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!

Spring Insomnia

Leaves awakening
Daylight tangles through branches
Hear the rays whisper

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

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…

***************

"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.

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.

The End is Nigh

It is virtually impossible to avoid the media frenzy that has consumed the world over the past few days. Pig flu? At least SARS had an ominous and foreign ring to it. Spanish influenza sounds more like a dance and even the bubonic plague hints biblical glory. What an unglamorous way to go, a pig virus.

Of course, in my kidding I disguise uneasiness. Though I'm not quite ready to get on the mask-wearing, news-channel flipping, hypochondriac bandwagon, the notions of apocalypse that follow any forecast of a pandemic excite me.

The recording angel opens its hundred eyes and snaps the spine of the Book of Life.

What is it about eschatology that rouses a primordial yearning within people? And all the same…scorn! When that clan in Russia trapped itself underground last year in bitterly cold permafrost, certain that the end of the world would come within days, I wondered as to the value of eschatology beyond the feeling of control that it gives people. The finality and the end of mystery excite those who dwell in Armageddon.

Correlation(ships)

The weekend brought more sunshine than the BBC would have ever dared to publicly admit. The unspoken rule is, when in doubt, forecast rain. If the sun creeps out, everyone will be in too good a mood to care about inept predictions. But if the opposite had happened, their credibility would have been at stake. I would march in protest if the weatherman had me out on a Saturday in hot shorts and sunglasses, only to be drenched in rain.

So on a lazy sunny weekend Roy, Suli, Yolanda and I sat out on Roy's roof terrace having something bubbly to drink and barbequing hamburgers, with Regents Park and the whole vista of London before us. It was picture perfect, though a chilly wind was picking up.

Not long into our lounging, in walked Romanus, and I nearly choked. Romanus was the size of a bus. Not fat, no no, he was 100% steroidal (and after what must have been a morning under the UV rays of a sunbed) roast beef. Had he not been wearing a ridiculous pair of denim shorts and a navy blue wife-beater, I would have easily assumed he was a professional bodybuilder.

His effeminate clothes provided a contrast that was difficult to appreciate, especially after 3 glasses of champagne. Though, in truth, I struggled in my head to put him in any outfit that would even match the uber-masculinity his body seemed to suggest. Romanus did have saving graces- he was sweet, unassuming and handsome. Roy told me that he used to be thinner than I am (which, for the unprivileged who haven't met me, would amount to emaciated), though Roy himself admits he was much more attractive back then. The current Romanus was a result of a couple of years' worth of injections and plastic surgery.

As the evening progressed I noticed something else that struck me about Romanus. He was brutally honest about himself, in the way that victims of war or cancer patients sometimes are, reducing events and experiences that undoubtedly were very painful to an austere matter-of-factness that sometimes makes others uncomfortable.

I had missed the beginning of a conversation, which was evidently about his dating life. But my ears perked when in the manner I described above, he turns to us and says, "I don’t know, I just have not been able to go on a second date with someone for what seems to be years."

Suli automatically assumed the lack of interest was on Romanus' part, and told him that eventually he'll get butterflies from someone. In a sense, Suli probably didn't expect that someone so good looking and that pumped up could have trouble getting a second date. "No, it's not me who loses interest, the problem is not on my end," replied Romanus, "they just loose interest in me."

At this point I'd had a little more to drink than I should and I jumped at the opportunity to berate him. "How long did you say this has been happening?"

"More than year, with quite a few guys," he innocently responded.

"Well since you're the only common factor in all these first dates, I'd say the problem certainly is on your end."

He stared at me, but not in indignation, I couldn't quite place it.

I tried to explain the blindingly obvious: that he was, in effect, attracting the same kind of guy in to his life, and that if this was ever going to change he'd have to change not only his approach but how he sees himself.

"Well, I've already paid for it but you just summed up my 2 years of therapy." Should I be charging money for my drunken antics?

It may be novel to Romanus but my fellow homos and I have been debating the Correlation for a while.

BEWARE OF THE FORMULA:

Muscle Mass divided by Age --> Boyfriend(hotness exponent) multiplied by # of Years LTR

or



This formula, unfortunately, has most gay men by the balls. The Correlation derived from the above formula is that the youngest guys with the most muscles get the hottest boyfriends for longest time. As age increases or muscle mass decreases, the integer on the left has a lower value, thus resulting in a less-hot boyfriend for less years.

