Scorpio 1–Back to the basics

It was a beautifully warm and sunny Sunday morning when my sister called to tell me that my father’s health was deteriorating fast and that it was time for me to come home to Cairo and spend some time with him. The seriousness of her tone and the alarm in her words carved a hole through my insides.



I was in bed, with the glare of the sun bleaching my sheets, burning at my face and neck. Wrapped around my torso was Thor, a charming and attractive Norwegian who was in town for the weekend from Oslo. He sensed the weirdness in my voice and sat up somewhat intently. When I was done with my phone call, I sat quietly for a moment before trying to explain. It was an odd situation, trying to spell out a sore emotional spot to someone I’d just met. On a strange level, I was grateful he was there. I needed someone to listen, even if to the few chopped sentences I put together, and I needed a warm body close to mine, even if his interest in me was not very developed in nature.



The next 48 hours were a mad rush to find a spot on an airplane, to retrieve my passport from the Italian embassy that has been holding it hostage, and to get paperwork and work done to allow me a few days of personal time. Eventually, I touched down in Cairo and made it home to evaluate the circumstances for myself.



It’s difficult, seeing someone who has always been so active and full of energy bed-ridden and gasping for air. Though incredibly weak, his situation was more stable than I imagined, and that brought some relief.



The strangeness of being in Cairo on an unannounced, unplanned and family-focused visit resulted in some incredible sensations. For one reason or another, I felt like I was back in my mid teens- an innocent, awkward kid in high school hiding out at his parent’s place. The bed I slept in every night is the same bed I had slept in so long ago, and each night as my head hit the soft pillow my mind would race with memories of childhood dreams. Like every teenager I dreamt and fantasized so often, and they were always dreams of a life I was so anxious to start. A life where I would feel accepted and special; where I would fall in love with a handsome, caring man; where I would achieve the pinnacle of my profession; and where I would leave the confines of this oppressive city and be unashamedly me. I would lie there for hours, staring into the dark ceiling, my very core inspired by the freedom, the love that I knew I would have one day very soon…very soon.



I cannot help thinking that I’ve lost touch with that 15 year old boy. Yes, perhaps he was naïve at times, but his values were simple, his dreams clear and attainable. Never in a million years would I have thought that the true challenge facing me now nearly ten years later is the lack of understanding of what it is that I want. Was I always complex in my needs or have I been confused by my new surroundings? I’m not sure it matters. The truth is life has given me several chances to settle down with someone and be happy, but my indecision and pettiness often got the better of me. My ever-rising standards with my every dwindling tolerance. Where does that leave me?



Thor keeps crossing my mind. We’d only spent 3 nights together, but he already made quite an impression. “Perhaps the brevity of his visit had something to do with the intensity of what we shared,” I say to myself, but just as I try and rationalize and demystify that beautiful weekend I wonder to myself – would 15 year old Moses destroy the chance of a meaningful relationship because he was doubtful if the amazing feelings he had for this person were real? Would the fact that this man lives in Oslo have mattered? I don’t think so. He would have laughed at the idea of feelings being fabricated because of a flight schedule or at the 1.5 hour plane ride between London and Oslo as a serious impediment.



This is what I need to do to every negative or doubtful thought- instill the hopeful, dreamy child within. Back to the basics, people. Back to the basics.

Scorpio–Prelude

“I hope you are all ready,” he looked into his copy of the Zohar before looking back up again at the curious faces, his grin even wider. “Expect it all this month; turbulence, emotional turbulence of to shake the very ground your feet stand on; internal conflict that will tear your insides apart and bring to the surfaced a raw, exposed you, ready to begin anew and rise from the ashes of Scorpio.

“For in this month you will become one of two things: this very phoenix that rises from the ashes and soars into the sky, a glorious powerful being to behold, or a scorpion- laden with poison, treading the endless desert that is your emotional abyss.”

At the time I did not pay much attention beyond what would have been reasonably polite in the circumstances. I was used to grand declarations being made during Shabbat. Drama was part of the show, and only naturally so: the centre catered to wealthy divorcées and flamboyant gay men, with the odd Jew thrown in for good measure.

But it only took a few hours for Marcus’ words to cast their spell.

And further to my last rant on gay marriage

(Slightly outdated news but) Looks like someone in the US finally saw my point! Though he hasn't argued the demotion of marriage, he states clearly that religious establishments are only granted the ability to preform marriage by the state.

READ THIS ARTICLE

Civil Partnership Bells?

Rony and I share respectful friendship based on mutual admiration. Ever since I’ve been out-posted to a bank in London’s financial district, the City, we’ve made a conscious effort to meet up for lunch once every month or so and catch up about all that life has thrown at us.

With my return 3 miles east to the Canary Wharf imminent, we decided to have one last City lunch yesterday. As I’ve been attempting to fast for Ramadan, it was really Rony who was lunching, with me doing more than my usual share of talking.

Our conversations are usually very general. We do not know each other that well, after all, having met through mutual friends and found common ground through the industry we work in. So I was very surprised when Rony reached into his suit pocket and produced an invitation to his wedding. Rony and Vladimir have been together for many years, and I was ecstatic that they were finally tying the knot. In my profuse congratulations I noticed that Rony was visibly nervous about the whole ordeal.

After he’d eaten, we decided to take a short walk through the Royal Exchange. He was in charge of buying the wedding rings, after all, so we started our trek at Cartier. An older, German lady stood behind the impeccable counter and eyed us inquisitively as we walked in. We were shown a rather limited selection of male wedding bands, but Rony decided there was one he wanted to try on. As he slipped the gleaming titanium onto his ring finger, I could see his eyes examine his hand with confusion, almost bewilderment.

“That looks wonderful,” she exclaimed (with the amount of exclamation one would expect from an older German lady).

Rony looked at me, still confused, and said in Arabic, “It looks a little strange, doesn’t it?”

