of Years LTR
or
This formula, unfortunately, has most gay men by the balls. The Correlation derived from the above formula is that the youngest guys with the most muscles get the hottest boyfriends for longest time. As age increases or muscle mass decreases, the integer on the left has a lower value, thus resulting in a less-hot boyfriend for less years.
The sad truth, therefore is, that gay men often times attach their worth as individuals to the left side of this formula. And like many other things in the gay world, it’s a vicious cycle, in this case with two faces:
Face 1: Expectations. You blame your current single-hood on your physical inability to attract the kind of guy you want. You are certain as Pythagoras that if your arms were a little thicker, your chest a little wider, or your waist a little thinner that your 'league' will change. You work, and you work hard at the gym. Maybe even experiment with a couple of steroids. You get bigger, and your waist is as thin as a 5-year-old girl's. Hotter guys start approaching you and checking you out. But now they're all too attainable, and the interest is physical - the emotional void grows and you're hooked on the approval, moreover, you still can't get the dreamy guys you want. You go up a bench-press weight, your pecks get a little bigger, and like equity shares, your expectations for a return on investment grow with them. You're looking for hotter guys now, whilst the truth is there is no ceiling to this vicious cycle. Deep down you know these guys that you never attracted when you were too thin or too fat are only now approaching you because of something entirely separate from your person. They're caught in the vicious cycle too. Which brings us to Face 2.
Face 2: Common vulnerability. The formula above preys on the self-doubting. What you have in effect is a community of self-doubters with amazing bodies. Emotional vulnerability and weakness of mind is masked with physical strength. The very people that fall victims are the same that perpetuate the Correlation - it is all they know and those who present an alternative are threatening their reality. Instead of building on their intelligence and maturity as gay men and identifying these traits as their greatest assets, the focus and worth lies in their appearance. As a result, you get statements like: "How the hell did he end up with him?!" when you see an 'attractive' guy with a non-conformer; or better yet "Oh look at the really old and saggy guy and the really young hot guy. I guess he really needs the money." Is it not possible that 'older' guys, in their life experience have gathered up enough charm and emotional security to attract younger ones? Is money the only option, the only other alternative currency of power or status in this fucked up gay community?
A disclaimer: there is nothing wrong with looking and feeling healthy. If you've got some extra flab you should by all means hit that treadmill. If you're feeling underweight by all means get a trainer, work on some muscles. A healthy body in the end only aids a healthy mind. The trick is not to associate this with your social status or worth. You will succeed in surrounding yourself with people, but will not feel much better about anything.
I'm rambling, and if you made it this far in the post than you clearly have more tolerance than I can hope for. It is just sad to see millions of guys with amazing potential become slaves to their bodies and the labels they wear.
Peace
M
Monday 20 April 2009
Fuck Disney, Fuck Hollywood
I'm not an angry person. I truly believe that my misfortunes are mine and that blame is counterproductive. But, realistically now, we can't all be Kumbaya all the time, can we? In fact, I think it’s a little healthy to (once in a while) realise where the problems lie around you, whip out your manicured index finger and point at something as the source of all evil incarnate without flinching.
Billions of words, millions of pages and the endless depths of the wasteland that is cyberspace dedicated to (or wasted on) cracking the relationship code. Why you and I aren't in one. How you and I could be in one. What to do once you're in one, and how to gracefully fall out of one.
Meet Roy. Roy is 42, reasonably good looking, camp as Christmas and richer than God. After a hypoxy and a mud bath, he drove to Pimlico and honked his S Class outside my door urging me to hurry up. We were on our way to a party in north London and hearing that Brazilians were featured as canapés, his patience was not to be tested. I rolled into the passenger seat, bottles of bubbly clinking in one hand and travel size moisturiser in the other, clearly not 100% ready yet.
"Habibi," he says in his Lebanese/French accent "don't keep mommy waiting like that."
As we crossed Westminster into Camden and (choke) the unknown beyond, Roy and I were having one of our usual discussions about men and relationships. He was frustrated. Here he was at his prime, looking good, feeling good, and still the 'right guy' hasn't come along.
