Breathing a sigh of relief that the ‘date’ I was so afraid of (see "Moral Dilemma”) turned out to be a friendly dinner with a very senior co-worker, my mind switched immediately to holiday/party mode. It was the morning of the 31st of December, 2008. Packing my bag was taking longer than usual, as every morning, afternoon, and evening from that day until the 5th of January had to be pre-planned to the last belt.
Decisions made - I locked my front door and in minutes I was walking through the gorgeous St. Pancras station, hunting for my friend Charlie.
(Background: Charlie and I met in a club in early 2005. He is by far gay London’s most established socialite. A Jewish Iraqi of Austro-Hungarian descent, who grew up in Sudanese Catholic school in Khartoum, we instantly bonded in the royal fuck up that is our bi-cultured (or in his case tri? quad?) upbringing and our passion for middle-eastern culture and men. In that club at around 6 am we realized that we knew a lot of people in common in both Cairo and London. Ever since that night we have been to a large extent part of the same ‘family’, after he announced semi-officially that he’d ‘adopted’ me. During the three or so years I spent with James, we grew apart as James despised Charlie and his drug-taking habits, and Charlie did not appreciate the judgment. To define Charlie as a druggie is to define Madonna as a blonde – its irrelevant and he is so much more than that. Charlie is a spiritual and social landmark with an intense history and sharp people skills.)
As I walked through the awe-inspiring atrium of the train-station I saw a figure waving from the escalator, phone in one hand, shopping bags in the other. Charlie gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear with an almost sinister wisdom: “My dearest son, are you ready?”
Within in minutes our train was making its way out of London to Bruxelles. In typical Charlie fashion, he dumped his bags, silk scarf and coat on his seat and dragged me by the hand to the restaurant car. On the way there we ran into a friend of his that was travelling to Bruxelles for the same purpose, ‘La Demence’.
(Background: La Demence (which is french for The Insanity) has for the past year or so, along with Amsterdam’s ‘Rapido’ and Ibiza’s ‘Supermarxe’, been known as one of Europe’s best gay circuit parties, usually held in Bruxelles. This is no meek business. Buses run from Amsterdam, Paris and Köln to drop eager gay clubbers in Bruxelles for the night and wait outside for a 10am return journey. The party is held at Fuse in a not-so-cool neighborhood in Bruxelles, though to be entirely honest all of Bruxelles turned out to be a scheisshole.)
Charlie’s friend on the train, Cedonic, was a delicious Portuguese boy who just happened to be a contemporary art museum curator and who, as I saw for myself later on, has abs so ripped and defined I felt like I was looking at a map of mid-town Manhattan. Plus a sense of humor. We spent the 2 hours from London to Bruxelles laughing, joking, and all slightly anxious of what is to come.
In a bitterly cold Bruxelles, Charlie and I made a bee line for the cab. We met another member of our London ‘family’, Zahed (My ‘uncle’, an African-Yemeni who grew up in London and recently moved to Madrid) and we all made it to Vorst, where we were staying with our friend Sameer (A Syrian diplomat who recently moved to Belgium, but who spent many of his childhood years with Charlie in Khartoum). Sameer was a generous host, and in no time we were preparing for our NYE dinner with his two Belgian friends. They were pleasant, but the conversation dove sometimes far too deep in French that Zahed and I couldn’t carry that well. As the champagne flowed we realized the hour approached 11 and it was time to move on to our next destination.
11.35pm - We were guests at a private do held by one of our Lebanese/Palestinian friends. The other guests were an ever-so-subtle mix of Moroccans, Parisians, Israelis, Brazilians and the very random American girl from Michigan (?!?) who showed up with a horrible French accent and in a full Marie Antoinette outfit that was far too small for her (yes, I was asked at some point to try and zip her back into it…”bitch stay away from the quiche!” i managed to squirm). We were handed feathers and champagne as we walked in and of course invited to the mountains of charlie and kitty in the kitchen.
As the hour approached midnight I got a call from JD. My heart sank. What the fuck? I went into the balcony and picked up, my fingers already freezing. It was, as is typical with his phone calls, short and bland. Yes, happy new year to you too. I hung up and walked back into the party, trying to forge that just happened.
12:00am – BONNE ANNEE! Mwah, Mwah, Mwah
12:01am – 3.30am: the music got louder, the champagne and charlie being consumed in larger quantities. I was developing a crush of unusual intensity for an Israeli boy. Predictably, his Belgian boyfriend of 7 months was also at the party, and he was getting uncomfortable with the amount of time we were spending together. I decided to maintain my own self-respect, as much was possible anyway given the circumstances and environment. Somewhere in the middle of all this the music suddenly died down and our intoxicated host gave a surprisingly articulate speech, thanking us for attending, and inviting us all to share our new years resolutions. His dilated pupils somehow made their way directly to where I was standing:
“Notre pharaon,” he let out loud, for the 3rd time forgetting my (rather common) name. “Alors?”
