Whoever thought of dance floors? They're too functional. In Cairo, our City Victorious, people dance on, and in between, tables. Places with dance floors rarely become that successful, people do not compartmentalise their groove that way. The joi de vivre is a palpable daily drug, consumed irresponsibly after each sunset. S and I sat in Tamarai oh so few nights ago as Cairo's most eligible partied and schmoosed, and after midnight it was electric. But, I guess, that pretty much summarises Cairo, especially when one hangs around someone like S: a stressful, surreal, extravagant blur of parties, alcohol, cigarette smoke and socialites.
And though I owe S for the best night out I've had, probably since NYE in Madrid (or maybe even more), my time in Cairo did comprise of other endeavours. I head a considerable amount of red tape to go through, always the rude awakening to the Third World. I also did a considerable amount of "2antakha" with my buddies from high school and AUC. There is (what now feels to me like) an unusual amount of warmth between people in that city. I never thought after 6 years that I would feel so foreign, sadly.
The Cairene street has become an unfathomable, other-worldly war-zone, approachable only in certain times of the day. Still, I drove through it with nothing but nostalgia and yearning for the time when I ruled the motorways, when I was indifferent to the honking of crazy taxi drivers or microbuses, when I was able to drive stick-shift, text, yell on speaker phone and down a can of Heineken all at the same time.
But alas, back in London, life continues. Not that one should complain, there's plenty of madness here. Just not the warm type.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
And when the other shoe dropped...
So yes, re "Houston, wir haben ein problem" below, it took a great deal of relaxing and bringing my feelings down to earth for things to work and, eventually, one night on my turf, everything worked perfectly.
Ever since, the sailing has been smoother, but also sans teenage infatuation. This is the point where you start looking beyond the looks for the strength of character and personal appeal in someone. The time we spend together remains amazing, but I catch my mind posing questions and making comparisons it should never make.
We all fall into that trap. Your first true love becomes the standard against which you measure all future relationships, or so some have claimed. But I am making a conscious effort not to go down that road. AD is an apple, my ex JS was an orange. It's no use pointing to the bothersome seeds at the apple's core when you know very well that, even though oranges have no such seeds, their peel is equally frustrating. Conversely, it makes no sense saying "umm" how crunch that apple seems when you know very well that the orange will always be juicier. In short, any sort of comparison, whether it accentuates what you now have or not, should be avoided at all cost. You don't end up giving the person you are with a clean slate, the benefit of doubt, or a chance to make their own lasting impression on you.
As with most things, it's easier said than done.
Ever since, the sailing has been smoother, but also sans teenage infatuation. This is the point where you start looking beyond the looks for the strength of character and personal appeal in someone. The time we spend together remains amazing, but I catch my mind posing questions and making comparisons it should never make.
We all fall into that trap. Your first true love becomes the standard against which you measure all future relationships, or so some have claimed. But I am making a conscious effort not to go down that road. AD is an apple, my ex JS was an orange. It's no use pointing to the bothersome seeds at the apple's core when you know very well that, even though oranges have no such seeds, their peel is equally frustrating. Conversely, it makes no sense saying "umm" how crunch that apple seems when you know very well that the orange will always be juicier. In short, any sort of comparison, whether it accentuates what you now have or not, should be avoided at all cost. You don't end up giving the person you are with a clean slate, the benefit of doubt, or a chance to make their own lasting impression on you.
As with most things, it's easier said than done.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Huston, wir haben ein Problem
The second date went even better than the first. We rolled into Lab in Soho for a choice of cocktail (out of a menu of 400) which turned into 3 cocktails and a shot of Mumm (yes, champagne shots as a side to fruity vodka are in), then walked across WC1 to Carnaby Street where we found a funky Chinese wok restaurant. From there, we hit Sketch (for about 3 seconds) and ended up at the Polo Bar for a bottle of the Widow (Cliquot, who else).
Needless to say, that was a lot of alcohol, even for my Nordic liver. I was entirely composed throughout, which is a relief, but the moment of truth arrived at the Polo Bar and we decided to spend the night together. I swung by my flat, picked up work clothes and got back in the cab to his place.
I sound like a pathetic teenage girl, but this guy ticks all my boxes. MY boxes. That is, he’s fun to be around, he’s drop dead gorgeous, and he’s kind. I’m still trying to get used to his (heavy) Australian accent, and sure, this morning he asked me whether Moscow was 3 hours ahead of us or behind. I only have envy for those who go through life with some sort of blissful ignorance.
At his place the clothes came off, fast. We were lip-locked and inebriated. That’s when we both realised there was a glaring problem. I wasn’t hard.
I didn’t get it. Here I was with one of the most attractive men I have ever come across, and King Henry won’t even fly at half mast. I was so freaked out by this unusual situation that mentally I became even less prone to getting hard.
