Belle de (tous les) Jour (Qindblogazine.com)

Svetlana moves through a room with grace and almost shy charisma worthy of a young princess. Her features are chiselled and developed; she is a strong woman, but a smile broadens her face with a delicate softness that washes away any hint of menace.

You won’t be fooled, however, when you stand for a minute and look into her eyes. It’s those piercing orbs, which light up with menacing excitement against the lasers beaming through a club at 4am, that arouse the indecent tendencies within you.

Svetlana has been described as “the Queen”, but no word can really encapsulate who she is and what she does. The former remains a mystery to most, the latter an obsession. Her true passion and friends, gay men in Europe and around the world, gained her her notoriety from Barcelona to Mykonos, London to Milan. She is the 5am shepherd, the queen of high(er) brow sex parties and London’s intrepid party scene.

Social stigma seems often to be a foreign concept to Svetlana. Beyond the reasonableness of self-preservation, she wastes no time with stigma or with those who espouse it. Watching her operate, limitless and always with the excitement of a teenage girl, is liberating.

My first encounter with Svetlana was at a mansion in central London that she had rented out one evening to host a private party for a select number of gay men. The space was sprawling, the champagne flowing, and with 40+ men anxious for the grand 2am finale (that is, when our hostess kindly instructs us to remove our clothing and join her in the lower den of iniquity) it was electric. And when the hour of reckoning arrived, no build-up could have really done the climax any justice.

Skin on skin, limbs in every direction, intertwined, tanned, glistening against the soft lights and amidst the locked lips and moaning. Personalities, faces, names were not important. You delved into the web of torsos, cocks, and fingers and gorged so indiscriminately, it was truly sex for the sake of sex alone. In that I found immense pleasure, not because how many times I ejaculated or how many men I enjoyed, but because it was, for once, all about me. It was about what I wanted, with no compromises or awkward conversations. No commitment or pseudo infatuation. 

Perhaps the only thing more intriguing than the sexual activity in these parties is the voyeurism exhibited by the hostess. She thrives on watching masculinity rip itself apart, the shifts of power from top to bottom, master to slave, and man to boy. Perhaps the reason Svetlana reigns the gay underworld is because of the lack of inhibition it allows her, and the lack of judgment in the eyes of these men (both for each other and for her). Perhaps it’s the thrill of anticipation, as often times a gentlemen steps out of the tangled mass of flesh and decides to penetrate her body instead.

Svetlana was married once upon a time, and lived in many capitals around the world. She’s generous, funny and outgoing. It’s easy for the prudish around us to judge her life and choices – she leaves a trail of lustful, spent and intoxicated men in her absence – but before the monotheisms of the world instilled their values into our cultures, in the times of Rome and Babylon, she would have not been anything out of the ordinary.

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