Awkward Sex in the City

حكايتها

2012-01-24T05:17:00.000-08:00

حكايتها هى حكياتنا احنا ونفس خوفنا حتى وجراحنا وياما جينا وياما روحنا
مرتاحش قلبي غير ما بوحنا مع انه شال الهم ده شيل ويقول ياليل وياعينى ياليل

تتر مسلسل أحلام عادية

تأليف مدحت العدل، تلحين عمار الشريعي و غناء محمد منير

أيوه جاء اليوم اللي زيزي تستشهد فيه بتتر مسلسل عربي، و مش بس تتر مسلسل عربي، لأ ده تتر غناء محمد منير (أو الكينج) كما هو معروف لمحبيه و تأليف مدحت العدل كمان! أيوه زيزي البنت المتفرنجه اللي لويا لسانها طول الوقت و عاملة نفسها خواجة بتسمع محمد منير و بتتفرج على مسلسلات عربية كمان! شوفتي ازاي؟! سبحان الله! له في ذلك حكم يا شيخة! بس ده مربط الفرس! الافتراضات الوهمية و الأساطير الإغريقية كل واحدة بتنسجها عن التانية اللي ملهاش أي علاقة أو صلة بالواقع هي ديه اللي قرفة زيزي و منكده على أمها!! أيوة زيزي خريجة جامعة القاهرة، اللي معاها ثانوية عامة أدبي، اللي كانت بتروح كل يوم من الجامعة بميني باص 39 من ميدان الجيزة! اللي قول ما نطقت كانت بتسمع قصائد اللي غنتها أم كلثوم... زيزي اللي أول التقاء ليها بالأدب الغربي كان من خلال الترجمات الرهيبة اللي أبدعها حد زي العباقرة أمينة السعيد أو فاطمة موسى.. زيزي اللي أول مرة حطت رجلها في طايرة كان عندها 25 سنة.. واللي كانت بتصيف كل سنة في سيدي عبد الرحمن بيفور أت بيكومز كوول أند هيب

بس البوست مش بس عن زيزي و عن الحكايات الخرافية اللي كل واحدة بتألفها عنها ، البوست عن حكايات كثيرة ، هي كل واحدة في مجتمعنا الصغير الضيق اللي أصغر من ك* الكلب على رأي صديقتي...اللي احنا منغمسين في تأليف عالم موازي ليها "هي" و شوية شوية نفصلها "هي" عن الواقع اللي هي جزء منه و نفصلها عن الواقع بتاعنا لحد ما "هي" تفقد أي ملمح من إنسانيتها و يبقى أسهل حاجة أن احنا نبدرها و نجيب في سيرتها و نقطع فروتها و مش بعيد نشنع عليها و ننفيها من مجتمعنا كمان

في زحمة البروسس ديه احنا نسينا أن "هي" إنسانة زيها زينا، يمكن تجربتها كانت مختلفة، يمكن أتخذت قرارات مختلفة، يمكن عايزة حاجات مختلفة، لكن ده ما يمنعش أن "هي" بني آدمة، أن ما استحقتش محبتنا أو عواطفنا ، أفل حاجة تستحق احترامنا

و هي زيك بالظبط، قرفانة و زهقانة و تعيسة و يكاد الواقع يطبق على أنفاسها و أنفاس اللي خلفوها..و حيرانة و تايهة و مش فاهمة و مش عارفة و بتسأل نفسها كل يوم نفس السؤال: ايه هو الحل؟

يا ترى هينفع في يوم من الأيام أقول لأهلي؟ يا ترى هيجي اليوم اللي على الأقل هينفع أشارك أهلي في جزء لا يتجزأ من الواقع اللي أنا بعيشوه؟

يا ترى أنا هقدر ءاسستان علاقة إنسانية ذات معنى مع شخص بحبه في ظل ظروف المجتمع ديه؟ هل ده ممكن يحصل في يوم من الأيام؟

يا ترى هيجي اليوم اللي مجتمع الخولات في مصر هيبدع فيه تجربة إنسانية و مجتمعية مختلفة و مغايرة عن المجتمع الغربي؟ واللا هيفضل التاريخ و التجربة الغربية لمجتمع الخولات هي المرجعية الأساسية لينا اللي احنا بنقيس عليها كل حاجة؟ (طبعا أنا مش بالسذاجة أني افترض أن الخولات في مصر أولردي بيسقطوا التجربة ديه على الواقع بتاعهم و بيغيروا فيها بالطريقة اللي تناسب الواقع ده و لكن يبقى هناك بعد ميتافيزيقي غائب تماما يشعر المرء بسببه بغربة شنيعة غير مفهومة) يا ترى هيجي اليوم اللي تجارب فئات المجتمع الأخرى هيتم الاعتراف بيها كجزء من تجربة الخولات ولا هتفضل مهمشة و يتم إقصائها بسبب الفروق الطبقية و الثقافية (بعيدا عن البلدي يوكل يا ديدي و شلف سكس از هوت و الكلام الساقط ده)؟

لحد امتى هتفضل تشوف صحبتها و قرايبها و جيرانها و أهلها بيتجوزوا و يخلفوا و يتقبل المجتمع اختياراتهم و يحتفل بيها كمان؟

يا ترى هيجي اليوم اللي الضغط عليها علشان تبقى زي الملايين اللي بيتجوزوا دول فظيع و مش هتعرف توقف الضغط الاجتماعي الرهيب ده؟

هل هي جزء من المجتمع اللي بيرفض اختياراتها و أسلوب حياتها و لا هي يتم تعريفها و ماهيتها بالنفي (هوا مش مظبوط، هوا مش زيينا،....) و ما هو عائب و ليس موجود؟ و هل بسبب الموقف أن ماينفعش تبقى جزء من المجتمع ده؟