Well, what do you define as the right guy? I asked. His answer wasn't entirely clear. He wanted someone that came from a good family, with good values. He wanted someone that is financially secure, "No more toy boys! Prostitutes are a dime a dozen darling and honestly I'd rather just pay for sex than have to pretend I'm interested in their lives."
Cynical, but honest. Then he said something else. "You know," he stopped suddenly at a zebra crossing and looked me straight in the eye, "it may be that I'm just not looking hard enough. It is almost like I don't have the energy. Recently, it dawned upon me that maybe there's a reason why I don't care enough.
"You see," he resumed driving, "I've been sharing a house with Xavier for 18 years. We've never dated, never kissed, never even the thought of sex between us. We just got used to living together, meeting other guys, dating them for a while, and then discarding them. But think about it this way, whatever guy I meet, the sex will be great, it'll work for a few years, then eventually that will fade away and what will really be left is companionship. But, you see, with Xavier I already have the companionship. I'm not ready to invest another 18 years in someone else. The 'right guy' I'm describing is actually just another version of Xavier! So all I really want it seems is the first part of the relationship. For the happily-ever-after, I have my friend Xavier."
I was on the verge of saying something before I realised how stupid it really was. In a soft and lustful tone with yearning and butterflies, like Cinderella on ecstacy pills, I was about to say "But don't you want to fall in love? Meet someone special and grow old together?"
When did we decide that Disney and Hollywood got it all right? That Cinderella was a true story and that Cameron Diaz could act? We've been polluted, our intelligence insulted. We walk into one of these movies and for 2 hours our spirits are played into ecstasy as the love story unfolds before us. Of course, somewhere along the line Drew Barrymore throws a hissy-fit, Meg Ryan is reduced to tears or, God help us, Julia Roberts goes through an existential crisis. "It can't all be smooth sailing," you can hear the directors say as they plot the divorce of rationality from emotion.
These love stories are like drugs, the relationships they simulate last a couple of hours, they give you a rush and inevitably, as you walk out of the movie theatre and start holding up your love life in comparison, a come-down. Who's to say that Roy and Xavier don't have the perfect relationship? Sex when they need it, and someone they can rely on who will always be part of their lives? Not me. So I kept my mouth shut.
Now its time to look at myself. What kind of a relationship is logically the one that will work best for me, Shakespearean hypocrisy aside?
I've stopped leaving slippers behind; no prince-charming for me, thank you.
Billions of words, millions of pages and the endless depths of the wasteland that is cyberspace dedicated to (or wasted on) cracking the relationship code. Why you and I aren't in one. How you and I could be in one. What to do once you're in one, and how to gracefully fall out of one.
Meet Roy. Roy is 42, reasonably good looking, camp as Christmas and richer than God. After a hypoxy and a mud bath, he drove to Pimlico and honked his S Class outside my door urging me to hurry up. We were on our way to a party in north London and hearing that Brazilians were featured as canapés, his patience was not to be tested. I rolled into the passenger seat, bottles of bubbly clinking in one hand and travel size moisturiser in the other, clearly not 100% ready yet.
"Habibi," he says in his Lebanese/French accent "don't keep mommy waiting like that."
As we crossed Westminster into Camden and (choke) the unknown beyond, Roy and I were having one of our usual discussions about men and relationships. He was frustrated. Here he was at his prime, looking good, feeling good, and still the 'right guy' hasn't come along.
Well, what do you define as the right guy? I asked. His answer wasn't entirely clear. He wanted someone that came from a good family, with good values. He wanted someone that is financially secure, "No more toy boys! Prostitutes are a dime a dozen darling and honestly I'd rather just pay for sex than have to pretend I'm interested in their lives."
Cynical, but honest. Then he said something else. "You know," he stopped suddenly at a zebra crossing and looked me straight in the eye, "it may be that I'm just not looking hard enough. It is almost like I don't have the energy. Recently, it dawned upon me that maybe there's a reason why I don't care enough.