I looked at the lady and quickly said, “Maybe something a little more matte?” Looking at Rony I could see the most endearing look on his face. A little bit of disbelief, a lot of excitement, and just a hint of lovesickness.

“The shine will wear off within a few weeks,” Frau Boring stated, “but perhaps you can return with the young lady and get her opinion as well?”

Rony looked at her, looked down again and muttered “Yes” under his breath. I suppose in his position I wouldn’t have bothered correcting the woman, but I was amazed that at this day an age in central London people are still confident in making the assumption that a man walking in to buy his wedding band would be eloping with a ‘young lady’. My Peter Tatchell moment aside, Rony had clearly lost interest in Cartier and we walked across the atrium to Tiffany’s.

The selection at Tiffany’s was wider, and the more Rony tried on rings, the more at ease he seemed with the idea of a ring. Again, the sales lady made the assumption that a ‘young lady’ would be involved, but after the third ring Rony politely stated: “Actually, it’s a civil partnership, so I will definitely bring him along tomorrow around 4.30 to see which one he prefers as well.”

The sales lady, this time American, repeated her congratulations and invited him and his partner to a private champagne shopping afternoon so that they could spend as much time deciding as they’d like. But as she rambled on I was surprised at how offended I was at the term ‘civil-partnership’.

Yes, in England gay ‘marriage’ is not technically marriage but a civil-partnership. Though most people have done away with the distinction on a social level, legally and semantically the difference remains. Sure, equal rights are afforded under both marriage and civil-partnership, and civil-partnership is open to straight couples as much as it is to gay ones, but I felt that in some way we were still being separated. And as we all know, separate is not equal.

But what defines marriage? Spain, Holland, Canada and Argentina are just some of the countries that have removed the barrier to marriage between members of the same sex, but on a practical level, what does this mean? Marriage is a term as much laden with religious stigma as it is with social expectations. So is that why Rony had to demote his big day to a ‘civil-partnership’? Is marriage an elevation of any sort?

This point has been hashed and rehashed ad nauseum in far too many fora, and I’m not about to delve into it on this semi-serious online rag of mine. But on reflection I feel like I should give my 2 cents worth – why is ‘marriage’ propped up and supported by secular governments? It seems absurd that a mainly religious ceremony and religious contract (even though for the most part people leave God out of it) holds so much weight in everything from how much tax you pay to who has the right to sign your mortgage documents.

To all the glorious crazies on Capitol Hill and in San Francisco, to Boris Johnson who stood up at Gay Pride London and demanded that same-sex couples be allowed to marry – you’re missing the point! What should actually be taking place, what we should be fighting for, is a demotion of ‘marriage’ as an institution recognized by the law. The partnership status of a citizen under a secular government should only be considered in light of any civil union. If Joe and Jane want to have a big church wedding, let them and god bless, but in no way should that have any legal value or weight. Their agreement should be sealed in a civil partnership, and it is purely that civil agreement that should allow them next of kin rights, tax allowances, and healthcare benefits. In theory, the United States’ elusive separation of church and state should have cooked this one up a while ago. But they can’t even get the word “God” off their money.

Contrast

I’m watching my second parent’s health deteriorate, and in many ways it is an all too expected déjà vu. Even though it’s been almost 9 years now, i remember quite clearly the stages i went through as a child, watching my mother slowly lose every faculty she ever maintained. It was not easy, but I think to get through it I had to foster a sort of coldness and blandness, only so I could think past the emotion and do what was expected and what was right. I was too successful in that endeavor- now as I watch my father go through the same, I can barely muster enough sadness for a tear. I watch his deterioration, and I shut down, knowing full well what is to come. I’ve gone through the motions, and I will have to go through them again. I expect nothing less.

 

But what’s interesting, at least to me, is how going through these experiences has enhanced my life. I see diminishing abilities and weak souls and the contrast of life is ever more apparent. The colours around me are brighter, the sounds more beautiful, my youth more glorious. I dance and indulge, for life has only taught me that such pleasure and joys do not last for long, and soon heartache comes knocking.

 

We spend so much time worrying about things – love, friends, money - and never notice how much we have. Health is the most valuable of them all, and if you possess it, you will regret not enjoying it in the future.

 

I am unbelievably lucky, I have more than most people on this planet would ever dream of. In theory, there is never a reason for me to be sad. My experiences are hardly novel or unusual. But I refuse to be sucked in by grief and dismay, death highlights the mystery and beauty of life. And for such perspective I am grateful.

Ménage au... quoi?

For one reason or another, I’ve found myself in the past few months being approached by several couples in respectable parties inquiring as to whether I would be interested in a little partage. In a semi-intoxicated state, I agreed the first time around to play, but, waking up in bed that next morning on the upper-east side sandwiched between two men (and though both were gorgeous) was not an experience that I thought I wanted to repeat any time soon. The guys were clearly completely in love with one another, and I felt like an accessory or Liza Minnelli in her Sex and the City 2 cameo – fabulous but utterly superfluous.

No regrets, after all, because trying is how we learn what it is we want in life, and I’m grateful for that experience.

Last Saturday/Sunday would hold yet another challenge, this time of a somewhat different variety. It started pretty tame – just a few guys relaxing under the sun in Hyde Park - but as the evening progressed the situation grew more and more interesting. Naturally, I blame the mojitos at the Soho Hotel, which we downed with some haste before heading to the Shadow Lounge till 1am. It was then that I got a call from fabulous Roxanne (one of the city’s most infamous cougars) inviting us to her glorious demi-mansion for frolic. Since we were relatively well dressed, we agreed and made our way there.

Roxanne’s parties always have a guest-list that throws you slightly off-balance. I walked in and tried to blend into the background of designers and members of middle-eastern royal families. I recognized a designer (lets call him Max), though, and my love for his work drove me to break the unspoken rule that exists when you are in the presence of celebrities (i.e. no sucking up or any fan-like behaviour) and I went up to show him his cuff links that I happened to be wearing. Max was pleasant, but it wasn’t long before his boyfriend (Luciano) arrived at the scene and showed his utter delight at my conversation. Max did not seem to be impressed by his partner’s very obvious advances, and I was glad that was the case, because there was no way in hell I was going to have another threesome.