The sad truth, therefore is, that gay men often times attach their worth as individuals to the left side of this formula. And like many other things in the gay world, it’s a vicious cycle, in this case with two faces:

Face 1: Expectations. You blame your current single-hood on your physical inability to attract the kind of guy you want. You are certain as Pythagoras that if your arms were a little thicker, your chest a little wider, or your waist a little thinner that your 'league' will change. You work, and you work hard at the gym. Maybe even experiment with a couple of steroids. You get bigger, and your waist is as thin as a 5-year-old girl's. Hotter guys start approaching you and checking you out. But now they're all too attainable, and the interest is physical - the emotional void grows and you're hooked on the approval, moreover, you still can't get the dreamy guys you want. You go up a bench-press weight, your pecks get a little bigger, and like equity shares, your expectations for a return on investment grow with them. You're looking for hotter guys now, whilst the truth is there is no ceiling to this vicious cycle. Deep down you know these guys that you never attracted when you were too thin or too fat are only now approaching you because of something entirely separate from your person. They're caught in the vicious cycle too. Which brings us to Face 2.

Face 2: Common vulnerability. The formula above preys on the self-doubting. What you have in effect is a community of self-doubters with amazing bodies. Emotional vulnerability and weakness of mind is masked with physical strength. The very people that fall victims are the same that perpetuate the Correlation - it is all they know and those who present an alternative are threatening their reality. Instead of building on their intelligence and maturity as gay men and identifying these traits as their greatest assets, the focus and worth lies in their appearance. As a result, you get statements like: "How the hell did he end up with him?!" when you see an 'attractive' guy with a non-conformer; or better yet "Oh look at the really old and saggy guy and the really young hot guy. I guess he really needs the money." Is it not possible that 'older' guys, in their life experience have gathered up enough charm and emotional security to attract younger ones? Is money the only option, the only other alternative currency of power or status in this fucked up gay community?

A disclaimer: there is nothing wrong with looking and feeling healthy. If you've got some extra flab you should by all means hit that treadmill. If you're feeling underweight by all means get a trainer, work on some muscles. A healthy body in the end only aids a healthy mind. The trick is not to associate this with your social status or worth. You will succeed in surrounding yourself with people, but will not feel much better about anything.

I'm rambling, and if you made it this far in the post than you clearly have more tolerance than I can hope for. It is just sad to see millions of guys with amazing potential become slaves to their bodies and the labels they wear.

Peace

M

Fuck Disney, Fuck Hollywood

I'm not an angry person. I truly believe that my misfortunes are mine and that blame is counterproductive. But, realistically now, we can't all be Kumbaya all the time, can we? In fact, I think it’s a little healthy to (once in a while) realise where the problems lie around you, whip out your manicured index finger and point at something as the source of all evil incarnate without flinching.

Billions of words, millions of pages and the endless depths of the wasteland that is cyberspace dedicated to (or wasted on) cracking the relationship code. Why you and I aren't in one. How you and I could be in one. What to do once you're in one, and how to gracefully fall out of one.

Meet Roy. Roy is 42, reasonably good looking, camp as Christmas and richer than God. After a hypoxy and a mud bath, he drove to Pimlico and honked his S Class outside my door urging me to hurry up. We were on our way to a party in north London and hearing that Brazilians were featured as canapés, his patience was not to be tested. I rolled into the passenger seat, bottles of bubbly clinking in one hand and travel size moisturiser in the other, clearly not 100% ready yet.

"Habibi," he says in his Lebanese/French accent "don't keep mommy waiting like that."

As we crossed Westminster into Camden and (choke) the unknown beyond, Roy and I were having one of our usual discussions about men and relationships. He was frustrated. Here he was at his prime, looking good, feeling good, and still the 'right guy' hasn't come along.

Well, what do you define as the right guy? I asked. His answer wasn't entirely clear. He wanted someone that came from a good family, with good values. He wanted someone that is financially secure, "No more toy boys! Prostitutes are a dime a dozen darling and honestly I'd rather just pay for sex than have to pretend I'm interested in their lives."

Cynical, but honest. Then he said something else. "You know," he stopped suddenly at a zebra crossing and looked me straight in the eye, "it may be that I'm just not looking hard enough. It is almost like I don't have the energy. Recently, it dawned upon me that maybe there's a reason why I don't care enough.

"You see," he resumed driving, "I've been sharing a house with Xavier for 18 years. We've never dated, never kissed, never even the thought of sex between us. We just got used to living together, meeting other guys, dating them for a while, and then discarding them. But think about it this way, whatever guy I meet, the sex will be great, it'll work for a few years, then eventually that will fade away and what will really be left is companionship. But, you see, with Xavier I already have the companionship. I'm not ready to invest another 18 years in someone else. The 'right guy' I'm describing is actually just another version of Xavier! So all I really want it seems is the first part of the relationship. For the happily-ever-after, I have my friend Xavier."