"You see," he resumed driving, "I've been sharing a house with Xavier for 18 years. We've never dated, never kissed, never even the thought of sex between us. We just got used to living together, meeting other guys, dating them for a while, and then discarding them. But think about it this way, whatever guy I meet, the sex will be great, it'll work for a few years, then eventually that will fade away and what will really be left is companionship. But, you see, with Xavier I already have the companionship. I'm not ready to invest another 18 years in someone else. The 'right guy' I'm describing is actually just another version of Xavier! So all I really want it seems is the first part of the relationship. For the happily-ever-after, I have my friend Xavier."
I was on the verge of saying something before I realised how stupid it really was. In a soft and lustful tone with yearning and butterflies, like Cinderella on ecstacy pills, I was about to say "But don't you want to fall in love? Meet someone special and grow old together?"
When did we decide that Disney and Hollywood got it all right? That Cinderella was a true story and that Cameron Diaz could act? We've been polluted, our intelligence insulted. We walk into one of these movies and for 2 hours our spirits are played into ecstasy as the love story unfolds before us. Of course, somewhere along the line Drew Barrymore throws a hissy-fit, Meg Ryan is reduced to tears or, God help us, Julia Roberts goes through an existential crisis. "It can't all be smooth sailing," you can hear the directors say as they plot the divorce of rationality from emotion.
These love stories are like drugs, the relationships they simulate last a couple of hours, they give you a rush and inevitably, as you walk out of the movie theatre and start holding up your love life in comparison, a come-down. Who's to say that Roy and Xavier don't have the perfect relationship? Sex when they need it, and someone they can rely on who will always be part of their lives? Not me. So I kept my mouth shut.
Now its time to look at myself. What kind of a relationship is logically the one that will work best for me, Shakespearean hypocrisy aside?
I've stopped leaving slippers behind; no prince-charming for me, thank you.
Monday 6 April 2009
Viva la Résistance!
We've all been there. Boy meets boy. Boy falls head over heels for boy, and is pretty sure the same is true in reverse. Boy realises tragic flaw in boy. The tragic flaw consumes the entire relationship and boy can no longer play the game. Boy dumps boy, wondering if the other boy was just as head over heels for him…It's called Shakespearean tragedy with a homo twist.
Though my relationship with JD had, at least in my mind, substantially ended quite a while ago, old flames were somewhat fanned when he announced he was visiting London for a few days to see 'a sick uncle'. I wasn't entirely sure meeting him was a good idea, but he insisted that it would be a good thing and I was after all curious as to whatever happened between us.
In typical neo-JD fashion (neo as in post-turning-into-a-freak-I-don’t-even-recognise JD), he came and went, failing to ever make enough effort to realise that dinner. And the thing is, before he said he was coming, I was fine. Things were moving on. I'd met Superman (ok, he just looks like superman because he has an amazing jaw-line and Scottish features - and ever since I met him that Mandy/Booka Shade track "Superman" has been playing in my head!) a few weeks back and along with another couple of friends-with-favours, things looked like they were on the up. But in those three days JD spent here, messaging but never committing, begging but never promising, I was gradually consumed with enough anger to burn a whole through the ground beneath me. The day he was leaving London, I sent him a message asking him to kindly delete all of my contact details and not to ever fucking dare so much as think about calling (add a few more four letter words in there). Predictably, he messaged back expressing hurt and confusion, but he will have to try a lot harder than that to get a response from me.
So Viva la Résistance! Taking the lead from my homegirl Oprah who first debuted the "He's Just Not That Into You" book into our dating lives, I moved ON.
But herein lies the danger. Though I technically dumped him, the reality was that he constructively dumped me because he left me no choice. I was dumped indirectly. I've never been dumped before, but thankfully have seen enough of it around me to gather a little intelligence to help me navigate the aftermath. And it is an abyss.
Attention. That’s what you always need when you've been dumped. You need to know that people still want you, that you still matter, that you have prospects and won't be alone forever. Now I know that sounds silly, but its true. As noted, I had seen this around me several times, and I did everything but strap my hands together to stop me from dialling exes or fuck buddies from times past.
And my friend P Bear was right; the only way to get over a man is to get under one. Just always make sure it's not something you'll regret.
So I put it all behind me with speed I'm even surprised I could muster. That same day (last Friday) I sent the text message I was in Soho for a birthday, and out of nowhere I met a stunning guy from San Francisco. It was perfect, he was gone on Monday, and he was looking for some fun and someone to have dinner with. I happily obliged, also knowing that I will be in San Francisco next month and will probably need similar treatment.