طب هي ولائها لمين؟ للمجتمع ولا لهويتها و كينونة شخصيتها؟

ياترى هيفرض عليها حد النفي و الهجرة زي كل حد قبلها؟

هل ده هوا الحل؟

أسئلتها زي أسئلتنا كلنا و حكايتها زي حكايتنا كلنا ، خايفة زي ما احنا خايفيين و زهقت زي ما احنا زهقانين و تعبت من اللي بروحوا ما بيرجعوش و اللي بيسفروا و ما بيكلموش و اللي هربوا و ما فكروش و اللي قاعدين اللي ما بيرحموش.... و الواقع المتأزم و الولاء المنقسم و الهوية المشوهة و المستقبل المبهم و الوقت اللي بيعدي اللي ساعات فيه طويلة و كئيبة (مش زي الشحرورة فيه ساعات و ساعات، لأ ده كله نكد) والهوة السحيقة بين الأجيال و بعضها و الكوانين المرة و الكوانين اللي مش مرة أوي و ...و.... و......و في لحظة اللي يغيب ذا وايز كاونسل و الإلهام و الإبداع و القدوة و الفكر و يتفشى الجهل و الحيرة و إحساس وجودي يالضياع (بالظبط زي أفلام الستينات التعبانة) وفي غياب وجود طريق للحل يبقى الاعتراف و البوح بالسر هو أضعف الإيمان. "هي" حكت و اتكلمت وغنت و جابت محمد منير و صباح و أفلام الستينات و صراع الأجيال و صراع في الوادي و فاضل أن أنتوا تتكلموا و تحكوا

The Light that Huants Me

2011-12-31T12:30:00.000-08:00

Its almost impossible to write when one feels that the outcome will either be an exercise in self-pity or completely dispensable sophistry, some pretentious intellectualism that falters more than amuses.
But then at other times, writing becomes a necessity, a need that overpowers demons and obsessive thoughts about inadequacy or futile attempts at perfectionism.
This is one of those moments where words find their way around all those endless recesses in my mind and pulsate through every neuron and somehow a scene is constructed out of nothing, with words being its building blocks.
The scene is me standing in an interesting space, reconfigured to become a mundane dwelling, yet its sheer parameters make it architecturally stand out. It spatially organized in such a way, it forces you and everyone in it to cluster and float around into its four corners, its centre propelling us to its edges, we let it affect us in ways we can not see or perceive and we infuse it with meaning in ways that were not foreseen, we gather here, disperse there, and like tidal waves that ebb and flow, one corner is full and another remains empty.
The context was was a birthday party, as usual.
In our little Manhattan, where this place is swiftly tucked in, hidden from all eyes, I stood in one corner, with smoke filling the air, swimming so placidly, heavily all around and light-bulb painted green shimmering over my head, filling the space around me with this outlandish hue, a surreal shade of light that keeps bringing to mind one scene after the other..
How many times did I stand under this light, to divulge a secret? to whisper a desire? to listen to a fellow troubled spirit? to observe those oppressed bodies, writhing to bizarre cacophony of sounds trying to exorcise their demons, to spy on potential lovers and feed off the fantasy of being in their place..
How many times did I stand under this light and pretended that I was not aware of everything single thing around me, starting from the very floor I am standing on, to the feel of the fabric of what I am wearing on my skin, to the taste of alcohol on my tongue, to the colours that I could barely make out in this dim light, to the sound of the words that I was hearing from those talking to me, and the sound of the many many words left unsaid and that echoed and echoed inside- my head.
How many times did I stand under this light and witness rivalries, flirts, the unabashed scheming and engineering, the show downs, the confrontations and the outright displays of malicious hate.
How many times did I stand under this light and encounter bodies worn down by Time, society, and the weight of their own minds, how they came to me and confessed their innermost fears and desires.
How many times did I stand under this light, thinking it was all a dream, that I dreamt and any second I am going to close my eyes, open them again and it will all be gone.
How many times did I stand under this light and had to face the triviality of my own existence and all that might plague a once youthful and naive weltschauung.
How many times did I stand under this light and had to bid loved ones good bye, receive the Kiss of Judas from those I thought friends and had to realize that what men say when they are drunk vanishes faster than alcohol.
How many times did I stand under this light where innumerable heartbreaks were staged, just the sheer atmospherics of it.
How many times did I stand under this light slowly coming to terms with how the 'party', gradually disintegrated and each one of the attendees had to split up, grudgingly, becoming an island all by herself.
How many times has this light haunted me yet one more time..