I had nothing to say. I hadn’t even thought of it. New Years resolutions are a load of bull. But for some reason, whether because of my fresh encounter with this Israeli or some divine inspiration encapsulating the past year - I blurted out almost in exasperation: “More friends, less lovers”… Amidst the cheers and jeers Charlie looked at me in approval, and gave me a big kiss on the cheek. I glanced at the Israeli, who was staring straight back.
January 1st, 2009
We got up a little after noon, and went for a walk in Le Grand Place and the centre ville area. Bruxelles was dull, cold and not entirely friendly. Our phones were ringing incessantly. It was, after all, La Demence evening, the carrefour of gay Europe and the rest of the masses that have trekked in from far and wide were arranging dates with their coiffeurs, trainers and dealers – and inviting us to the same. We stayed out of it for the large part.
11pm: We decided to go for dinner in centre ville. There was no way on earth we were arriving at the club before 3am given the obscene queuing that was inevitable. At 1.30am we were invited by a friend to his dealer’s house. Calimbro was a muscle-bound Brazilian who was far too generous with his charlie and Mitsubishi candy. The conversation between him, his guests, Charlie and Zahed was all in Spanish, which I have no knowledge of. One of Calimbro’s friends was a quiet Chinese-German boy from Dusseldorf who had taken the train in for the party also. As he spoke no English, we managed a decent conversation in German. He was slightly intimidated by the build-up to this party, and I couldn’t blame him. Don’t worry, I said, just enjoy yourself…
Famous last words. 3.30am we raided the arena that is La Demence. (Setting: Spread across three floors, including 4 bars, a dark-room and 3 dance floors, Fuse was definitely Belgium’s biggest. The music was high impact, high energy, and ranging between soulful and dirty. The crowd was eclectic. Muscle marys and leather-bound masters danced as the odd twink made his way to the bar for something other than water. Topless Brazilian girls and of course, fat drag queens.)
I was in ecstasy. The crowd wasn’t necessarily Europe’s most sophisticated, but it would certainly do for this evening. The Israeli boy was there, and so was Cedonic. I flirted with both for a while, but was generally disinterested in sex (trust me it happens when flesh is shoved up your nose [see video above]).
We left at around 9 am on the January 2nd and after restless and short sleep Zahed, Charlie and I got on a flight to Madrid.
As it would turn out, Bruxelles was only a prelude to a formidable symphony played out in Madrid. We arrived a little after 10pm, picked up the bubbly at the airport and made it to Zahed’s flat. Some friends were having a good-bye party for a friend a Boite near Chueca but of course, being Spain, that was starting at around 4am. We drank at the flat, I slipped into something preppy and purple, and we walked the few blocks to Boite for the party. I was instantly shocked by how different the boys in Madrid are – friendly, good looking, generally young…it was heaven. This was to be, however, a light evening and I stayed with my vodka on the rocks for most of it. Zahed, who had come along, was introducing me to his Madrid posse, some of whom I recognized. One of them in particular, Inigo, had hosted a private party at the SoHo House in London around August time and, though I’d spent quite a bit of time at that party, I hadn’t realized how hot he was till that evening in Boite. I said hello, my gaze lingered slightly, and I moved on to the dance floor (they played Modjo, which is daring, and I appreciated the moxy).
Home at 6.30am, I crashed till about 4 in the afternoon. My phone was again buzzing constantly. The Cairo and Moscow crowd had arrived. This group was usually made up of Armani and Kyril, the only two I could call ‘friends’ in the loose sense of the word, plus the usual assortment of muscle marys, Mohameds to Vladimirs, whom I communicate with on a strictly “hi, how are you, lets grind” basis, ready for a good time in the most extreme sense.
(Background: Armani is one of the Middle East’s most famous socialite. Flamboyant but closeted back home, his Madrid/London trips are frequent and involve hardcore clubbing and vast quantities of drugs. He’s in the movie business, and counts 3 of the Spice Girls, Beyonce and Naomi Campbell as friends, not to mention Egypt’s billionaires. I met him at a private gay party in the Sakkara Country Club and we flirted very randomly. He wasn’t my type but I was intrigued by the conundrum that was his life and of course the fabulous parties he would drag me too (yes, i was ever so reluctant). As for Kyril, he is also a lawyer but lives in Moscow. We met through a mutual friend in London and again flirted very occasionally. I had always wondered what it would be like to spend some time with him one on one).
Yes the phone was not shutting up. Lunch at Isolee? Why the heck not. To my surprise Inigo was also there. Lunch was brief, and I wasn’t speaking too much. I was still in a bit of a haze, and needed a siesta. Kyril, Armani and I walked around the shops a little, then I excused myself to go nap. Dinner was at 10 with some Dutch boys in their apartment in Cheuca, and around 1.30 we headed to a funky bar where all the waiters were dressed as nerd and the only light was lazer and LED screens from behind black walls. At 3.30, we knew well it was time for Cool.