Luciano’s overt passes continued through the night. We moved onto party #2 at 3am, and party #3 and 5am, and more or less the same group of people was present. At some point Luciano managed to corner me on the way to the bathroom and tell me that he really wanted us to play that night. I told him that he had a boyfriend that I couldn’t possibly go through with anything of that sort. He said his boyfriend was ‘very okay’ with it and that it I should reconsider. To appease him (and to get to the bathroom), I gave him my number and said we could all get together soon for dinner or something. Clearly BS, but I was desperate to pee.

I got home at around 7am and crashed for a few hours. When I got up, naturally I felt like doing nothing but ordering food and watching a movie. Ironically, A Good Woman was playing on BBC iPlayer that day, and I watched Helen Hunt thrive as Mrs Erlynne, the home-wrecking leech mistress to the rich and famous.

Half-way through the movie I got a call from an unknown number. The country code was French, so I picked up. It was Luciano.

“I’m in Paris, had to leave after the party, how are you?” He began. I said I was fine, and thanked him for his hospitality that morning (party #3 was at his loft). He said I was welcome and that he would really like to see me when he got back from his trip. I had no energy to rebut him, so I said we would speak when he returned from Paris. He was pleased I was at least giving it some thought, and I was pleased that I could get back to my movie without event.

He’s not asking for a threesome, and Max is not a friend of mine, but that’s not why I have no desire for this. Luciano is attractive, but I cannot be approached or viewed as the “mistress” as it were. People will start hiding their husbands around me, and just like Mrs Erlynne was cast out from New York I would say good-bye to the portion of my social life that involves decent individuals. Not only that, I am actually trying to start going on regular, human dates that have real prospects.

I am tired of wasting myself away at this crap.

Change

One of the most memorable scenes from one of the most amazing television series ever made, Angels in America, is when the delusional Mormon girl Harper sits in front of a the plastic figure of the Mormon Mother, and asks her:

“In your experience of the world, how do people change?”

The Mormon Mother comes to life and responds: “Well it has something to do with God, so it's not very nice… God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in, he grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp but he squeezes hard, he insists, he pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out and the pain! We can't even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back, dirty, tangled and torn. It's up to you to do the stitching."

Harper: “And then up you get. And walk around.”

Mormon Mother: “Just mangled guts pretending.”

Harper: “That's how people change."

Is that how people change? It must be, because in my experience, people rarely do change. If they do, it is because something terrible, something unspeakable has ‘mangled’ their insides.

It terrifies me to think of this, every time I say to myself I need to make a fundamental change in my life. The truth is, there are a lot of things I’d like to change. I’d like to be less dependent on alcohol et al, I’d like to stop wanting to control everything and everyone around me, I want to be more appreciative of simplicity, and cut out from my life everyone who only robs me of positive energy.

Yes, there are a lot of things that I want, but do I have the willpower to go through a process that will inevitably be excruciating and whose results are unforeseeable? It is very comfortable staying in this bubble of mine, but something is pushing for more- more value out of every-day life, less dependency. But what does heeding this call mean? How/where do I start?

I’ve tried getting out of the country for a while, to see if I can get into a good swing of things and return on a positive note (eat well, sleep well, exercise, avoid human contact beyond family). That didn’t work for very long. Back from NY, Saturday I ended up going to some the most pretentious, obnoxious and indulgent cocktail parties I’ve ever been to, in a row. Newtonian physics had their way again: my attempt to rid myself of something bounced back at me with equal force in the opposite direction.

Escaping the country does not solve any problems because that in of itself is a bubble. The battle needs to be fought at the frontier, London. But what do I do? Stop speaking to my ‘friends’? Try and make new ones? Both very difficult propositions, and no guarantee that I won’t just attract the same kind of people again.

Then I thought, maybe I need a boyfriend… The truth is, I really don’t want one, but it may be the case that having someone demand so much of my attention on a weekly basis could ground me more, give me something to focus on. But it’s hard, because my heart/mind are just not there yet. I’ve tried, I’ve been on a lot of dates, but not one has made a lasting impression. Where do you go from here?

Then, of course, there’s the obvious option that I’ve also exhausted a few times. A therapist. But why would it work this time?

Frustrated,

M

Notes

Notes scribbled on yellow post-its. If he dies tomorrow, he knows those will be the most valuable traces he has left of his life on this earth. Simple, honest, joyous expressions of love, jotted on transient pieces of paper. He usually used a black pen, but sometimes it was blue. His handwriting was bold, with long curves and playful strokes for all his capital letters, their lower-cased counterparts stitched together in eager cursive. Sometimes it was one word, his lover’s name with an exclamation point, as if through the post-it his lover could experience how his heart had called out for him at that moment. Sometimes it was a small phrase, or even just a doodle. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t what was on those post-its that mattered.

It was where and when they were found that made all the difference. In the beginning, he would hide them all over his lover’s apartment, in places he knew he would see them, but only eventually, after they’d parted for the week on Monday. Sometimes he would leave one under a pillow, to say goodnight. Sometimes in a shoe, to wish him a beautiful day. Notes scribbled on yellow post-its turned into a way of managing long-distance affection and yearning.

But alas, the years went by, and one day they parted ways for good. It isn’t sad. Their friendship, the most important part of their relationship, remained. But now and again a folder would come loose, or the contents of a drawer would shift a certain way, and one of those yellow post-its would suddenly surface, like a relic from another age. He would pick up it up, fold it neatly and file it with all the photos and all the cards, and the hundreds of yellow post-it notes in his wardrobe.