هي البنات عايزة ايه؟

2011-11-25T12:58:00.000-08:00

اتسألت كتير أوي في الفترة اللي فاتت - طبعا قبل أحداث اليومين دول - عن موقف البنات من اللي بيحصل و ايه هي تطلعاتهم كأقلية منحرفة بتواجه كل أنواع القهر و التمييز
و السؤال نفسه حيرني كتير و ما باقتش عارفة أرد
ايه هي تطلعات مجتمع الخولات في مصر في ظل التحولات اللي بتحصل؟
و هل فيه تصور معين عن دور جديد للخولات؟
و قعدت أفكر هي البنات عايزة ايه؟
عايزة تتجوز؟ عايزة وظيفة؟ اللي عايزة تشتغل رقاصة و اللي عايزة تبقى مذيعة و اللي عايزة تبقى مهندسة و اللي و اللي و حاجات كتيرة أوي
عايزين نظام تكافل معين يلائم طبيعة العلاقات اللي الخولات بيمروا بيها؟
عايزين أماكن عامة يقدروا يتقابلوا فيها من غير تحرش من الأمن؟
عايزين المجتمع يحترم خياراتهم و أسلوب حياتهم الغير مالوف؟
عايزين يتعاملوا نفس المعاملة كمواطنين كاملي الأهلية لهم دور و عندهم تطلعات زيهم زي باقية المجتمع؟
ديه و حاجات كتيرة تانية
و اتفاجئت أنه في جوهرها ما اختلفتشي الحاجات ديه عن نفس الحاجات اللي بيطالب بيها أي شاب مصري جاي أو استرات
طبعا مع تفهمي الكامل أن طبيعة العلاقات الإنسانية في أقلية زي الخولات تتطلب حيز اجتماعي معين من خلاله تتحقق كل التطلعات ديه
و قعدت افكر في الدور الجديد ده للخولات و التصور اللي ممكن من خلاله يتم تفعيل دورهم أو تسييس دورهم كأقلبة و كل ما احاول أفكر و استمع للصوت اللي في عقلي ، الجني اللي بيجيلي على رأي العرب و يقولي اكتب أيه تعلو أصوات تانية تشتتني و تخليني مش قادرة أفكر
أصوات أحزاب الإخوان و السلفيين اللي عندهم كبت و سعار جنسي لم أر مثيله في حياتي، اللي عايزين يستعيروا عادات و تقليد مجتمع بدوي متحجر يعاني من جمود و تناقضات لدرجة الانفصام و الانفصال التام عن الواقع (طبعا بتكلم عن دول الخليج) و الزمن
اللي عندهم حالة غير عادية من الرعب من درجة التعقيد المتصلة بالحياة المدنية و الحضر عموما و أبص عليهم و أتفهم حالة الهلع اللي عندهم و كمية البلاهة و السذاجة القروية اللي تخليهم يعتقدوا أن رفض الواقع هو حل المشكلة و أن تكميم الأفواه و تعتيم العيون و تغطية الأجساد كافي لدرء شرور الحداثة و الغرب

أصوات المجندين السعوديين جوا الحرم و هما بيزعقوا في المصريين " الله يرحم أيام حسني" و مش لوحدهم أصوات العبيد و أنصاف
الآدميين اللي تمكن الذل و لانحطاط منهم لدرجات بعيدة و غير مسبوقة لدرجة أنهم يترحموا على أيام حسني

أصوات ملولة لنخبة فاسدة متحجرة عفي عليها الزمن أقل ما توصف بيه أنها نخبة قوادين فقدوا أدنى معاني النخوة و الكرامة و تشبثوا
بمناصبهم و مصالحهم، بيتعاملوا مع الشعب بازدراء و احتقار ما شوفتوش قبل كده، حرموا الشعب من أبسط حقوقه، حق الأمن و الأمان و قلبوا ابلد ساحة لمسجلين الخطر و البلطجية. أنا فاكرة مرة بتكلم مع رفيقة الكفاح باقولها تخيلي أي شعب في الدنيا يعيش 9 شهور من غير بوليس؟ اتحدى لو كان في سابقة في التاريخ بالمدة ديه
.
أصوات كلاب السلطة اللي بتلهث، عمالة تجري ورا أي عظمة يرميها النظام و ببراجمتية منقطعة النظير تتلون على كل لون و من غير مراعاة للصالح العام و أي مبادىء أخلاقية من قريب و من بعيد

و لاقتني مش عارفة أكتب، كل الأصوات ديه عاملة صخب و ضجيج غريب مخليني مش قادرة أفكر لا في الخولات كأقلية و لا في سيناريوهات المستقبل للمجتمع ككل

أول ذت أي نو أز البنات زي أي حد عايزين يحلموا و عايزين يبقى عندهم أمل و عندهم القدرة على تخيل للمستقبل برغم من كل الأصوات و كل صخب و ضجيج

