Kink

Wednesday night, the boys and I, all suited and booted, descended on the No. 11 Hotel in Chelsea for an Italian jeweller's very small, but very opulent, launch event. Inside the tight Parisian hall of mirrors and gold leafed accents, fabulous and overdressed women mingled with the gay crème de la phlegm (flu season was clearly also making its debut along with ruby encrusted rings). Pointless conversations were only interrupted by the clink of Prosecco flutes and the snap of an oversized camera. Needless to say, after a day of labour this was a welcome treat.

Our entourage included Juan. Juan was an acquaintance, and we got along well when we met. As we all stood and chattered in a group, the conversation devolved (as it often does) into weekend partying. First it started as a joke, we were eyeing a certain over-pretentious Mr X and joked about how he would handle himself at the Hoist or XXL (as is probably obvious through the names, both these London establishments, and particularly the Hoist, are known for their over-the-top, out-of-this-world fetish indulgence). I decided to share a story, for better or for worse, of when I needed to use the bathroom at the Hoist and the only urinal available was in fact a small man of Asian descent on his knees with his mouth open and eyes rolling with ecstacy. Having been already 3 vodka-on-the-rocks into my evening, I wasn't going to pass up the release, and if he got a kick out of it then what the hell, right?

Juan looked it me with gaping eyes. "But...you're a lawyer!" I wasn't sure what to make of that. He explained: "You look so innocent and young, I am so surprised...". Even though he was married and our relationship was at best superficial (if not cursory), I could see in his eyes a new found...respect! Maybe even a hint of curiosity that was not there before, as if he started thinking of me in a sexual way for the first time.

I was intrigued by this reaction. What is it about gay men, whether it is that Asian guy at the Hoist, or Juan that makes them weak in the face of some kinkiness? Do men have to have an unpredictable, almost abusive side to them for them to get attention? It's a social experiment that's proved itself time and time again. I, in my customary shirt and tie and unabashed preppiness, time and time again find that I throw people off guard (and get their attention) by going into bizarre details of my life.

If you, like me, believe that our relationships with our fathers in many ways influence our relationships with our sexual partners in bed, this obsession is a telling sign of...well, something. Maybe kinkiness and fetish in all its forms are mere reflections of a particular facet of a man's relationship with his father. So much to think about. I'll conjure up the spirit of Freud, but in the meantime, bonne weekend!

Bonds Notwithstanding

A lot of bullshit flies after the end of a relationship. "I really think the world of you" or "Please know that I'll always be here for you" or best of all "I'd like to stay your friend". I know, because I have delivered these very manure-laden words myself.

You spend some time with someone, they become a focal point in your life for however long it is. Usually, if they cross the 3 month milestone you know it's relationship material that you'll actually remember a year down the line. But there's no telling after that what you will or will not appreciate and share once your relationship breaks off.

Today I sat at my desk, trying to focus on reading a ratio decidendi on jurisdiction, when suddenly my office phone rang. The number was private, and having only given out my office number to very few people I picked up thinking, of course, it's that freak from BNP in Paris up my ass again about that letter I sent a month ago.

But it wasn't. I put on my headset, "M speaking."

"Hello?" The voice rang in my ear. It was croaky and American.

"Who is this?" My heart was pounding already because the voice was familiar, and not in a good way.

"JD, man. How are you?"

I paused. Caught off guard and surprised. "I'm well," I managed, but that is where my eloquence ended. Since our breakup, we've probably exchanged a few words (some nicer than others), and only by text.

"Good, good." The silence was awkward.

Of course, where are my manners! "How are you doing JD?"

"I'm doing ok. I just thought I'd give you a call, you know. I remember it's your mom's anniversary today, isn't it?"

That's when I stopped talking altogether. I stammered something incomprehensible.

"It's ok, you don’t have to say much, I just wanted to make sure you're ok." His voice was soft and forgiving.

"I am. Thank you for calling JD."

"You're welcome, man."

I put down the headset, stupefied. This is the guy that didn't even remember my birthday when we were dating. How does he remember this? Even my closest friends have no idea.

Minutes later, I received a text message from JS, my partner of 3 years, saying, "Hey baby, I'm in church lighting a candle for you and your mom."