The Test

When I was a fifth-grader, I sat in Ms Jill’s science class laughing hysterically one day. She had just brought up a topic I’d never even heard of before. HIV. What a silly disease it sounded like when I was 10. I laughed at the idea of people sharing dirty syringes at hospitals, or being stupid enough to put two open wounds in contact. HIV was for idiots, I thought. And it wasn’t just me, all of us little know-it-all fifth-graders walked out of our science class joking about how so and so was HIV+ for scraping their knee playing basketball and using the someone else’s shower.

Of course, at the time, Ms Jill wasn’t at liberty to say that people could get it by loving one another.

That information came later on, from multiple sources. I remember, when I lived in Egypt, how I thought it was a foreign disease, affecting those poor African people south of the Sahara, and those reckless homosexuals in Europe and North America.

Boy was I wrong. By the age of 18 I’d already had two near misses. One Egyptian guy, and one Lebanese. With the former, I’d taken him and his friend home with me one night after a long party, and the three of us fucked like rabbits till 9am. I’d run out rubber, but that wasn’t going to stop the mad teenager within. With the latter, I’d dated him for 3 months, and we’d only fucked without a condom once. In both cases I was extremely lucky (if you can call yourself that for sleeping with someone who’s HIV+ without a condom) – they contacted me roughly 3 months after we’d done the deed and told me they were positive. I was lucky in the sense that they told me after any incubation period for the virus (6 weeks) had lapsed, which meant I could go get an HIV test right away and the results would cover the period when we’d slept together. Had they told me any sooner I would have been in the horrible situation of having to wait for my sentencing until the 6 weeks were over. I was lucky in another sense – in both cases I came out negative.

Since then I’ve been getting regular check ups, roughly every 6 months. It is probably one of the most terrifying things on my bi-annual calendar. Your mind races through the faces, the bodies, the nights you’ve spent, the mistakes you’ve made. You wonder why God punishes man’s most basic and primal instinct. In your mind you see all the faces of all those children in sub-Saharan Africa who were born with it, and you wonder if you will have something in common with them after all. But worst of all you think about those people you know who have it, and what their lives have become. Drug addiction, recklessness, super-infection. A fist-full of pills every morning, a face both tired and pulled from the medication. Wandering eyes looking around at all the forbidden fruit. Self-loathing.

Of course, not everyone reacts to it that way. There have been people who have refused to let it dominate their life, their identity and have been leading extraordinary and fulfilling lives. But that takes strength of character, and you don’t get that very often in gay men.

So when my sexual health clinic texted me my blood report this morning with an all-clear, I said a silent prayer for all those that haven’t been so lucky, may the Creator be with them in every step and comfort their broken hearts.

How to get the partner of your dreams (but only if you care to look)

What makes irony so amusing is the symmetry it produces. We see something as ironic when we realize that, in its subtleties, the truth has somehow reflected itself to produce 2 sides of the same coin.

 

Take, for instance, modern individualism. Today it’s all about me. And you. And him, and her. Separate islands with few bridges. We have literally fought wars and sprung revolutions for the sake of individuality and personal liberty. Yet, when you look at the entirety of our civilizations as they stand today, no fact is more apparent than our helpless Dependency. On finding the right person, on the ideology that without such person life is meaningless or unfulfilled.

 

Consider the countless books, poems, blogs (like this one), movies, songs ad infinitum all geared to play on your Dependency. Billboards and banners surround us in every direction designed to speak only to your genitalia, and you can’t even buy a coffee maker without George Clooney’s face beaming at you from behind it. Despite our delusions of self-grandeur and our millennia of philosophy and civilization, we are predictable and dull creatures.

 

As much as I struggle with the thought, and despite many an attempt by a bed-mate to convince me otherwise, I am human. I am, therefore, by default, predictable and dull. I want to find the right partner, but lately I feel like this is more what I am expected to want than the reality. Nevertheless, with this apathy I’ve gained perspective, and my experience and beliefs have provided me with a lesson that I might as well try and share:

 

How to find Mr/Ms Right

1. Know what you want

 

Nothing is more tragic then seeing people running around like headless chickens latching on to the first half-decent thing that gets thrown their way. I’ve had my fair share of  relationship “hunter-gatherer” days, scavenging bars, dating websites, and even the occasional cooking class for Prince Charming. Not my most glorious moments.

 

If you remember from your history books, hunter-gatherers ended their volatile, nomadic lifestyle with the agricultural revolution. Instead of scavenging like a pack of hyenas, man (having discovered the purpose of a seed) began to settle down and decide on what it was they wished to grow. Their land brought many returns and the fruit was always bountiful. Subsistence farming cradles all human civilization. So what can we learn from that?

 

Like the first farmers, the first step is always knowing what it is you want. No, don’t pull out that pencil and paper and make a checklist for your perfect man. (“Dear Diary, My Prince Charming will be blonde, 6ft 3, with a French accent and a flower tattooed on his right butt-cheek”) You are limiting your world that way and setting yourself up for failure. Instead, as you fall asleep one night, close your eyes and imagine what it is that you may look for in someone that will make you feel secure, loved, and wanting to be the best version of your own self for them. Make a mental note of that feeling, of that desire, and of the kind of person that is going to share with you all that.

 

Dating without knowing what it is you want is like trying to buy a bottle of “red wine” in Napa. Sure, you will derive random and inconsistent benefits from winging it and just picking the first winery on the hill, but if you know before hand that nothing enlivens your taste-buds like a Cabernet-Merlot from Clos Pegase then that’s where true satisfaction lies.

 

Once you know what it is you are looking for, and believe  you me it is harder than you think , you will be ready for (the final) stage:

 

2. Know that you will get what you want

This is the most difficult, yet in some ways the most obvious. Man’s biggest error is in thinking that his circumstances are beyond his control. “Oh if only I was thinner/smarter/richer/hotter, I would get what I want sooo easily,” wistfully sighs the single being.  What’s wrong with this sentence? One thing – doubt. For example:

 

A) If you aspire to be thinner/smarter/richer/hotter, then you have to realize that what separates you from achieving your goal is the doubt that you ever will get there. On some level you doubt your ability to succeed, to make the right sacrifices, to push forward and have what you want. For if you know and, and I mean you really are certain, that you will be thinner/smarter/richer/hotter, almost as if it is your god-given right, then your energy will align itself and your ambition will match what it is that your subconscious mind has planted into the world.