Between the Acts

2011-10-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

Prologue
It is no small trial to attempt to write in such calamitous context. In such anguish and grief.
I remember reading in one of the prefaces of Jane Austen's novels how many criticized her for her complete lack of engagement with the momentous events taking place in Europe during her lifetime. While she wrote about the martial aspirations of her provincial, helplessly intelligent heroines, the continent was going through one of its profound transformations. One that changed the landscape of Europe forever.
It is exactly like writing about a peasant family in Upper Egypt during the British Occupation and make no mention of the 1919 revolution.
But Austen was true to her islander nature, her novels were insular, her outlook never went beyond the hedges of her grounds and despite a prodigious insight into the human psyche and character, not once in any of her novels do we see a hint of the French Revolution or the Napoleonic Wars.
She remotely deals with the notions of colonialism and destruction of indigenous people's ways of life and civilization (Mansfield Park 1814), but in the end its the British gentry and their claustrophobic, misogynistic attitudes that colour her worldview and page after page of everything she wrote.
To have a splinter of her insight or talent would be a blessing too much for gratitude, but without her talent and too much of her shortcomings, it is a sure recipe for disaster.
I borrow liberally from Austen and from others (Woolf, whose final novel was written in between air raids, mental fits and breakdowns, is ironically and prophetically called 'Between the Acts' 1941, in between the 'acts' of survival and of writing), seduced by their generosity and magnanimity, I squeeze myself in, deluding myself that I can glide between ingenious lines and majestic phrases and arrive at something wonderful and inspiring in those moments of extreme despair and anguish.
I can talk endlessly about a very similar claustrophobic, bigoted atmosphere that Austen described so vividly in her work, the gay scene in Cairo is hardly any different.
And the war waged outside on the people of Cairo by the army is enough reason for anyone to have a mental fit or a breakdown.
But like Austen and Woolf, in between wars, and national catastrophes, the "gay gentry" still manages to hold parties and dances and all kinds of charades, right there, in between.
And in a condition of scarcity, of distress, of hope and despair, lines get blurred.
The first Act is the Act of Lines Blurred:
Its a universally acknowledged fact that the gay scene in Cairo is rigidly stratified along the lines of class, education, occupation, degree of attractiveness, fashionableness of dress, ...etc. Something very akin to the Indian caste system. You are born into one caste and you can only escape it in a next life, that is if you do good deeds and accumulate good Karma. Otherwise you are doomed to be reincarnated in even lower forms of life (femmes, girly,...etc)
So members of one caste can not socialise with members of other castes or they forever bring shame onto their fellow members.
And after a long dry spell where parties were a forgotten pleasure and now a most coveted luxury, at the remote chance of a party, everyone jumped on board.
All castes.
Even the Untouchables (i.e. fats, Asians, femmes, girly, shalaf,....etc).
And over a barely functional air conditioner, we gathered, coalesced into one miserable group of hyperventilating flesh and socially incongruent individuals and each made a feast of pointing out the inadequacies of the other.
The accomplished were snobs, the fats were lazy and poorly dressed, the femmes were the bane of the gay community, the muscle marys were antisocial and fictitious and so on.
Divides that ran deep and could only be redeemed by unhealthy consumption of alcohol and hallucinogenic plants.
Not everyone had the patience and the discipline to subject their bodies and their minds to the transgressive effects of intoxication and psychotic agents.
Some flee like caged birds, flying back to the safety of their nests. Others linger, hoping to witness this moments when alcohol depresses the CNS (Central Nervous System) and effectively kills the mechanisms of judgement and discrimination in the upper castes. When finally, thanks to poison, we are all united in the brotherhood of a sexually repressed, morally bankrupt minority.
And to she who waits, comes eventual success.
A gentleman belonging to the upper castes (the ones with accomplished professions, hypertrophic muscles,...etc) generously offered his beautiful abode to the remaining guests to "continue" the festivities.
Off we go, half-way intoxicated, looking forward to more numbing of our senses and dulling of our judgement.
And in a space occupied by such disparate individuals, the young, the hung, the femmes, the fats, the has-beens, the wannabees, the gym rats, and every possible taxonomic classification anyone can think of, we stood looking at each other, and reinforced status symbols and privileges and at loss in trying to find ways to humanize the "others". The higher castes imposed their own tastes, everything was amplified, masculinised, even the music sounded as if it was on steroids.
And I, at once loud, campy, uber feminine, eccentric, choreographically challenged (for who could ever dance to house music without being completely drugged?), was acutely aware of every single judgement passed against me.
'Your gaze hits the side of my face', as Barbara Kruger once said.
And this was not only a gaze, it was rather daggers, outright pouring of hostility that I consciously chose to ignore but that did not only hit the side of my face, it struck my very being, fell on my skin, seeped through my ears, penetrated my eyes, swam through my brain and found its way to the multitude of chambers and compartments of my brain.
I represented everything the higher castes resented. And for my offence, I deserved to be excommunicated, to be shunned from all good society. And of course by good society, its the society of hypertrophic muscled marys, who thanks to unabashed use of illegal substance can sustain such muscle mass and dance to such psychedelic music.
I shrugged it off. The more hostility, the louder the laughs.
Like everyone else, I pretended that alcohol can fix any social awkwardness and somehow makes everyone less hostile.
And in a moment, in between, when we are drugged, our bodies weak with poison, our vision less discerning, our selves liberated from social dogmas, lines get blurred. And castes collide.
One gentleman went as far as to open his heart and release inner demons that plagued him so. Suddenly there was the anxiety of self-image, the fear of being objectified, and the sorrow of being seen in one light rather than the other. Suddenly appearances were deceiving, confining, reductive and even went as far as to impose a certain feeling of being disconnected. Of loneliness.
I was moved by such display of vulnerability. And as Nezar once beautifully said, و نسيت حقدي كله، من قال أني قد حقدت عليه؟
Another went as far to kiss me and actually express desire at the dismay and disapproval of his companions and clout. And it shocked me to no end. There I was cornered and being viciously kissed by the last man I could ever think would want to kiss me. I attributed this to age and illegal levels of alcohol consumption.
What was hilarious though, was the snickering and the snide comments that were flying over my head from his coteries, some went as far as to congratulate me.
Seriously.
Another gentleman praised my intellect and realised he discovered a side he did not "see" before. And I was amazed that he never heard of the term "intellectual queen" before.
In my head, my laugh was getting louder and louder. I was still the same. Nothing about me changed. I didn't grow 10 kgms of muscle in 10 seconds like Captain America (I despise Chris Evans, but he definitely had me scratching the screen), I did not have a testosterone rush and acquire more secondary sex characteristics, nor did my IQ jump 10 points in 5 minutes.
The only difference is my brethren were enfeebled by the amount of poison they had consumed.
The poison of alcohol, the poison of vanity, the poison of pride, the poison of gluttony and the unbearable weight of constantly pretending, of performativity.
They allowed themselves to see beyond appearance, beyond prejudice, beyond despicable social norms, beyond their neurosis, beyond the stereotype.
In between acts of masculinity, acts of class, acts of superiority, acts of sexual primacy, lines get blurred.
And you might you even get kissed!