And when it rains it fucking pours. Remember Kyril from my New Years Chronicles? Out of nowhere I get a message from him, asking if I was in London over Easter, and whether I would be interested in having coffee with him. Superman leaves me a heart-felt voice message on the phone that evening (I told him about the situation with JD, and he is doing his 'best to give me some space).
So I've decided this is a lot like the France in the 18th century. Was JD the equivalent of Louis XVI? Did I lead my own résistance movement to rid myself of the tyrant? No, I think JS, my previous partner of 3 years, was Louis XVI. Once I'd ousted him, JD came in as Robespierre with promises of freedom that turned into a Reign of Terror. If my love life follows the analogy of the French Revolution, I'm bound to have a Napoleon very soon. I just hope this one is taller and has a bigger penis.
Though my relationship with JD had, at least in my mind, substantially ended quite a while ago, old flames were somewhat fanned when he announced he was visiting London for a few days to see 'a sick uncle'. I wasn't entirely sure meeting him was a good idea, but he insisted that it would be a good thing and I was after all curious as to whatever happened between us.
In typical neo-JD fashion (neo as in post-turning-into-a-freak-I-don’t-even-recognise JD), he came and went, failing to ever make enough effort to realise that dinner. And the thing is, before he said he was coming, I was fine. Things were moving on. I'd met Superman (ok, he just looks like superman because he has an amazing jaw-line and Scottish features - and ever since I met him that Mandy/Booka Shade track "Superman" has been playing in my head!) a few weeks back and along with another couple of friends-with-favours, things looked like they were on the up. But in those three days JD spent here, messaging but never committing, begging but never promising, I was gradually consumed with enough anger to burn a whole through the ground beneath me. The day he was leaving London, I sent him a message asking him to kindly delete all of my contact details and not to ever fucking dare so much as think about calling (add a few more four letter words in there). Predictably, he messaged back expressing hurt and confusion, but he will have to try a lot harder than that to get a response from me.
So Viva la Résistance! Taking the lead from my homegirl Oprah who first debuted the "He's Just Not That Into You" book into our dating lives, I moved ON.
But herein lies the danger. Though I technically dumped him, the reality was that he constructively dumped me because he left me no choice. I was dumped indirectly. I've never been dumped before, but thankfully have seen enough of it around me to gather a little intelligence to help me navigate the aftermath. And it is an abyss.
Attention. That’s what you always need when you've been dumped. You need to know that people still want you, that you still matter, that you have prospects and won't be alone forever. Now I know that sounds silly, but its true. As noted, I had seen this around me several times, and I did everything but strap my hands together to stop me from dialling exes or fuck buddies from times past.
And my friend P Bear was right; the only way to get over a man is to get under one. Just always make sure it's not something you'll regret.
So I put it all behind me with speed I'm even surprised I could muster. That same day (last Friday) I sent the text message I was in Soho for a birthday, and out of nowhere I met a stunning guy from San Francisco. It was perfect, he was gone on Monday, and he was looking for some fun and someone to have dinner with. I happily obliged, also knowing that I will be in San Francisco next month and will probably need similar treatment.
And when it rains it fucking pours. Remember Kyril from my New Years Chronicles? Out of nowhere I get a message from him, asking if I was in London over Easter, and whether I would be interested in having coffee with him. Superman leaves me a heart-felt voice message on the phone that evening (I told him about the situation with JD, and he is doing his 'best to give me some space).
So I've decided this is a lot like the France in the 18th century. Was JD the equivalent of Louis XVI? Did I lead my own résistance movement to rid myself of the tyrant? No, I think JS, my previous partner of 3 years, was Louis XVI. Once I'd ousted him, JD came in as Robespierre with promises of freedom that turned into a Reign of Terror. If my love life follows the analogy of the French Revolution, I'm bound to have a Napoleon very soon. I just hope this one is taller and has a bigger penis.
