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.
Sunday 31 May 2009
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.
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