Act II: Act of Lines Crossed

To cross the line, to pass the equator and undergo a series of re-enactments for archaic rituals to appease sea deities and former gods. The usual fear espoused with uncharted waters and the intrinsic desire of mankind to give offering to tempestuous deities of the unknown and in turn "control" those unforeseen forces, trick them one more time.
The equator was the age limit of 21 and the re-enactments were adolescent hormonal discharges that is gestural and pre-linguistic.
The ferocious deities, were gay music and 80s sense of fashion style.
It is not fun to be the oldest person in a party where the average age is 15 (just kidding, 17 is actually more like it) and where people mistake you for 21.
It can hardly be denied - what self-respecting intellectual queen would deny being infinitely flattered by such naive judgement - that I was very gratified and grateful to the dim lights and the few working genes that my parents passed me. But I couldn't help but feel completely out of place.
I could not help the fact that I was slowly moving away from my third decade, as they say in Arabic, and not so slowly approaching 30 or in gay speak, 'old age'.
I had two years to live, in gay years that is, after which I am officially senile (as such I am expected to plan my own exile, gracefully).
And I stood there, listening to heavily synthesized music, watching the post-post-post-modern outfits and it gave me a moment to reflect on my "gay career" which was about to end in a few gay moments.
And I was genuinely impressed by the notion of 'gay time'. The gays finally did it, they overhauled the dimensionality of time, and added a whole new dimension or rather dimensions of their own.
So depending on your mass (i.e. physique), your position in space (socialite, fashionista, intellectual queen,... etc), time (age in gay years) your existence is defined.
The gays were the first to embrace new laws of physics -whoever said the gay are averse to scientific thinking?- coining such expressions like 'She is so boring, time literally stops', or 'I don't care how old she is, she looks 50', 'She is so fat, she has her own black hole', all alluding to philosophy of relativity. Your position in space and the speed (speed here is defined by the sum of certain individual attributes: physical looks, sense of style, social aptitude,..etc) defines your relation to time and those around you and how it comes to be.
And one party after the other, I was confronted with this unmistakable perception of time or burgeoning homosexuals start calling me 'mother'.
A reference not only to my maternal instincts and the way I embrace my effeminacy but also to my status and role. 'Bitch you have aged and now its time to pass your wisdom'.
I crossed a line, and now I am a single mother of three.
But what wisdom do I pass? And what if I don't want to have children?
What if at some point along the way after being jilted and thrown around by abusive men, my maternal instincts transformed and in a very Medea moment I would rather kill my children than endure living with them while resenting them?
What if all the wisdom I have is be wary of queens for they are ruthless, unforgiving creatures who would stand at nothing to humiliate you and laugh at your expense?
What if all I know is that Egyptian men do not believe in relationships and you are better off leaving the country if you truly want to have a meaningful and long-term relationship?
What if all I have to show are years and years of trying and trying to adapt to the harsh realities of an oppressed and pernicious minority who left too many scars in my psyche that I don't care to count or remember?
What if, like everyone else, I am utterly helpless and lost about ageing in a narcissistic, juvenile subculture that affords little chance or opportunity for guidance, emotional and psychological growth?
What if I am completely exhausted by Cairo, Egypt and its inhabitants that will never accept or embrace the notion of a sexual minority (at least in the near future)?
What if it breaks my heart every time I think that I never had any meaningful relationship with an Egyptian man? In the span of 13 years?
What if I resent the notions of self-imposed exile (the only way to have a balanced, well-adjusted existence is to leave Cairo), the constant rite of departure (witnessing one friend leave after the other) and the habitual rehabilitation of Egyptian homosexuals back into society (I want to have a family, a real family, so I will get married and have fun on the side)?
What if I am terrified in facing all these truths and realities, just like everyone else, and am reluctant to sail, cross, pass this line and traverse those treacherous waters and uncharted territories?
The eccentric morbid queen is not your mother, does not want to have children and like everyone else is completely baffled by the process of ageing and the complete absence of any guidance or support in the 13th circuit of Hell that is Cairo.

Wong Kar-wai Moments

2011-08-27T21:11:00.000-07:00

A Wong Kar-Wai Moment

Scene (1)

In an opulent room, extravagantly done, very dimly lit, infused with hues of crimson and blood red, you were standing close, you leaned forward and whispered something in my ear.
Something about desire.
I laughed, throwing my head backwards, being demure, I tried to evade answering your question, while you laughed a shrill laugh and moved in a little closer, too close I could smell the faded scent of your expensive perfume.

Scene (2)

In our little Manhattan, standing in front of you, you in a dandyesque attire, understated here, overstated there, never giving too much and revealing just the right amount of bourgeois air: I look at your face, searching - for its always the face, no? - for that glimpse of acknowledgment.
This primary site of recognition - the face.
But I looked and looked and all there was, was the shrill laugh and a lot of forgetfulness.

Scene (3)

Dans le Caire de la Belle Epoque, et dans un batiment typical of that era, with Carnelian red gates and partially renovated staircase, that has patches of cement covering its walls at odd patterns and amorphous shapes, with melancholic neon light only amplifying the grey tones of the cement and the dreariness of the rundown atmosphere - in a room freshly painted I stood opposite you and once again I pretended that my perception of you is a seamless thing, not punctured by Time or distance or subject to reality or reason.
And we laughed again, mine a semblance of a laugh and yours the shrill, hearty laugh and you held my hand a little longer than necessary and I pretended that this is where it always belonged.
And when I had to leave and walk down that staircase once more, before reaching the final steps down, I stared at the patches of cement for a moment. A moment that felt so long to me. And so full.
I could feel the wooden banister, the marble steps and the eerie light of the neon lamps, that cast a sickly lunar quality, the beautiful gates and overwhelming nostalgia permeating the entire scene that would make Wong Kar-wai and Christopher Doyle relish it in ecstatic agony - was the perfect setting for a fleeting moment of delusional amorousness and a long moment of departure. And of forgetfulness.

جرى أيه يا زيزي؟

2011-08-22T09:24:00.000-07:00

جتلي ردود أفعال عديدة على البوست الأخير و كتير من صحابتي كلموني و سألوني أنتي كويسة أيه حصل ايه و حقيقي أنا أي ام فري تتشت من كل اللي سأل و حاول يساعد. باشكركوا من قلبي و من جلكوش في حاجة وحشة أبدا
بس قبل أبدأ الكلام باهني كل قراء بمناسبة الشهر الفضيل و بادعي ربنا يستر كل البنات و نصحيتي لكل بنت نمسك نفسنا شوية في رمضان و مافيش داعي لاستفزاز مشاعر الناس فاللي خلاص مش قادرة تمسك نفسها و إن كانت فاعلة و لا مفر تاخد كورنر و تتخفي! زي ما النبي كان بيقول إذا بليتم فاستتروا يعني مافيش داعي تبقي عاملة مصيبة و وشك ما يبقاش فيه نقطة دم! نراعي مشاعر الناس
التانية خصوصا أن في تندنسي اليومين دول في عدم احترام الدين. يمكن يكون
ده نتيجة من اللي بيعملوه السلفيين؟ مش عارفة بس في أي حالة ما ينفعش يكون رد الفعل هو التوتل ديسريسبكت للدين. يجب أن نفصل أي دين عن ممارسيه أو كده وي رسك أن كل ممارسة دينية هتبان لينا بس بجوانبها السلبية. الدين مكون أساسي في شخصية الإنسان، رضينا أم لم نرضى - الفرق أن احنا نأبروش الموضوع بشيىء من العقل و الاستنارة. على أي حال ارجع و انبه البنات خفوا الدوز شوية
المهم أني حبيت في الكام بوست الأخير الفت النظر لمواضيع أساسية و تكاد تكون الشغل الشاغل لكثرين و منهم أنا. يعني في حاجات كلنا بنمر بيها و لكن هى الأشياء المسكوت عنها في الجي سوسايتي
كل واحدة تعملي فيها خضرة الشريفة و ما تيجي سيرة الس تي ديز تقولك ايه القرف ده! شوفتي يا روح أمك؟؟ كل واحدة سكشولي أكتف معرضة لل اس تي ديز من أول قمل العانة لحد الزهري فا ما بلاش الحركتين دول و خلينا ناس واقعيين