As my eyes returned to scan the pages of the All England Law Reports I felt a strange warmth. Perhaps it came from knowing that these guys, who I once upon a time shared a lot more than a bed with, still see that what we had wasn't all for nothing. Even though the relationships ended, the three people I have been involved with seriously have remained, in one way or another, a part of my life and all we have for each other right now is a level of respect and care. Sure, I'll joke around with my friends about how 'awful' it was or their 'shortcomings' in bed but the reality is we've shared, and still apparently do share, bonds notwithstanding the bifurcation of our lives.

I don't believe there is only one person out there that is the perfect Mr Right. Ask me, I'm looking for my fourth.

The Line of Beauty

There it was, sitting on the crystal adorned mirror tray placed casually at the corner of a maple-brown bureau.


Alistair and Rupert (A&R) have been friends of mine for almost 4 years. I met them at a cocktail party in Knightsbridge thrown by a Austrian heir, Wolfgang. I'm not sure why I was there. Wolfgang hated my guts at the time, and it may have had something to do with his trophy boyfriend slobbering all over me. I could only attribute my invitation to Wolfgang's fiercely competitive nature. He may have even enjoyed our subtle repartee. I met A&R amongst many others that I now only occasionally bump into at functions, and the three of us got along a little better perhaps because we were younger than the rest and weren't about to inherit a castle in the schwarzwald.


There exists a world, in the upper-crust, pretentious strata of modern societies (both Eastern and Western it seems) that defines itself on, ironically, a very tribal and suspicious set of values. I was always proud of the fact that I was not tied down by such pressure or wealth. Still, something about me attracted the rogue members of this clan, i.e. the gay ones. The ones who loved to hate it but could not survive without it.


I think it all went a step too far when I realized I was being judged by these very people for my non-conformism to bourgeois culture. This happened recently, at a pretentious penthouse party thrown by A&R. We were half-way through aggressive wine tasting. when two of the guests, a Russian girl and an American guy in a kilt, asked me to join them in the study next door. The glint in their eyes gave me a solid hint as to what was waiting for me there.


We stepped into the quiet study and sure enough, there it was, sitting on the crystal adorned mirror tray placed casually at the corner of a maple-brown bureau. The Line of Beauty, I think it was Alan Brightman who had called it so with a deep sense of irony. 2 Grams (at least) of cocaine neatly stacked into a wide trail. Being a good Muslim boy for Ramadan, I asked them to go ahead without me. Whilst we were making friendly conversation, Alistair walked into the room.


"I have to rush, we just realised some of the bottles are corked and I have to go find something drinkable from the shop," he moved swiftly towards the tray and then realised I was seated on the opposite end of the room. "M! Aren't you having any?"


"No, I'm hoping for an early start tomorrow," I lied. Alistair looked confused but wasn't going to let it stop him. He bent over the rolled up 10 pound note and snorted half a fat line with his right nostril.


"M, when are you going to settle down and find a long term relationship?"

The comment, and tone, caught me off guard. Excuse me? My mind rushed for an answer while his left nostril snorted the other half. Wait, what was the question? I looked around me and realised both in this room and the next, everyone was in some sort of long term relationship. And I use the word relationship loosely, because in some cases it involved no more than an exchange of love for money.


"I don't know, but really can you blame me?" I managed to stammer awkwardly.


The silence in the room indicated that perhaps, yes, they could blame me.


Somehow everything fell into place, became clearer. Why I was assigned to a table where I knew no one at Alistair and Rupert's wedding, why I'd never even heard of their best man and man, why I am not invited to their weekly yoga and brunch even though they talk about it freely in front of me. I need a husband! And not just any husband: a bourgeois over achiever who, like me, has to be in either finance or law.


Another thing that dawned upon me, in light of Rupert's audacious flirty comments, is that perhaps married couples are avoiding me to avoid trouble. A "pretty young thang" like me could trip up their relationships faster then they'd care to know.


Alistair left the room but my discomfort remained. I knocked back the hint of wine I was tasting and walked out into the main room. It may have been the 1999 clos pegase but I suddenly felt like saying "Fuck you!" I'm not going to go boyfriend shopping so I can fit into a posse of pussies. I took comfort in the fact that they were on some level threatened by me, they should be.


But I suppose there's another possibility. Maybe I've jumped to a conclusion here, and Alistair was actually expressing a genuine wish for me to be happy and settle down. Likely scenario?