Tuesday 31 March 2009
Where do I start, where do I begin
As I plop down onto my sofa to write this, I can't help but remember the first time I wrote an electronic journal. God it feels like aeons ago. I was probably about 9 or 10 years old, keyboard happy on my LC Macintosh. Now as I watch the blank screen of the computer patiently as it loads, I catch my reflection and ponder as to how much it has changed over these many years. Was I ever innocent?
Life - it's always been about getting ahead for me. On top. I think I inherited that, probably from my mother. And in so doing I developed a whore-dom for her approval. When she died, I prostituted every skill that I had to make sure the approval never died with her. I made sure everyone approved of me in one way or another. It sounds pretty screwed up, but the reality is it has helped me a lot. I worked my ass off, finished first in my graduating class both at school and university. Took diversifying my time to the extreme - writing, web design, saxophone, track and field training, charity, politics and eventually - law.
But I didn't stop there. Like her I've always been a social creature, and nobody approves of a know-it-all do-it-all geek who can't carry a witty conversation or enjoy cointreau. I used what looks I have and combined it with whatever affluence I had acquired and morphed it into charm. The subtle kind of course, the kind that takes equally charming and affluent people to truly understand (the rest are confused, baffled). Even in my criticism I make sure that it is tasteful, hyperbolically understated so as to deepen the injury intended.
I was always like this. I dont remember a time when I didnt craft every word that came out of my mouth, or didn't plan a couple of steps ahead, or obsess over social dynamics. Innocence and spontenaiety? In theory possible. But it's almost as if I can hear my Id, Superego, and Ego - every layer of my brain - talking at once, analysing every moment.
Now I'm 23. Now I'm running. Faster, faster. Not sure where, but in doing the above I have surpassed even my own expectations. Now there's little out there to challenge me to go further. "A god amongst flies" AD tells me, and I allow myself the thought out of egoism.
The world around me has changed since the age of 9. London is the perfect escape. Transience. Let me hear you say it, with a capital T, Transience. After hating growing up in a family where family members disappeared, and in a school where your friends often came from far away places only to return with a piece of your heart with them, no justice was quite so poetic as me moving to this wasteland of London. Here it is multiplied. No one same set of friends exists from weekend to weekend as the never ending flock of 747s swoops in and out of the city. You spend your day between 2 or 3 languages, 10 or 20 nationalities, people you will never see again and people you will bump into weeks later and never remember.
London is the perfect escape. Life in London is a surreal blur, not for the motion sick or the faint of heart. Thick skin and a thicker wallet is all you need. Opulence, the city thrives on it. Spend your weekends on a diet of vintage champagne and pure cut cocaine, spend your week closing the deals and billing the hours. In between you throw in the exhibitions, the pseudo-philanthropic events, the afternoon teas and the late night coupes. Leave the country once a month and pretend like you never want to go back. Its as if we all are afraid of having an hour to ourselves, lest we think inwards and not outwards; lest we realise the gaping abyss we are trying to fill with infinite ambition and indulgence. It's a cliche, but in a city of so many people the easiest thing for one to be is alone.
Was I ever innocent? The question, I guess, is what you would define as innocent. If you define innocence through actions, then that ship has sailed a long, long time ago. If its a state of mind or an tenacity to faith in the goodness around you, even when you live in a place like London, then maybe the curtain hasn't quite been called yet. One thing, however, is for sure. In constantly pushing and getting so far ahead I sometimes fear that I've lost a bit of who I used to be along the way.
Life - it's always been about getting ahead for me. On top. I think I inherited that, probably from my mother. And in so doing I developed a whore-dom for her approval. When she died, I prostituted every skill that I had to make sure the approval never died with her. I made sure everyone approved of me in one way or another. It sounds pretty screwed up, but the reality is it has helped me a lot. I worked my ass off, finished first in my graduating class both at school and university. Took diversifying my time to the extreme - writing, web design, saxophone, track and field training, charity, politics and eventually - law.
But I didn't stop there. Like her I've always been a social creature, and nobody approves of a know-it-all do-it-all geek who can't carry a witty conversation or enjoy cointreau. I used what looks I have and combined it with whatever affluence I had acquired and morphed it into charm. The subtle kind of course, the kind that takes equally charming and affluent people to truly understand (the rest are confused, baffled). Even in my criticism I make sure that it is tasteful, hyperbolically understated so as to deepen the injury intended.