بدل ما يبقى فيه تول دينيل لحاجة مهمة خطيرة وي كده ليه ما يبقاش فيه وعي أكثر و ليه ما يبقاش فيه نوع من السبورت لكل كوانين مصر؟
هيجرى ايه في الدنيا لو صحبتك عملت سكس مرة و جلها كلاميديا أو سيلان؟
كون الأمراض ديه بتنتقل أساسا عبر العملية الجنسية لا يعني إطلاقا أن صحبتك شرموطة أو رخيصة أو بنت لووس و واقعة
كل اللي بيعنيه أن صحبتك مور سسبتبل للمرض ده مش أكثر
جه حظ أبوها النحس أن هي معرضة أكثر منك للمرض ده
أنا على يقين أن كل واحدة بتقرا البوست ده ليها تجربة مع اس تي دي أو أكثر و لو ماكنش عندها أتحدى أن لو احنا أخدنا عينة من دمها مش هنلاقي على الأقل تلات أربع أمراض هي حاملة ليهم و مش عارفة (على سبيا المثال فيروس ايتش اس في و فيروس ايتش بي في يحملوه 70% من البشر)ده لا يعني أن هي شرموطة و لكن ما ينفعش يكون البعد الأخلاقي هو الفيصل في حاجة زي كده
طبعا أنا عارفة أن فيه كام واحدة بنت قحبة هتقعد تقول "هو انتي ايه اللي خلاكي تغيري رأيك؟؟ هه؟؟ أكيد أنتي جالك اس تي دي عشان كده عاملة تقول لازم يبقى فيه سبورت و اندرستانديج و كده" و ردي على البنات ولاد القحبة دول لأ أنا مش منافقة و لا أنا كل ساعة برأي و لا أني كنت بنادي بحاجة و دلوقتي بنادي بعكسها، لأ أنا لسه عند رأي أن أحسن لأي واحدة أن هي تبقى في علاقة مينجفول على أن هي تبقى ماشية مع كل رجالة البلد
أن خناقتي الدائمة مش ان البنات ما تعملش سكس في المجرد و لكن على الأقل يبقى فيه نوع من الإنسانية في الموضوع و ما أظنش أن كلامي عن الخروج من الصمت الرهيب اللي محوط ال اس تي ديز عكس كده
بالعكس أنا من إيماني (و أنا بنت مؤمنة مؤمنة مؤمنة) أن من حق كل بنت (وباي بنت أي مين ولد) السبورت و الريسبكت اللي تستحقه لازم يبقى فيه صراحة و تقبل لمواقف (و في بعض الأحيان طرائف) اللي أي واحدة معرضة ليها
احنا (مش المجلة التشيزي) كجزء من مجتمع لا يعطي أي نوع من السبورت لأقلية منهرفة زينا لازم احنا اللي نوفر السبورت و الاندرستاندنج ده
مايبقاش قرف كون احنا أقلية و كمان فوقيه قرف واحدة بنت ستين كلب تقعد تقولك آه ديه عندها اس تي دي تبقى هي شرموطة و رخيصة و تفتكر نفسها الفيرجن ماري
كس أمك

تلاقيها هي أصلا اللي دايرة على حل شعرها و نايمة مع نص السوسياتي
أنا لما كتبت الكام بوست الأخير أنا لا أكذب و لا أتجمل و ديه مش حملة لتحسين صورة زيزي بعد إصابة انفورتشونت في الملاعب
إطلاقا
أنا زي أي بنت عند هوس و حالة رعب من الإصابة بالكوكتيل الفظيع أوف اس تي ديز اللي معرضة ليه أي بنت شاذة (و باي بنت أي مين ولد)و اللي في بلد زي بلدنا يبعرضك للقيل و القال و ذل السؤال و أن البنات تنهش فروتك و تسوء سمعتك و أفكتفلي تنهي يور جاي كارير
ولأني مؤمنة (تاني بكررها) بأن لازم كل بنت (و باي بنت أي مين ولد) تفتح كارتها قصدي قلبها و تكلم
و لا هو الكلام يبقى عن تشويه سمعة الناس و الطعن في اعراضهم؟
اللي حاوت أعمله في الكام بوست الأخير هو الخروج عن الصمت ده و أن احنا تنكلم بصراحة عن واقع موجود و معايش و حاجة فعلا تستدعي القلق و الخوف و بتفرض في الكثير من الأحيان حالة من النفي و الإبعاد و شعور قاتل بالوحدة و العار
و على رغم أن ده فعلا ساوندز لايك فيلم عربي من الستينيات في قمة السينيما الواقعية إلا أنه كوندشن موجود و ماينفعش نتجاهله أو نقول أن ده ما بيحصلش للناس المحترمة
شوفتي؟
على رغم من أن تجربة أي اس تي دي تجربة مؤلمة و مؤرفة و يشوبها الكثير من الروع و بتفرض على الشخص حالة من العزلة و الصمت و تبقى الواحدة مننا مش عارفة تروح فين و تقول ايه لمين إلا أن أنتي هتفاجأي ببعض الريأكشنز اللي هتلاقيتها من صحابتك و الناس اللي حوليكي
اللي تعرف حد يعرف دكتور كويس، اللي تبترع تيجي معاكي عند الدكتور، اللي تقولك أن ذا ورست جدج ويل بي يورسلف أند سو أون
بجد هتعرفي معادن الناس اللي حوليكي من مواقف زي كده
لأن الجسد أز ايه سايت أوف بولتيكل ، سوشل أند مورل كونتنشن من المستحيل أن حاجة زي كده ما تفتحش الباب على مصرعيه أن كل من هب و دب تو كليم حق الرد و التدخل و الجدجمنت
و أنا من مكاني هذا بفتح الباب و بأكد أن زيزي مش البنت اللي تخاف من المواجهة! أنا أقول للأعور أنت أعور في عينيه و ما يهمينيش و في نفس الوقت أنا لو غلطانة أخذ بالجزمة و ما افتحش بقي
بس اللي ليه عندي حاجة ييجي كده و يوريني نفسه! برينج أت أون يا روح أمك