 

B) No amount of fat, stupidity, nor poverty at this point in time can stop you from meeting the “right person” that you have imagined. If you doubt this for a second think of all the times you’ve run into the most bizarre creatures, only to discover they are dating someone that can slow down the pace of time with one bat from their irresistible eye-lashes. What has this bizarre creature done to deserve this fountain of beauty? I’m sure there are multiple layers to any such relationship, but fundamentally, he or she has inner confidence and strength, certainty in their ability to succeed and thinking of “happily ever after” as a question of “when” not “if”.

 

***

I am aware that all the above takes quite a bit of philosophical fortitude. The lesson above needs to be internalized, not just read. If you believe in the lesson, then you will believe in the outcomes it promises. Did I ever mention that “M” stands for Moses?

 

Well, Moses can’t get past level 1 at the moment. His experience with relationships and lovers has confused him– what is he looking for in someone? But just because Moses is lagging behind doesn’t mean you have to, too. Run ahead, my younglings, and carpe diem.

 

Happy farming.

 

M

Poem from the Underground

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

W.B. Yeats

Porcelain

“Thank you for coming to meet me, baby.” JS looked at me and his eyes were dancing with tears.

 

I had just gotten into the car, the rush hour bustle of Sloane Square and the icy wind still evident in my demeanor. I put my phone and umbrella to one side and looked at him, calming down, “You’re welcome honey, you know I’d do anything for you,” I hinted. It didn’t work. After a few second of him avoiding eye contact, I finally asked, “What’s wrong? I left work an hour early just to see you before you have to go to your dinner.”

 

He looked at me again and the twinkling tears now formed steady streams. My heart stung. JS was emotional but this was a lot even for him. I put one hand on his cheek and wiped off some of the moisture. “What’s wrong honey?”

 

His big, brown eyes looked at me with anguish. “I’m moving to Chicago in a month.” The words came out of his mouth slowly, as if each letter coming out of his mouth were carrying an unfathomable burden.

 

I felt my eyes blur for a millisecond as my thoughts registered. “You found a job? Honey, that's GREAT!”

 

Yes, this was the emotion I was supposed to feel, joy. His long and treacherous 14 months of unemployment have taken their toll on him, on me, on everyone in our vicinity. But now here we are, a month away from the day he puts his days in London behind him. Puts me behind him.

 

The strangeness of the situation must be commented on. JS and I are not together. We haven’t been for almost 2 years. Yet we know that in the 3 years we spent with one another the bond we formed was unusual. He knows me like no one else, and I like to think the opposite is true. In the time we’ve spent apart we’ve both dated, with varying degrees of success, and given other people a real opportunity to make their own marks on our lives. But on those nights when we sit in front of the TV with a bottle of wine, our tongues would betray our pride and admit to one another that nobody has even come close to what we had.

 

“I’m so happy for you,” I said, honestly, but my voice was overcome with confusion. I couldn’t imagine him not living down the street from me. I couldn’t imagine church on Saturday, or my favorite restaurant, the River Café, without him. He is part of the very fabric of my life here.

 

Luckily, I’m not blessed with the gift of tears, or emotional manifestations in general, so I looked him right in the eye as he softly whimpered. “You should be happy.”

 

“I am. I just can’t imagine leaving you behind,” he stammered. That makes two of us. Maybe it was the healthiest thing. I sat in the passenger seat, immobile and waited him out, wiping his tears with my thumb every few seconds. “Come on, I’ll take you home,” he said.

 

The car moved smoothly through Holbein Place, down to Pimlico Square and up Buckingham Palace Road. He held on to my hand the whole way. I looked out the window but saw nothing but my faint reflection in the glass.

 

Outside my building door, his grip tightened around my hand. I looked at him and he’d stopped crying. There was a new determination in his face. He leaned over and put his head against my shoulder. I rested my head against the chair and closed my eyes.

 

Seconds later he lifted his head and, in slow motion, moved his lips to my ears. He whispered something softly. A smile slowly formed on my face as the words kept flowing. Nothing ever made more sense. I looked at him and held his beautiful face between my palms. “Of course.”

Six Acre Meadow

Ophelia – John Millais

When the Pre-Raphaelites, including Millais, brought their revolution to the world of 19 century art, their message appeared desperate:

Enough with the broad brushes; rid us of the bold strokes, the clean lines and the sanitized art that Raphael forced upon the European Renaissance. The masterpiece is evidenced in its flaws… inconsistency breeds realism… and the world is nothing but the assembly of countless minute brush strokes.

Sometimes it's difficult to contain such grand philosophy to painting technique and not let it run free in our minds.

Seratonin

Beyond all wrong-doing
and all right-doing
is a field.
I will meet you there.

- Jalaludin Al-Rumi



What is “sin” for a mystic like Rumi? For anyone who takes it upon themselves to pursue spiritual enlightenment in ways that disregard and often offend religious dogma?

Sin is whatever distracts one from the path of edification. Accordingly, it is impossible to pinpoint what sin is prior to identifying where this path lies. I have many times gone through life like a zombie, satisfying my body without really trying to take that satisfaction and turn it into an energy that can transform my life.

But, what if sin leads to an awakening or an epiphany of sorts? Does that not make it part of the path? Who unleashed the snake Satan into the garden of Eden? Was it not God? Adam and Eve were destined to fail, and so are we. But, one hopes, failure is part of the process.

I am a sinner, and my sins are many. I have hurt, but mostly myself, and as a result the need for change has not been immense. I say, the only sins that remain so are the ones you have not learned anything from.