Peace

M

Qind

The new edition of Qind is now out. Enjoy the masterpieces!

On the challenges of Ramadan

This is the month I am supposed to get back on track. After a long period of disillusionment and 'coldness' I feel like I am due a resurrection of sorts. A rediscovery of the joie de vivre. And what better way to truly appreciate every drop of wealth and goodness around you than a fast. Peel away your flesh and bones and expose your raw soul by abandoning all that is animalistic within you between dawn and dusk.

As one of two Muslims I know who are fasting this season in London, I often get asked the question: why? Why when you barely have time to make your own food at sunset and consume it alone, when you work ridiculous hours and live in a country where the day lasts from 3am to almost 9pm? Moreover, why when you consume alcohol on a regular basis, sleep with men, and indulge in prosciutto every morning?

The presumption behind all these questions is that I am doing this for someone. Doing it because I have to do it, whilst the reality is no such obligation exists in my mind. I do it because I want to do it. I've always been jealous of monks and nuns, Halaj and Rumi, able to dive into asceticism and shed their body to truly feel their soul. Sadly, I have a fetish for all things luxurious and cocktail brunches that makes such a life improbable for me. But all the same I get a chance every year, on some basic level, to experience what these people revel in all their lives.

But Newtonian physics would have their way with me after my first long day of fasting. The strong blow of spirituality produced and equal and directly opposite reaction. Saturday I could not believe myself when I finally was able to eat. I had gotten up at 5.30am, went shopping at noon and only returned home at 7pm, at which point I showered an headed out for iftar (disguised as a dinner date).

True to my Egyptian blood I over indulged (though at a Spanish restaurant in Soho).

I drank enough water and wine to sink the Titanic. After my dinner date I swung by an ex lover and took him home for some major deflowering. I woke up the next day so tired and hung over I couldn’t possibly survive 3 minutes without water. A liter of Volvic, a shower and several pills later, I was ready for a Sunday at the gay pond in Hampstead Heath. The day was magnificent and I, for the first time ever since I moved here, tanned in London. At the pond I was giving off an unusual energy (what with my aviators in one hand and a glass of rosé champagne in the other), as more and more handsome gentlemen made their way to our spot. Ready for round two, I picked a friend of a friend who was unusually sweet and rather attractive and took him home as well.

Shocked at my own behaviour, I woke up Monday morning wondering what happened. I know now that I probably should have eased myself into the process. The good news is I am now back on track and managing this one day at a time successfully. The challenges in Ramadan are many but if anything the biggest of all is gaining good insight into who you are.

Peace
M

Vile scenes and bitter queens

A kind visitor of my blog commented on my recent post (A Life of Excess) suggesting that perhaps I wasn't very supportive of gay pride parades. Dear visitor, M loves to party and will find almost any excuse to do it. My dislike for gay prides stems not only from the freakish display of flamboyance and gender confusion (no judgment, but I am gay and I don't feel very represented in these parades, but then again a gay Arab lawyers parade would probably bore us to death), it more so stems from my dislike of the values and attitudes that are espoused by the vast majority of the people in these parades.

S is good friend of mine. His relationship ended very recently, in the least flattering of manners. Against my better advice, he was entangled with 19 year old (Teddy) of a deceptively sweet disposition. Like most 19 year olds, including myself at one time, Teddy was a selfish people pleaser. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too, and hid whatever truths necessary to make sure he did. So Teddy slept around while the cat was away, and in all honesty when you're 19 you're both dumb and horny so again no judgment is warranted.

So how did S discover this infidelity? Let's rewind.

A 'friend' of his (let's call him Ugh), just as S started dating Teddy, informed S that he had a thing for Teddy. You know, usual 'friendly' home-wrecker I'm-gonna-steal-your-boyfriend conversations.

I have never met Ugh, but what I can gather from his own words on his insufferable blog is someone with an usually empty life that is need of drama to spice it up. Ugh sought the ultimate scenario for drama (and maybe even material for his blog): he lured Teddy into his trap by fooling around with him behind S's back. Nothing serious, a blow job and some tonsil tickling. He then convinced Teddy never to tell S. Soon after, Ugh tracked S down for a conversation and, overcome with what I am sure was very sincere guilt, he told S everything, including the fact that Teddy has already slept with two other guys in the past month.