Girl, Positive

2011-08-01T17:10:00.000-07:00

What if you wake up one day and fond you were HIV+?
What if you were careful, used a condom every time, except this one time with person X where you were "careful" or "too in the moment" or "just didn't feel like it" or "every gay man eventually gets it, so why bother with condoms"?
What if you were allergic to latex and non-latex condom are just too expensive?
What if you were in a monogamous relationship and your partner isn't?
What if you were one of those unlucky few who are just more susceptible to viruses in general and got infected with HIV in the most unusual ways?
What if you were HIV+, what would you do?

Sister, don't judge me?

2011-07-22T18:08:00.000-07:00

Characters:
You ---------------- Everyday homo, the homo next door, a single homo, the archetype homo
Your sister--------His bestfriend, the keeper of his secrets, the good counsel, his best homo friend

Time ---------------The perpetual present

Place----------------The Land of the Nile

Judgment (1)
You: He got married a few weeks ago..
Your Sister: Oh sweetheart I am so sorry!
You: Its ok. I knew this was going to happen, but you are always never prepared for this moment..
Your Sister: Sweetheart, he is not worth it. He is a selfish asshole, who should be shot in a public square after having his balls cut off!
You: He called me yesterday and wanted to get together.
Your Sister: What?? NO!
You: Yes.. and I think I want to go see him..
Your Sister: Sweetheart that would be the worst thing that you could ever do! Whatever your feelings towards him, whatever you two are having, whatever you think he has and that no other man does, you can not see him again.. Its unfair to everyone in this situation
You: I don't want to think about fair or not fair.. I need to see him so I can have peace
Your Sister: I don't care for whatever reason that made him get married, social pressure, identity crisis, sexual confusion, he likes pussy, whatever, all the same to me, he made a certain lifestyle choice over being with you, and by doing that placed you in a position where you will always be the "other woman", the home wrecker, the harlot, the one that has no rights and can ask for none, and the one that is not treated as an equal. Sweetie you deserve better. Much better.
You: I don't know what I deserve or not, for the time when were together he was great, I just don't want to think about another guy.. I want him..
Your Sister: And you shouldn't and I am sorry but I am going to pull a Mariah Carey for that one, him "coming back to you, is against all the odds and thats what you have to face"!
You: Yeah, that helps a lot.. !
Your Sister: Sweetie, you know what you have to do, and you know what is right, you can't see a married man and you can not help him in thinking its easy to break a promise that he made to his wife to be faithful and monogamous. Or else you become like him: A selfish asshole!

Judgment (2)

You: I think I have a problem
Your Sister: Whats wrong?
You: I think I have an STD, one of the nasty ones..
Your Sister: What?? How??
You: I think its .......
Your Sister: What?? You only get that if you are practicing unsafe sex?!
You (with contrition): I did.. with this guy.. we did it once and then we never used condoms after..
Your sister (screaming): Have you completely lost your mind??? How could you???
You: I don't know! I just did! I assumed he is disease free and - I hate condoms!! HATE IT! Hate the fucking thing!!!
Your Sister: You are fucking insane!! What do you mean you "hate condoms"?? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!
You (exasperated): I don't know- this whole obsession with safe sex and the post-AIDS sexual ethics just doesn't go with me! Its such policing of intimacy and of the body.. I feel as if I have no control over my body..
Your Sister: The HELL you don't! Now you really don't have control over body!! Your exposing your body to every kind of lethal STD out there by what you are doing!! Fuck sexual ethics! There is a real threat to your life in not practicing safe sex! You can not argue your way out of this!
You: I am not arguing my way out this.. I made a decision and I now have to bear the consequencs of it..
Your Sister: No you don't! You are a hypocrite! You keep judging everyone for being promiscuous and keep demanding of the gay community a more "humane sexual ethic" and blah blah while you yourself are doing exactly what everyone else is doing!
You: No I am not! I amazed if people can survive fisting and I get that!