--------

I danced my heart out on Saturday. My body swayed and thrusted to the heavy bass and crisp vocals of Lady Gaga as she opened her Monster Ball with the words “Silicone. Saline. Poison…Inject me”. It was all I could do not to collapse from exhaustion, from my severely low levels of seratonin, and it took a few Irish coffees for me to be even standing meters away from her gyrating body under the dome of the O2.

Rewind, it’s Thursday.


By 8pm I was feeling a little anxious. Going out in London on Fridays and Saturdays can be unpalatable. The city is crawling with out-of-town drunken revelers and mad locals alike. Understanding this, and since both Jared and Rodrigo were visiting from NY and Rio respectively, we decided we’d take them out whilst the city is still in good shape. I blamed my anxiousness on the fact that I had a lot of work the next day and didn’t want to stay out too late. But perhaps I should have rethought the guest list in light of this glaring fact.

Most of us 'pre-gamed’ at my place. This is where the madness begins, and as of late the magnitude has been steadily rising. The bottles of Belvedere and Goldwasser came out, but so did the neat packs of cocaine and mephodrome. Drugs have always been around. They always will be. The same can be said for the social stigma surrounding them, for which I care very little. What concerns me, above all else, is my safety. Knowing very well that I am a sinner, I draw a balance between enjoyment and cautiousness, one that I have maintained very well.

But, that night, I began to loose track of how many lines I’d had. Maybe it was my exhaustion, or the need for escape from some of the harsh realities that surrounded me at the time, but I did not stop. At 3am, on the dancefloor with some of my girlfriends from high-school who have been equally indulging, I was on a plane I’d never been before. My confidence was extreme, my awareness heightened. In a moment, I saw him from the corner of my eye, the person I would drag to my cave tonight and consume like a lion ravaging a zebra. I wasted no time in walking up to him and, as I approached him, I realized that I already knew him (Derek). I’d always been interested, but he’d been dating someone up until recently. He saw me coming and beamed a smile. I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Back at my place the pace was slow and intense. We both kept doing lines as our hearts raced and eyes took in the vibrant colors. We had sex for hours, sex of an intensity and sensuality I have very rarely experienced. The cocaine delayed our orgasms for at least an hour at a time, allowing us to make the most of every single touch. When we were finished, the sun had come up, for the first time in weeks, there were no clouds smothering it. That’s when I remembered work.

-----

“Silicone! Saline! Poison…Inject me baby!” Gaga hollered at the sea of people and flashing cameras. I had survived the Friday at work, productively even, but more than ever I felt like a monster. I had no intention of seeing Derek again, though he had consistently called me since that out-of-body experience in the first hours of Friday. I wasn’t going to call because I  felt like a cheap, coked-up stereotype, and all he would do is remind me of this. When did I become this person? Serial sex, extreme indulgence, leaving people hanging in tandem after I promised them the world?

I have sinned. But it remains to be seen whether this sin will be a lesson that justifies all harm or another evening under-rug-swept, eating away at my soul.

Return of a Roundhead

When I first started this blog, I wanted it to be a place where I can lay out events and thoughts in their most raw and exposed form – a sort of therapy, so that maybe one day when I read through posts of periods past I could detect a pattern, good or bad being irrelevant, but perhaps enlightening. Over the years I feel to an extent that I’ve lost that, and fell into the trap of turning this into a Perez Hilton meets Carrie Bradshaw. In other words, dull and pseudo-thoughtful.

 

Now there’s little guarantee that those words don’t actually describe me. But at the very least, going forward, I’m going to resist the pressures of conformity and write as openly as I can. Some of what’s to come may, therefore, be disturbing. As this is generally an anonymous blog, I care little about judgment, however for those of you who know me, consider yourself on a license to view, I plead.

Gaijin

Defiantly, I held my boarding pass and passport in one hand and my carry-on goodie bag (complete with iPod, books, sleeping pills, motion sickness sniffer, eye-mask, moisturiser and a forest of Reese's) in the other, all the while thinking about the 10 days of absolute isolation and estrangement that were to come and save me from two months of cosmic battery.

And "just like that" (i.e. 14 fucking hours later), I was sitting on the Narita Express heading to "downtown" Tokyo. In that smooth gliding train-car, I remembered why I had travelled this far alone. I watched this foreign world go by in high-definition and, looking around me at all the signs, words and even objects that I could not even begin to understand, the excitement started to rumble in my chest. I was, finally, alone and free. I had flipped the coin, and very well. I went from information overload, over-communication, over-exposure and disarray to silence, reclusiveness and Japanese efficiency. Nobody spoke English. My phone had run out of batteries and I refused to charge it for the duration of my stay. My computer was snuggled on my couch in London. What bliss, I was ready for my adventure.

And indeed, I spent 10 days roaming the claustrophobic island between bullet trains, Zen temples nestled in mountains, and one of the most energetic cities I have every visited.

Tokyo's intensity was a shock. There is no "downtown" Tokyo because all of it is super-urban and super-crowded. Every corner is a Times Square, a Piccadilly Circus. Lights blaze down on you from every inch of every building. People move like schools of fish in spectacular harmony. As I understood nothing of what was going on around me, I walked around with my Lonely Planet close to hand (whilst I would usually feel self-conscious about bearing such an atrocious token of the League of Straight Dull Back-Packers, I had no shame in doing so in Tokyo: this city is one place where I was going to stick out as a Gaijin (a foreigner) no matter what I did).

Alas it was spectacular fun. Though I understood nothing, everyone was kind in ways I could not begin to describe, and honesty is central to their culture, so nobody ever tried to take advantage of my glaring ignorance.

About 4 days into the trip, I levelled with myself and decided to cut through some of the BS – bullet trains with full view of Mount Fuji are fun, and I did go through a rebirth ritual or two in Kyoto – but when you get right down to it, nothing says spiritual cleanse like a brand new wardrobe and shiatsu massage.

So, after a killer massage by a highly experienced and disappointingly unattractive masseur, I attempted to go shopping.