I was always like this. I dont remember a time when I didnt craft every word that came out of my mouth, or didn't plan a couple of steps ahead, or obsess over social dynamics. Innocence and spontenaiety? In theory possible. But it's almost as if I can hear my Id, Superego, and Ego - every layer of my brain - talking at once, analysing every moment.
Now I'm 23. Now I'm running. Faster, faster. Not sure where, but in doing the above I have surpassed even my own expectations. Now there's little out there to challenge me to go further. "A god amongst flies" AD tells me, and I allow myself the thought out of egoism.
The world around me has changed since the age of 9. London is the perfect escape. Transience. Let me hear you say it, with a capital T, Transience. After hating growing up in a family where family members disappeared, and in a school where your friends often came from far away places only to return with a piece of your heart with them, no justice was quite so poetic as me moving to this wasteland of London. Here it is multiplied. No one same set of friends exists from weekend to weekend as the never ending flock of 747s swoops in and out of the city. You spend your day between 2 or 3 languages, 10 or 20 nationalities, people you will never see again and people you will bump into weeks later and never remember.
London is the perfect escape. Life in London is a surreal blur, not for the motion sick or the faint of heart. Thick skin and a thicker wallet is all you need. Opulence, the city thrives on it. Spend your weekends on a diet of vintage champagne and pure cut cocaine, spend your week closing the deals and billing the hours. In between you throw in the exhibitions, the pseudo-philanthropic events, the afternoon teas and the late night coupes. Leave the country once a month and pretend like you never want to go back. Its as if we all are afraid of having an hour to ourselves, lest we think inwards and not outwards; lest we realise the gaping abyss we are trying to fill with infinite ambition and indulgence. It's a cliche, but in a city of so many people the easiest thing for one to be is alone.
Was I ever innocent? The question, I guess, is what you would define as innocent. If you define innocence through actions, then that ship has sailed a long, long time ago. If its a state of mind or an tenacity to faith in the goodness around you, even when you live in a place like London, then maybe the curtain hasn't quite been called yet. One thing, however, is for sure. In constantly pushing and getting so far ahead I sometimes fear that I've lost a bit of who I used to be along the way.
Sunday 1 March 2009
Wednesday 11 February 2009
Poems on the Underground
Thursday 5 February 2009
The Diary of Zarathustra's Groupie
"Der Mensch ist ein Seil, geknüpft zwischen Tier und Übermensch - ein Seil über einem Abgrunde."
I've been a Nietzsche groupie for a while, but as of late I've taken that laterally to being a fan of Zarathustra. Two reasons, first, ever since art class in 3rd grade at elementary school I've always looked up to Leo Da Vinci and Michelangelo for being versatile, accomplished people of virtually every craft and trade. Inventor, scientist, artist, carpenter, surgeon, you name it I'm fascinated with the Renaissance man, his fearless optimism and pursuit of knowledge and ability, the excitement of individualism and the self-actualisation that must surely result. I had no literary background to describe the Renaissance man in Ms Batty's 3rd grade arts and crafts class, let alone the Übermensch (over-man, beyond man, super-man) as envisioned in Also Sprach Zarathustra (Thus Spake Zarathustra), but I could sense the yearning for greatness that these men (and women) turned into something real.
The second reason is my new found interest in Zarathursianism (or Zoroastrianism, founded on the teachings of Zoroaster or Zarathustra), a religion that flourished in Persia among other places prior to the Islamic Empire. As children in the Middle East we were taught that the Muslims defeated the "fire worshippers" from what is now Iran as the empire spread from Spain to China. Fire worshippers. That sounded pretty stupid and a tad scary. But the Zoroastrians don't pray to fire, they ignite it to give them inspiration in connecting with God (Kabbalists still use candles, and churches are lined with them). The In fact, the principles of Zoroastrianism are pervasive throughout all three Abrahamic religions and of course pre-date them.
