Grains of sand

Think of yourself on a beach...


Take your time. Imagine yourself sitting on the warm crunchy sand, a light breeze gently whistling into your ear.

Close your eyes if you need to.

Smell the salt, feel the sun’s rays lighting up your eyelids as they stay closed.

Feel your body free.

On that beach, dig your hands into the soft white sand and extract a handful. Watch as it gently flows through your fingers back to its source. Slowly let go of all of the sand in your hand.

Now open your hand and look at it. I am certain you will find that one grain, one small grain, didn’t make it down with the exodus. Possibly, it is trapped between the gentle ridges that run across your palm. Or beneath a nail. Find it. Concentrate on it.

How many grains of sand do you think you picked up when you dug your hands into the ground? Can you think of a number? How many grains of sand exist on the very beach you are now enjoying? How many grains of sand exist on all the beaches of this planet?

Like that lone rider you discovered on the palm of your hand, a human life is miniscule and irrelevant in a vast incomprehensible ocean of matter and existence. We exist in a body of around 2 meters for what, 80 or 90 rotations of the Earth around the sun? How many rotations do you think the Earth has gone through or will go through? How many rotations has the Sun done its star cluster? The star cluster in the galaxy? The galaxy amongst the estimated 500 billion galaxies?

Yet like that lone rider we are trapped in the lines of an invisible hand. We believe we and our problems are special, different, unique. Our perspective is so limited, we aspire to leave a legacy on this Earth and a mark on those around us. To be remembered.

It is insanely ironic.

Yet on the other hand, perhaps the perceived infiniteness of the universe around us is meant to discourage us from concentrating on it and to see it as the microcosm instead. If the world, as you perceive it, is merely just perception interpreted by your own senses, then perhaps it should not be the focal point of your life, of truth or of gain.

In more direct terms, life is too short and insignificant to be wasted on negativity, worry and ugliness. Place your problems in the perspective of the universe and you will have none. See your life as temporary and fragile and you will truly live it. You will never take yourself seriously again.

Notes

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

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

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

Six Acre Meadow

Ophelia – John Millais

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

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

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

Weeping satellite

We take so much technology for granted in our daily life. I know I do. I wake up in the morning to the gentle blips of my smartphone. Weather, news and facebook updates are instantly delivered to my inbox. My half-open eyes scan this impatiently until my conscience finally overpowers me and I roll out of bed. Stumbling towards the shower, I flick my iTouch to turn on my soundsystem downstairs to my morning playlist. I eat breakfast watching BBC on my laptop, then on the underground i'll read another chapter of the Antichrist eBook on my phone (and I'm one of the old fashioned Londoners. These days you need a Kindle)

And just like Apple's transformed what we do and how we do it, Google has revolutionised what it is we have access to on a daily basis. Today I sat in my office slightly worse for wear, the usual Monday blues, when my fingers anxiously punched away at the keyboard looking for the 21st century equivalent of reminiscence - googlemaps.

I scanned the eastern coast of the Sinai, carefully on 'satellite view', until my eyes finally spotted it. I zoomed down from outer space onto that very ledge where, less than two years ago, I fell asleep at the edge of the water. I still remember how that wine tasted and how sleepy I was, and how bright the milky sky shone. I sat in my chair immobile for a few minutes, staring down at the ledge. It's so far yet it it's so close. The colour of the sand jogs my memory well. "Oh to be there!" weeps the satellite.

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

Sarastro

You: Handsome and quirky, floppy haired and dark

Me: Starry-eyed and awkward, smiling back at you from my lunch table with my family

You: Lingering gaze and wide smiles

Me: Lingering smiles and wider gazes

You: Watched me with sad eyes as I left the restaurant

Me: Waited outside till you were done with your friends

You: Practically jogged down the street to where I was standing

Me: Watched the afternoon breeze play with your hair and the sun light up your eyes

Revelations

A few things going through my mind today:

How far would you go, to know the your "Destiny"? To see the "Future"? How do you see time and space? Chance and coincidence?