I wish I could tell you, dearest reader, that Ugh is an exception to the rule (and I have a feeling he may think he is), but I would be unforgivably lying. This is what it means to be gay and in the scene these days, whether you're in Cairo or Zurich. Cheap, insincere and conniving. We need a radical shift from this culture, but one will not be possible if we keep celebrating our moral bankruptcy.

S, if anything you're a victim of your own choices. Ugh is not a friend. Teddy is not boyfriend material. If you share values with a more appropriate repertoire of people, you will somehow find yourself surround by such people.

Peace

M

Sterility

When you grow up in Cairo, you learn to respect sterility. In a city where noise, smoke, clutter, dust and a multiplying population are the overwhelming norm, clean-cut minimalism has an almost paranormal appeal. For me, the attraction was more of a necessity. At the age of 18, I was diagnosed with a 'mild' linear OCD (after I stormed out of a NMUN meeting at AUC, projectile vomiting because the "chairs weren't in rows") that, thankfully, only manifests itself from time to time.

So here I am, sitting on top of my glass tower in London, not a paper out of place, not an angle betraying 90 degrees. And what do I miss? A little haphazardness, a little unpredictability. Yes, the grass is always greener.

A Life of Excess

Do you get those moments when, as you look around you, you suddenly feel like you've landed on another planet where amazingly humanlike creatures populate the scenery, where the colours are far too bright and where, despite being a visitor of this planet, you feel that you can navigate and camouflage yourself in its humanoid population?

It all started, I suppose, when I was checking my FB messages just days before S and I were to hit Barcelona (and hit it hard) with 25 of our 'closest acquaintances'. There it was, in my inbox, a video clip from Madrid gay pride in early July of 2009. I was about 1 second away from closing the window and moving on to more productive things (like dudesnude! after all I had no interest whatsoever in the freak show and the imposed gay culture of 'pride' parades) when something caught my attention. The video was of a crowd, a large one that clogged up a wide avenue of downtown Madrid. A sea of people. In the middle was a large truck. It was covered in feathers and embroidered cloth of white, cream and pink varieties. I remembered my friends had put together their own float with the theme of Marie Antoinette. I looked closer and the camera zoomed in on the humanoids. Everyone on the truck was Arab. Armani was front centre, with his outfit just so. The boys were all beautiful, jumping around, dancing and dominating the crowds all the same. The colours were all too bright. The heavily decorated faces! Iraq, Egypt, Lebanon, Israel. It was surreal. People that back home wouldn't so much as hold a guy's hand in public were in silver tights, wigs and Max-Mara (pun intended for those of you who speak Arabic) make-up. The crowd below seemed in awe, and so was I.

In Barcelona, where S established himself as the undisputed Reina Sofia in every party of the 2009 Circuit Festival, the surreal bubble only continued. What I remember most are flashes of the time we spent there. Promenades on the nude beach, the muscle gods of Nova Mar Bella Barceloneta, S skipping through the streets of Eixample hand in hand with Rachel, the endless line of Lebanese and Dubai-based boys outside Casanova at 6.30 AM, Vodka Pink Berrys, sunglasses and the best beach party in the history of Sitges. S dominating the go-go box at The Week International at 8 AM after his first caffeine pill.

At some point in Plata Universitat as we sat around waiting for one thing or another, one of the boys asked why gay men go to such extremes to enjoy themselves. Dark rooms, drugs, 24 hour partying, sex for sex's sake – why are we so weird?

I honestly think it is more rebellion than substance. Gay men aren't weird, they've been told they're weird growing up and now they're kicking it in everyone's face. Drugs? Bring it on. Anonymous sex in dark dungeons? Why the hell not. When you're brought up in the Arab world especially (but by no stretch of the imagination is that only applicable there), you learn from a very early age that your whole existence is...wrong. That's why a lot of us go into gay scenes thinking we have nothing to lose. In a sense it is a lack of maturity, but the blame doesn't lie on us entirely.

Even though we have been marginalised by mainstream society and religion, this doesn't mean we have to live marginal lives of hedonism. We have to be attracted by wholesomeness and stability, and this can only come if we deep down accept who we are. I think the greatest irony is that those of us who swish around in parades celebrating 'pride' are actually usually the ones that have the most to prove to themselves.

Peace all
M