He didn’t react very well to it either. First, he was sure it was him and that I wasn’t attracted to him enough. Then he asked: do you have a boyfriend? Nope. Are you in love with someone else? No. Are you HIV+? Nah uh.
As we lay there in bed, frustrated, I decided it was time for me to go back home. He wouldn’t let me, and I wasn’t sure how much more humiliation I could stand for one evening.
Sharing this with a friend of mine, she immediately responded, “Wow, you must really like this guy.” The truth is, she’s right. Maybe, I haven’t been able to move him down from the realm of fantasy into the very real world of intercourse. I feel almost inadequate in his perfect presence, and the vulnerability affects me in ways I didn’t think possible.
The thing is, now it will be even harder (no pun intended) to get this going off the ground. Now I have something to prove, pressure to perform. It’s a downward spiral waiting to happen. For a quick second, I even contemplated artificial inducement. WHAT THE HELL? I’M twenty £)£$%ing three!
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
SOIs
My friend and I used to have a term we'd give to guys that were so beautiful, they actually inspired something within us completely separate from what or who they were. Sources of Inspiration, or SOIs for short (the French meaning completely accidental), are the kind of people that are so attractive, you cannot imagine them if you tried. They are unbelievably real, and you'd kill to be even a drop of water trailing its way on any part of their glistening skin.
Last Sunday afternoon was one of those London days that sears itself into your memory. Sun and spontaneity; good energy, good food, good wine, good company. At around 5 in the afternoon Charlie and I sat at our favourite cafe on Old Compton street, which was buzzing with afternoon socialites. Across the street I spotted him, sitting down with his friend. One hell of an SOI.
My immediate reaction to seeing an SOI has always been uniform. My heart jumps so violently at the magnificent sight that I deny myself the pleasure and look away abruptly, almost standoffishly. Usually, I see or meet SOIs in passing, and therefore I never have the opportunity to correct my reaction. This time was different, because we were both sitting with a friend directly across the small street from one another.
I did something I never did before, or at least, not ever to someone this attractive. I asked Charlie to watch my phone and I walked across the street, pushing through the bursting tank tops and Tom Ford jeans, to where He was sitting. He eyed me in mild bewilderment and smiled. His smile gave me courage and I introduced myself, politely acknowledging his friend also. That's when He surprised me, and asked me for my number.
I gladly provided it, half thinking he might have been pre-empting an awkward conversation by taking my number for now and scooting me back to where I came from. Holy shit, I thought to myself. Humiliation in forms I haven't yet experienced, like I needed more.
I insisted that was not the case and walked back to my seat and continued my conversation with Charlie, nonchalantly, all the while virtually trembling inside.
Minutes later, He came by to wish us a good afternoon. My fears were set aside.
One date and 4 days later, I can't get over how smitten I am by this creature. His conversation proved to be just as delightful as his features. I have no vision of what this is or where it is going, but I feel like I have a new lease on the days to come thanks to him.
Last Sunday afternoon was one of those London days that sears itself into your memory. Sun and spontaneity; good energy, good food, good wine, good company. At around 5 in the afternoon Charlie and I sat at our favourite cafe on Old Compton street, which was buzzing with afternoon socialites. Across the street I spotted him, sitting down with his friend. One hell of an SOI.
My immediate reaction to seeing an SOI has always been uniform. My heart jumps so violently at the magnificent sight that I deny myself the pleasure and look away abruptly, almost standoffishly. Usually, I see or meet SOIs in passing, and therefore I never have the opportunity to correct my reaction. This time was different, because we were both sitting with a friend directly across the small street from one another.
I did something I never did before, or at least, not ever to someone this attractive. I asked Charlie to watch my phone and I walked across the street, pushing through the bursting tank tops and Tom Ford jeans, to where He was sitting. He eyed me in mild bewilderment and smiled. His smile gave me courage and I introduced myself, politely acknowledging his friend also. That's when He surprised me, and asked me for my number.
I gladly provided it, half thinking he might have been pre-empting an awkward conversation by taking my number for now and scooting me back to where I came from. Holy shit, I thought to myself. Humiliation in forms I haven't yet experienced, like I needed more.
I insisted that was not the case and walked back to my seat and continued my conversation with Charlie, nonchalantly, all the while virtually trembling inside.
Minutes later, He came by to wish us a good afternoon. My fears were set aside.
One date and 4 days later, I can't get over how smitten I am by this creature. His conversation proved to be just as delightful as his features. I have no vision of what this is or where it is going, but I feel like I have a new lease on the days to come thanks to him.
Friday, 2 October 2009
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!
Friday, 18 September 2009
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.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
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
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
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
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