I was on the verge of saying something before I realised how stupid it really was. In a soft and lustful tone with yearning and butterflies, like Cinderella on ecstacy pills, I was about to say "But don't you want to fall in love? Meet someone special and grow old together?"

When did we decide that Disney and Hollywood got it all right? That Cinderella was a true story and that Cameron Diaz could act? We've been polluted, our intelligence insulted. We walk into one of these movies and for 2 hours our spirits are played into ecstasy as the love story unfolds before us. Of course, somewhere along the line Drew Barrymore throws a hissy-fit, Meg Ryan is reduced to tears or, God help us, Julia Roberts goes through an existential crisis. "It can't all be smooth sailing," you can hear the directors say as they plot the divorce of rationality from emotion.

These love stories are like drugs, the relationships they simulate last a couple of hours, they give you a rush and inevitably, as you walk out of the movie theatre and start holding up your love life in comparison, a come-down. Who's to say that Roy and Xavier don't have the perfect relationship? Sex when they need it, and someone they can rely on who will always be part of their lives? Not me. So I kept my mouth shut.

Now its time to look at myself. What kind of a relationship is logically the one that will work best for me, Shakespearean hypocrisy aside?
I've stopped leaving slippers behind; no prince-charming for me, thank you.

Viva la Résistance!

We've all been there. Boy meets boy. Boy falls head over heels for boy, and is pretty sure the same is true in reverse. Boy realises tragic flaw in boy. The tragic flaw consumes the entire relationship and boy can no longer play the game. Boy dumps boy, wondering if the other boy was just as head over heels for him…It's called Shakespearean tragedy with a homo twist.

Though my relationship with JD had, at least in my mind, substantially ended quite a while ago, old flames were somewhat fanned when he announced he was visiting London for a few days to see 'a sick uncle'. I wasn't entirely sure meeting him was a good idea, but he insisted that it would be a good thing and I was after all curious as to whatever happened between us.

In typical neo-JD fashion (neo as in post-turning-into-a-freak-I-don’t-even-recognise JD), he came and went, failing to ever make enough effort to realise that dinner. And the thing is, before he said he was coming, I was fine. Things were moving on. I'd met Superman (ok, he just looks like superman because he has an amazing jaw-line and Scottish features - and ever since I met him that Mandy/Booka Shade track "Superman" has been playing in my head!) a few weeks back and along with another couple of friends-with-favours, things looked like they were on the up. But in those three days JD spent here, messaging but never committing, begging but never promising, I was gradually consumed with enough anger to burn a whole through the ground beneath me. The day he was leaving London, I sent him a message asking him to kindly delete all of my contact details and not to ever fucking dare so much as think about calling (add a few more four letter words in there). Predictably, he messaged back expressing hurt and confusion, but he will have to try a lot harder than that to get a response from me.

So Viva la Résistance! Taking the lead from my homegirl Oprah who first debuted the "He's Just Not That Into You" book into our dating lives, I moved ON.

But herein lies the danger. Though I technically dumped him, the reality was that he constructively dumped me because he left me no choice. I was dumped indirectly. I've never been dumped before, but thankfully have seen enough of it around me to gather a little intelligence to help me navigate the aftermath. And it is an abyss.
Attention. That’s what you always need when you've been dumped. You need to know that people still want you, that you still matter, that you have prospects and won't be alone forever. Now I know that sounds silly, but its true. As noted, I had seen this around me several times, and I did everything but strap my hands together to stop me from dialling exes or fuck buddies from times past.

And my friend P Bear was right; the only way to get over a man is to get under one. Just always make sure it's not something you'll regret.

So I put it all behind me with speed I'm even surprised I could muster. That same day (last Friday) I sent the text message I was in Soho for a birthday, and out of nowhere I met a stunning guy from San Francisco. It was perfect, he was gone on Monday, and he was looking for some fun and someone to have dinner with. I happily obliged, also knowing that I will be in San Francisco next month and will probably need similar treatment.

And when it rains it fucking pours. Remember Kyril from my New Years Chronicles? Out of nowhere I get a message from him, asking if I was in London over Easter, and whether I would be interested in having coffee with him. Superman leaves me a heart-felt voice message on the phone that evening (I told him about the situation with JD, and he is doing his 'best to give me some space).

So I've decided this is a lot like the France in the 18th century. Was JD the equivalent of Louis XVI? Did I lead my own résistance movement to rid myself of the tyrant? No, I think JS, my previous partner of 3 years, was Louis XVI. Once I'd ousted him, JD came in as Robespierre with promises of freedom that turned into a Reign of Terror. If my love life follows the analogy of the French Revolution, I'm bound to have a Napoleon very soon. I just hope this one is taller and has a bigger penis.