As with everything in that city, what was on offer was astonishing. The clothes were unlike anything I had ever seen before. "Camp" took on a whole new meaning. There was real creativity in design, in fabric and in structure. No hang ups about fur, knee high red boots, or silk and studded shirts. But after the third fitting room it started to dawn on me – I'm a fat bitch! I'm an XL Gaijin. Most stores didn't even hold my size. Ok, I'm a European Medium, and an American Small, depending on whether we're talking haute couture or Zara, but my body has never been wrapped in anything marked with an "L" (unless you're talking leather Louboutin). So whilst accepting the fact that I am classified as a cow (a Gaijin cow) in Tokyo, I was not ready to accept that I was going to go home empty handed. Alas, I found a pair of silver metallic "come-fuck-me" half-boots and an equestrian blazer, but had I starved myself for a few months prior I would have come home with so much more. (Stay tuned.)

In any event, after my shopping escapades failed (though truthfully, just browsing the fabulous stores was enough to give me the kick), I turned to my other past-time: partying. I was debating whether I wanted to go to an 'institutional' club or just the local gay hole in the wall. I soon learned that the latter was not a very preferable option for Gaijin, and I spent about an hour in the former before realising that people in Japan still listen to techno at 170 beats per minute and that my ears may actually start bleeding (note to reader: since the advent of minimal techno in 2004, respectable European techno rarely passes 120 bpm threshold). Alas, I hit "Arty Farty", a London Soho-style bar with your average cheesy music collection and 15 year old prostitutes. I looked down at the crowd (I was the tallest one there) and realised, here's another relaxing thing about Japan: I felt zero sexual tension. So I met up with some friends that had been seconded in Tokyo for work and we drank and debauched to the extent possible.

On the Narita Express back to the airport the sun was just coming up. Its rays bounced off of the steel and glass of the buildings on either side of the tracks. My head rested against the large spotless window with my iPod whispering in my ears. The conductor would occasionally make an indecipherable announcement in his soft respectful voice. I did not want to go back to London – to the stress, the sleepless nights and the cold, damp streets. But I knew I did not belong in Tokyo. Though I am lucky I even got to experience this country, it is a parallel universe. I closed my eyes and fell asleep as the train slithered between high-rises.

The Edge of Reason

Wallowing in misfortune is not only dull, it is disrespectful to your intellect. It is a clue to the fact that you have lost perspective on your own life. But, of course, removing yourself from the pattern of negativity is easier said than done. It takes awareness of every negative thought that passes through you so that you can stop it in its tracks, turn it around, and send it creeping in the other direction.

And so after the breakdown of the two most important friendships I held in this city, I did not curl up with my laptop and a jar of Nutella, as I was inclined to do. Instead, I called up A&R (see Line of Beauty) and made an emphatic appeal as to how we should do something fun and different in the coming weekend. After the success of our tranny night, we owed it to ourselves to go exploring the depths of all the alternative gay scenes in London.

A decision was made, perhaps a little too hastily. The outfits were bought. And on Friday night just before midnight, 3 leathered up boys in harnesses, boots, studded collars, chaps, masks and whips walked across covent garden (to the horror of some tourists) and hailed a cab for the Hoist.

At the front door, our outfits were meticulously checked. I was told the Jeans I was wearing under my chaps had to go, which meant that I was therefore in a leather thong for the rest of the night. The doorman tightened my harness and winked at the black band on my left arm. We rolled into the ‘club’, and i use the term loosely. The space was claustrophobic and labyrinthine, strong spotlights showered a direct ray of light below them and left the surrounding areas in gradual darkness. The smell of leather and sweat was invigorating. Music pounded but nobody danced, there was far too much testosterone in the air for that.

A&R and I made it to the bar, got some drinks, and then reached into our boots for our pouches: sexual stimulants, stimulants in general, associated utensils and condoms. We laid them out on the bar with our drinks and began mixing and matching. I felt like I was in East Berlin. Noises started to become more audible from the back rooms.

After a swig of courage, we started to make our way through the dark corridors. More than a hundred men were prowling, not a single word being said. Two hoists were being put to good use, with one guy getting double fisted in one, and the another guy double fucked in another. Deeper into the maze, we came to ceramic clearing, where about 20 men were urinating on one another. Further on, the sound of clinking metal and cries of pain was getting louder. Metal bars were scraping against the body armour of one man as he was being flogged with a large horse-whip.

The three of us watched all of this in amazement. The animalism was extreme and we weren’t sure whether it was arousing or disgusting. Nobody looked like they were doing anything they weren’t accustomed to doing.

We felt like outsiders, like tourists, gawking at everything that looked out-of-this-world, occasionally giggling at certain sites, and downright intimated when someone attempted to grab our genitalia or engage us in the relentless orgy.

For all the weirdness, I felt a certain excitement in experiencing a different thread in the the diverse fabric that is human sexuality. This is just how they roll in 2010 in the dungeons of London. Will I go back? Maybe in the spirit of fun, but probably never to engage in any of this madness.

Empire State of Mind

Nader did his best to snuggle up under the thick, crispy hotel duvet. He checked his watch: 4.00am. Sleep was not in the stars this night it seemed. Having arrived in Manhattan just before midnight, he assumed exhaustion would take over and allow him a few blinks.  He wasn’t sure if it was his recent 3 month bout of insomnia, or just old fashioned jet lag, that made the idea of sleep inconceivable.

It was Tuesday night. For a minute he considered getting up and going out for a drink, but decided it would be 5am by the time he made it anywhere, and that would be too ambitious for a Tuesday night even for this city. His laptop was within arm’s reach, he pulled it towards him and threw open its lid. Manhunt, the only way to kill enormous amounts of time without ever a moment of boredom. His eyes scanned the assortment of faces, torsos and genitalia. He wasn’t aroused, but he was sufficiently entertained. The steady stream of messages in his inbox appeased his ego enough to keep him hooked and going. Like his insomnia, Manhunt put him in a state of semi-consciousness. His perusal and movements were robotic.