There is no doubt that humanity is obsessed with the unknown. There is also no doubt there exists a common consensus that our day-to-day lives, however palpable, are dream-like and somehow amiss... that beyond the the 9-5 jobs and the mortgage payments, there exists something more fundamental and True, but unfortunately also something we recognise as out of our reach.

Do you agree that this is the case? Or is it be possible that we are just desperately hoping that there's more to life than "this"? Have we been in denial, refusing to believe that our daily routines are in fact what this life is all about?

Friday I was in Paris for work, and arrived in London at 9.30PM, tired, sweaty but also looking forward to going to a friend's birthday party. 1 shower, 2 spritzes of Allure, and 3 cab rides later (+ 1 Hail Mary for my return for civilisation), Charlie, Inigo and I were on our way to Bethnal Green for the affair.

It was then when I realised there was a new 'gay accessory' that was all the rage with London guppies (gay urban professionals).

In London, a city of expats and social eccentrics, and in the middle of a treacherous recession, who would have known a personal fortune teller and clairvoyant was the new Fendi Spybag equivalent?

Charlie swears by her. "She even got that dates right," he said as the cab wormed through Commercial Street, "she told me that I should expect a huge opportunity at work around the 20th of June." Lo and behold, come the 19th Charlie landed himself a spot in the middle of a large cross-border team on a new project.

Inigo wasn't entirely impressed by his. Though she'd told him a lot about himself, he says she predicted him meeting and falling for an "older Swiss-German gentleman" within in the next few months. "Older Swiss-German gentleman!" He exclaimed. Anyone who knows Inigo knows that whatever he drools on is at most 21 years of age and almost always of Mediterranean origin.

Nonetheless I was fascinated. Growing up in the a Middle-Eastern/Mediterranean, it was not unusual for my mother to host the occasional party with a guest clairvoyant, who stares into your emptied coffee cup and foretells both your happiness and pain.

I am not cynical. And I believe it is almost downright stupid to think that the world is limited to your 5 pitiful senses. Still, as I heard Charlie and Inigo's revelations, I wondered how much of it was a mindgame.

If you believe (with kabbalistic Certainty) that you are bound for big things on X date, you will attract that energy and those things into your life. August for me has always been a 'lucky month'. But it is only that because my heart has a firm expectation in what it brings, and as a result almost every August I've had has been magical. What these clairvoyants may be doing, therefore, is giving you the power to create the destiny you so seek by "predicting" certain events. In reality, what they are actually 'reading' is your personality, and what you hold dearest. They then 'predict' events based on this and a good personality leader will sow the seeds for the events to actually take place.

On what I thought was a separate note: the next day I sat quietly in church as the priest delivered his sermon in the awe-inspiring Brompton Oratory. My ears perked when he said the following:

"We mustn't forget that [our religion] is not an opinion or a matter of Earthly theories. It is a Revelation. It is Certainty. It cannot be arrived at by the human mind, unaided."

My mind instantly struggled with this declaration. Though seemingly benign, it spat in the face of millenia of mystic teachings and even some religions. In Islam, for example, and though we believe the word of God came from Moses, Jesus and Mohamed, we are insistent that religion and spirituality are things you are born with and that you only start to lose sight of with socialisation.

But there's another interpretation. Maybe what Jesus did (and what Moses did, and what Mohamed did) was reveal an unique energy into the world and instill Certainty in his people; do what the fortune teller is doing to Charlie on a 1,000,000 times larger and infinitely more wise scale. Predicting the prosperity of those who follow his teachings and promise great reward. All you need is faith, and faith is not belief or opinion, it is Certainty. This is how your life succeeds.

Qind - Queer Blogazine

The new issue of Qind is out, you'll be thrilled to know that "the Affirmation" contributed to the "Organic Growth" section.

Actually, the 4 articles in this section are very interesting, celibacy and orgies juxtaposed with glorious art.