I’d been to Cool once before, with James and his friends a couple of years ago. Nothing was going to prepare me for what happened this night however.
The music was amazing, uplifting, beautiful. The club is set on two levels. On the top level are two bars, from which you can watch the madness below. And below was the large dance-floor, all pointed towards a stage where the dancers were performing. Everybody that should have been there was there, Charlie, Zahed, Kyril, Armani… I was starting to run into even more people I hadn’t known were visiting from Cairo. Inigo was there with his friend (who got too drunk and vomited on my hand, luckily there was ample soap in the bathroom) and who one of the Dutch boys took home to sleep.
Charlie had hooked up with an Egyptian I had never met before. Why are there that many Egyptian in Madrid?
Suddenly in the middle of this euphoria, just as my body was internalizing the amazing music and my brain rushed with ecstasy, Zahed walks up to me with wild eyes and yells “ARMANI COLLAPSED!”
For those of you who don’t know me personally, allow me to explain. I (clearly) don’t hold any judgment for people who use, shall we say, “enhancement”. It may sound like a cliché but there is such a thing as recreational use with calculated and low risk. What I don’t understand or respect is when people aren’t able to control themselves (be it on drugs, alcohol or whatever the hell you like). Using GHB is stupid and too risky, but our Middle-Eastern superstar thought he was far too cool for all that at Cool.
I asked Zahed where Armani was, and he said that the bouncers threw him out of the club. Armani was at Cool with at least 20 other people and I was by no stretch of the imagination his best friend, I’m sure they’ll take care of him. Still I decided I’d take the ramp between the lower level and the upper bars to get a drink and say hello to some people.
Just as I entered into the connecting ramp area I saw 3 or 4 people gathered around a lifeless body. Yes, Armani wasn’t my best friend, but I couldn’t see him like this. Kyril was there too. The bouncers were trying to wake him up, slapping him on the face, no luck. They were going to throw him out but he was half naked and his coat was still in the coat check. They dug into his pockets to find the ticket, each time their fingers returning with everything but. Kindly, they returned the illegal articles to his pockets and looked at us and shrugged. By this time it was only Kyril and I standing. I managed to get water off of someone and sprayed Armani with it. He jolted to life, delirious and incomprehensible. Violent too, he was kicking and yelling. “Shit”, said Kyril, “We have to take him home”.
Kyril put his coat around Armani, and I gave Kyril my sweater since I had a jacket too. We carried Armani, who frequently attacked us, through the cold streets of Madrid across Chueca (no taxi would even stop of course). It was a journey, that lasted at least 45 minutes but felt like days. One of Armani’s friend, an Egyptian muscle mary with a bad attitude, showed up out of nowhere to help. Armani’s kicking and slurred half-conscious screaming was getting worse. He slapped Kyril (very hard) and bit me. That’s it, said the Egyptian guy, he needs some cocaine to wake up.
So here we are, on the Gran Via no less in downtown Madrid, at around 6am, digging into our pockets for a key and white powder to feed someone that OD’ed on a drug that resembles cleaning fluid. If only it worked…
Fast forward, we are taking Armani up the stairs to one of his friend’s places. The fleet at Cool had been mobilized and they were on their way now that the dirty business was done. I opened the door for them, only to realize that Armani had also brought the Gucci Corner to Madrid.
(Background: the Gucci Corner was the corner at the American University in Cairo’s Greek Campus (no longer with us) that consisted of all the page-6 socialites from the American International School and Cairo American College (with the odd Lycee Francais graduate). They are pretty girls, generally fabulous and unfortunately unremarkable. As I went to one of the two American schools, I new them on a strictly “hi, good-bye” basis.)
One of them, with crazy curly blonde hair, walked up to me and said: “M, is he ok?” I assured her he would be. “Good, where’s the kitchen? I need vodka and a fat line.”
Armani regained consciousness at about 9am, embarrassed and apologetic. I was relieved. Just as I was going home, Gucci Corner clone 1 walked into the room with some more charlie and a big smile telling Armani: “Come on big boy, we have to be in Space in 6 hours.”
I slept and woke up in time for Heaven again at 2am the next evening. At this point I was through, tired of the ridiculous consumption, of the clubbing, of living in a complete bubble. I mean Inigo for example was one of a few guys who were literally on their blackberries in Heaven changing their flights in one hand and downing champagne with the other. There are people dying in Gaza. I enjoyed Heaven, but was happy to head home, alone, crash for a few hours and get on the flight to London. I had taken the next day off for detox and recovery but the truth is I felt fine, London’s arctic temperatures actually waking me up.
“Only once a year,” I kept saying to myself, “thank God New Years comes only once a year.”