Before he knew it, daylight was creeping into the room. Nader jumped out of bed and into some running shoes, Hollister sweat-pants and a polo shirt. It was –6 degrees outside, but he knew once his body started heating up he wouldn’t need to wear anymore for his run.

Outside the fog was clearing up and the sun bounced off the million panes of steel and glass spectacularly as the urban jungle smothered Central Park. The lakes were frozen, Bethesda stood delicately beyond the arches, and park rangers were making their rounds. Nader’s heart raced as he sped through the lifeless trees.
Back at the hotel, Nader held the elevator door open for a handsome gentleman that had just checked-in early. Feeling slightly self-conscious about his sweaty state, Nader stayed quiet. When it transpired that this intriguing stranger had actually checked into the room across the hall, Nader volunteered smoothly “Hey, we’re neighbors.”

The man, 5’11’’, tanned with piercing grey eyes and a wide smile replied back “Are you sure you’re not just stalking me?”

Out-maneuvered, Nader laughed awkwardly and turned to his room. Later that night, he began feeling anxiety as he realized the number of hours he’d spent awake. In his bathroom mirror the whites of his eyes were no longer so. Red rivers pulsed through them, forking their way to his iris like devil’s fingers. He walked to his closet door, and threw it open.

Clad in leather, metal and mink, Nader zigzagged his way around the island from bar to bar to club to bar with an assortment of former lovers and friends. His vodka never ran dry, and despite his exhaustion, he never felt drunk.

Back at his hotel at 4am, he decided to give its heaving bar a short visit for a nightcap. Just because he could do so with more ease than anyone else. Being a guest at the hotel meant there was a separate entrance that he could use to skip the dull line and intimidating bouncers (“Now where y’all from? Can ah see sum aahhdee?”).
The room was heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and New York swagger. His leather diva outfit turned a few surprised eyes, but they knew better than to comment lest they be known forevermore as “tunnel and bridge”. At the bar, he was two sips into his vodka rocks when a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned around slowly and it was his hotel neighbor, smiling barely. His eyes were now even more transparent in ambient glow of the bar, and full of questions. Nader extended his hand, which with the exception of his fingers was still covered in sharp metal and rugged leather, and held the back of the handsome strangers neck. He pulled it in, and the man submitted. They kissed slowly, but intensely. For the first time in days, Nader suddenly felt like his eyes wanted to stay shut.

Recovering from the sweet taste of this man’s mouth, Nader slowly regained consciousness. He had another sip of his drink and took him by the hand back through the private exit to the 10th floor.

In Nader’s room, the clothes were peeled off in haste as they both remained lip-locked. Nader forcibly turned him around and pushed his naked body against the wall. He got down onto the floor and began slowly to taste his prey’s skin with the tip of his tongue. First the back of the ankles…his calves…his thighs…his tongue gently making its way to his anus as the short hairs tickled its tip. His neighbor moaned violently.

***
The next morning, Nader realized he’d actually gotten some sleep. Two and a half hours. A miracle. He felt an unbelievable amount of energy. Next to him, his lover was also already awake, running his fingers through Nader’s hair. “I like your hair.”

Nader looked at him and thought, ‘Your eyes are not human.’

Within 2 hours, his lover had departed for Los Angeles.

Nader lay awake in his lifeless bed. The contrast was noticeably severe.

The events of his days in room 1077 in Manhattan’s Hudson Hotel did not change significantly over the coming days. Then, one night, as he lay in bed, his eyes bloodshot and his lover asleep, he slipped into last night’s jeans and put on a heavy shirt and coat. His bag was packed, and his flight was in 2 hours. He planted a gentle kiss onto his bedmate’s cheek and explained gently that he could stay until noon before the room was due for check-out.

In the street, Nader pulled behind him his bag on its silent rollers. It was 6.30 am. Sunrise was an hour away, and the forest of skyscrapers, usually lit up randomly and intensely, was pitch black with darkness. He could see their silhouette just barely traced against a sky of deep purple. Like a silent army, poised, lifeless, they stared down at him. His hand shot up at the sight of the first yellow cab. “JFK,” he grunted, wrapping a scarf around his neck and holding on tensely to his passport.

Update

So, I've been away. For a while. But I have had a few excuses, summaries in the latest email to JS below:

"I feel crushed, but I guess this had to happen at some point. Though I always knew you were gallivanting, I never had a problem with it so long as it was out of my sight. But not only did you push your desperate predatory behaviour in my face by pursuing PAE, one of my best friends, you didn't even respect my feelings enough to ask me whether it was ok, or at the very least warn me. I feel like I was owed at least that much. My gut sank so far that day on nye when you two were outside my flat to pick me up. I chose to ignore the signs and give you the benefit of the doubt. I thought, he would never do this to me, not now, not when I'm preoccupied with the knowledge of my father's terminal illness. I was so wrong.

But then again, I was wrong about a lot of things. Most unfortunately, I was wrong in thinking that you were different, that you weren't like every other gay man in this city. I believed that you probably wouldn't have anonymous sex off gaydar, or ever rub my face in your exploits. It really is like I don't even know who you are. Where was this latent persona? Listening to you talk at the dinner table on new-years-day about your man-whore days, I should have guessed, though at 50 you'd think things would be different. Why did I always think that I was the one that fell short of your expectations? You have always had such strong convictions, and I relentlessly judged myself against them. I was such a fool.

But your moral failure and my resulting pain is not the entire reason why I am crushed. I am crushed because the odd truth is, you're as good as it gets out there in this world. If this is who and how you are, what chance in hell do I have to meet someone worthy of my time? Why do we keep living knowing that fundamental failure is inevitable? Why am I writing this email to you, when I know beyond reasonable doubt you will never apologise or try and make it up to me? My hopeless optimism is only pitiful. You have proved my so far infallible theory – that getting too close to anyone invariably means immeasurable pain.


Good luck with your life."