Peace

M

Gilgamesh

We shot ourselves in the foot, I realised one day as I flicked through the timeless Epic of Gilgamesh. As homosexuals, constantly wrenching ourselves away from the influence and conventions of heterosexuality, we've landed flat on our faces in the same dull traps they have fallen into since time began - only for us the shoe simply does not fit. Our moisturised heels are swimming in standard issue caterpillar boots.

Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the oldest written story of our human race was a love written in the stars, free and pure. I assure you they did not worry about Proposition 8. Nor did Gilgamesh's mother, in Tablet I, have an epilepsy and send him to therapy after realising the destiny of her royal son lies with another man.

True, such great journeys and epic adventures as seen through the eyes of Gilgamesh rarely materialise in our physical world today, but it is not too difficult to see (and some enthusiasts of the esoteric may even wish you to believe that) the monsters and the journeys in Gilgamesh's tale could also be demons and journeys you conquer within yourself.

But hey, who has time for profound connections and spiritual voyages with true love if we're too busy fighting for the hypotheses of gay marriage and test-tube babies? Why do we buy into simulating heterosexual relationships with all their ideosyncracies and force-transcribe them as our own? From the ring on your finger to the debate on monogamy, its tiresome and in most cases irrelevant.

I owe the freedom in my life to many an activist before me who has fought for what I deserve as a homosexual - equality of treatment. But often we lose sight of this, confuse equality with immitation.

In my tenacity to numerical explanations: if everyone aspires to be society's perfect 10 (accepted, respected, etc), heterosexuals usually achieve this through a simple 5+5. Yes, 5+5 gives you a perfect 10, but so does 2+8, or 6+4, and it is up to those of us who arrive at the perfect 10 from different variations to prove the obvious - that we are equally worthy. But instead, what we consistently pursue are the traditional "5+5" societal institutions, such as marriage and procreation, partly because the standards have been embedded in our brains and partly because we want the ligitimacy and respect that they entail.

Our mission, if one exists, should be to ensure we are equally acknowledged and respected regardless of how it is we conduct our lives so long as we follow our heart, and not to seek equality through immitation.

Weirdness

A little confused by this one. The music is, if anything, retro. It's all shot in or around cairo but at the most polar of extremes. Pretty girls and generally unattractive guys (with one exception). Verdict pending.

Seasonal Anxieties

I woke up rattled the other day. I was positive (certain even!) that I was late for an exam and had not prepared for it. In this intermediary dream phase I looked at my phone. Slowly, as the image of my calendar made its way through my optical nerve, I regained memory of my life now. A certain joy crept in…I work now, I never have to take an academic exam again!

Still, the bizarre experience got me thinking - true, this was the first May that has come along for me since my toddler years when I haven't had to revise for some mammoth debacle of a proefung - but is my brain on some sort of clock I am not aware of?

Yup, definitely. This morning I woke up laughing at how everyone fucked up our graduation song (from high school!). Though it was a much more entertaining dream, it confirmed that I'd somehow been programmed. I think my brain is expecting certain anxieties and manifesting these expectations in dreams. There's only one more seasonal anxiety I can think of: if I have a nightmare about not fitting into the blue speedo I bought on Ipanema beach in Rio last summer, I swea ta gawd I'm going to sprinkle xanax in a bottle of Pinot Grigio and do it Marilyn Monroe style.

The good news is, however, that you also get your positive seasonal associations this time of year. It is after all, summertime! Good food, good sex, a permanent tan and lazy afternoons. There's a certain liberty in the smell of summer, the feeling that anything is possible. Every real relationship I have had has begun in August. And though I don’t think that's exactly what I'd like to be in store for me this August, I'm hoping I can redirect that good energy to other things I need more right now. I know I'm 24 days early but HAPPY SUMMER EVERYONE.

xoxo

M

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.

Mauve Skies

Dance

This is truly amazing.
The music is from Buddha Bar (III i imagine) but the burlesque vintage dancers turn the track into something haunting...