I suppose the irony is that, with me being so excited about religion, an often blasphemous and angry atheist like Nietzsche turns out to be one of my heroes. "When I come across a religious man, I feel the need to wash my hands" he says. And in many ways I couldn’t agree more. The Sufi order to which I hold most affinity is the Malamteya order - which rejects ostentatious displays of religion and goes to extremes in doing so.
But what's the relationship between his concept of the Übermensch and Zarathustra, the prophet? One of Nietzsche's attacks on religion is that it focuses too much on the benefits of the afterlife and religious folk as a result are willing to settle in this life for much less than what they would otherwise be willing to, and can, attain. This can be tied quite well to the Zarathustrian aversion to asceticism in all its forms. Unlike the Abrahamic traditions for which there exist an array of mystics who fast for months on end and walk around barefoot in concrete caves, Zarathustrians focus on the here and now and with insist on active engagement in good thoughts, good words, and good deeds. Monasticism is therefore practically taboo. Another interesting fact is that proselytizing, or 'converting people', is generally not practiced. Though this may be for historical reasons, its another de-emphasis that works towards the theo-phobic Übermensch.
What I'm trying to say is that it's often comforting too see that ancient ideology and relatively modern philosophy still in many cases converge. In many ways it actually feels like we're all saying the same thing over and over again, with different words and in different languages, and the lucky ones get a glimpse of this harmony now and again.
If you're still snoring its time to get up and hit facebook.
I've been a Nietzsche groupie for a while, but as of late I've taken that laterally to being a fan of Zarathustra. Two reasons, first, ever since art class in 3rd grade at elementary school I've always looked up to Leo Da Vinci and Michelangelo for being versatile, accomplished people of virtually every craft and trade. Inventor, scientist, artist, carpenter, surgeon, you name it I'm fascinated with the Renaissance man, his fearless optimism and pursuit of knowledge and ability, the excitement of individualism and the self-actualisation that must surely result. I had no literary background to describe the Renaissance man in Ms Batty's 3rd grade arts and crafts class, let alone the Übermensch (over-man, beyond man, super-man) as envisioned in Also Sprach Zarathustra (Thus Spake Zarathustra), but I could sense the yearning for greatness that these men (and women) turned into something real.
The second reason is my new found interest in Zarathursianism (or Zoroastrianism, founded on the teachings of Zoroaster or Zarathustra), a religion that flourished in Persia among other places prior to the Islamic Empire. As children in the Middle East we were taught that the Muslims defeated the "fire worshippers" from what is now Iran as the empire spread from Spain to China. Fire worshippers. That sounded pretty stupid and a tad scary. But the Zoroastrians don't pray to fire, they ignite it to give them inspiration in connecting with God (Kabbalists still use candles, and churches are lined with them). The In fact, the principles of Zoroastrianism are pervasive throughout all three Abrahamic religions and of course pre-date them.
I suppose the irony is that, with me being so excited about religion, an often blasphemous and angry atheist like Nietzsche turns out to be one of my heroes. "When I come across a religious man, I feel the need to wash my hands" he says. And in many ways I couldn’t agree more. The Sufi order to which I hold most affinity is the Malamteya order - which rejects ostentatious displays of religion and goes to extremes in doing so.
But what's the relationship between his concept of the Übermensch and Zarathustra, the prophet? One of Nietzsche's attacks on religion is that it focuses too much on the benefits of the afterlife and religious folk as a result are willing to settle in this life for much less than what they would otherwise be willing to, and can, attain. This can be tied quite well to the Zarathustrian aversion to asceticism in all its forms. Unlike the Abrahamic traditions for which there exist an array of mystics who fast for months on end and walk around barefoot in concrete caves, Zarathustrians focus on the here and now and with insist on active engagement in good thoughts, good words, and good deeds. Monasticism is therefore practically taboo. Another interesting fact is that proselytizing, or 'converting people', is generally not practiced. Though this may be for historical reasons, its another de-emphasis that works towards the theo-phobic Übermensch.
What I'm trying to say is that it's often comforting too see that ancient ideology and relatively modern philosophy still in many cases converge. In many ways it actually feels like we're all saying the same thing over and over again, with different words and in different languages, and the lucky ones get a glimpse of this harmony now and again.
If you're still snoring its time to get up and hit facebook.
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