You (sighing): I am terrified.. How on Earth am I going to treat that?? I can't go to a physician, because the moment he sees that, he will know right away, not only am I a homosexual, but I am a sexually active homosexual and I don't use condoms!
Your Sister: This is what you fucking get when you don't use a fucking condom! Being gay in this fucking country is no fucking jolly ride! Its a fucking horrible existence! You don't want to add this a list of STDs that you can't get the right medical and psychological support for!!
You (in tears): I know.. and I am completely miserable.. Not as miserable over the STD, as much as I am miserable as how to deal with it.. I know so well, that I just can't go to a physician and seek help and now I will become a sexual pariah! No one would want to even touch me and I can't event take my clothes off without everyone knowing exactly what this is..
Your Sister: Maybe that is your lesson. For espousing a certain ideal and going against it, for preaching for so long about something and doing exactly the opposite! There is a real threat when you actually don't practice safe sex, you do endanger your life and those around you. Beyond ethics, beyond philosophy, beyond allergy and beyond the politics of intimacy. These tiny particles of things that we can't see and can't control can actually kill us, and they really don't care about how you feel about condoms!
You: Well you and the whole community can gloat and gloat and bitch all you like about it.. it is such a horrific moment, when the personal, the private becomes not only medicalized, turned into a lethal pathology, but subject to a moral gaze, a moral trial, a public censure for a behavior everyone regards as danger, irresponsible and self-destructive. All of this compounded by the fact that even the medicalization of such a private condition can not take place in a country like this.. you have to suck it in, and suffer in silence..
Your Sister: Ah! Spare me the self-pity! You screwed up and not in a good way and if you want a kiss and a pat on the shoulder, it won't be this time!

Judgment (3)

You: I am just not happy in that arrangement..
Your Sister: Sweetie, why? Whats wrong?
You: I just don't see why do I have to commit to one person and forfeit the opportunity to enjoy this incredible sensations with other people.. Why can't I just keep seeing other people and still have my own life?!
Your Sister: Is it about him? Or is this about commitment?
You: I don't know.. Part of me thinks that it is very realistic in a young same-sex relationship to be open and to provide this outlet and not to burden the relationship with the monotony of one sex partner -
Your Sister: Straight men do it all the time!
You: Straight men cheat!
Your Sister: Do all straight men cheat?
You: Yes! But its not about straight men, its about being realistic about your expectations and what you demand from your partner, you're young and healthy and want to experiment!
Your Sister: Is that the argument that men by nature want to amass the biggest number of sex partners to spread their seed?? Because if it is, well honey if men's evolutionary development entailed having the biggest number of sexual partners to spread their seed to ensure that their gene pool is passed through offspring, then this does not apply to us! Its strictly heterosexist and assumes that the only reason or objective of having sex is procreation and no matter how much seed you pass or receive, you can't get pregnant!
You: I know that! But its the same with hunting, we stopped hunting thousands of years ago but we still retain those instincts!
Your Sister: Really? Because if thats true, I can't even kill a fly! Not to mention my own food!
This whole instinct thing is rubbish. By the same argument we evolve beyond those instincts, because we respond to our changing environment.
You: We are going into side arguments, what I mean to say is I don't think anyone can be happy in a monogamous relationship for long and I don't think everyone is cut for it
Your Sister: I understand the sex part of it, I understand that men are naturally selfish and would like to maximize not only the pleasure they get but the way they receive this pleasure, but happiness is a whole other thing I can't see you arguing that
You: I am not happy like that.. I want to see other people and get excited about other people, otherwise the relationship becomes work!
Your Sister: Exactly! Relationships, are work! A lot of work! And they are not for the faint-hearted. And they are not for those who are selfish and they are not for those who want to be constantly excited!
You: Bitch!
Your Sister: Bitch all you like! But you can't justify your ennui about your relationship by saying that monogamous relationships are not a very positive condition for happiness. And you can not explain your desire to meet other people and enjoy multiple sexual encounters by your fear and phobia of commitment.
Commitment is not doing time, its NOT being incarcerated and deprived from every joy the way you make it sound. Its growing up and assuming responsibility!
You: Now you just sound boring! Like a real chick with issues!
Your Sister: Yes! I sound like a chick because I think people should make the effort and try to commit and stay in monogamous relationships??
You: Yes! It might work for straight people but what makes you think it will work for gay people?? What makes you think it will work for young gay men??
Your Sister: Don't bring the whole straight-gay thing about relationships are for straights and promiscuity is for gays! That just reinforces every disgusting stereotype about gay people! And it serves to show how a bunch of juvenile retards they are and how they have congenital problems in becoming responsible adults!
You: How does being in a monogamous relationship make you a responsible adult? What does it have to do with growing up?
Your Sister: Because you can not live your life being twenty five, and you can not live your life without developing one meaningful attachment to another human being, its almost impossible that any human is incapable of developing an emotional attachment, and those who can't are actually classified as sick! Its a disease!
You: I didn't say you should not develop a meaningful relationship with another person, I said have an open relationship or serial date!
Your Sister: Whoever said a monogamous relationship has to last forever? Like you keep saying, people "evolve" all the time, why is it that we have to stick to one person?? For a lifetime??
You: Or even a long time! Why stick with one person? Why not just go out there and hunt and have fun!
Your Sister: Because you need to form at least one meaningful, long-term relationship with another fellow human to be happy!
You: Why can't they be a bunch of people?!
Your Sister: Well there is always polygamy!
In your case it will be polyandry though!
You: Yes! Maybe thats it, maybe I am polyandrous!
You Sister: No sweetie, thats called being a whore!
You: No you just can't understand it!
Your Sister: Absolutely! You know why? Because I can barely keep up with one guy! Not to mention a whole bunch of them!! If you can, well kudos for you!

Forever is Right Now

2011-07-19T19:06:00.000-07:00

(This post was inspired by dearest Taurean friend, as we were stumbling, drunkenly, along the aisles of Metro Market)

After weeks of criss-crossing across Western Europe in desperate attempt to prove to herself that she was still 'in-the-game', she could still actually date, and date men she actually likes, the eccentric morbid queen was once again back to Cairo, the city of sand and dust.
Forced to go back to no-man's-land and in our little Manhattan, intoxicated by a little too many Jack Daniel's the eccentric morbid queen, had a drunken epiphany.
Not that she was a supporter of altering one's consciousness by the aid of external substances, that being alcohol or otherwise, but by shifting her system of mental filtering, the eccentric morbid queen finally realized something that constantly escaped her.

This post, was intially going to be called 'Under a Dutch Sky: Revisited', after having to go back to Amsterdam and spending yet more time under the exquisite Dutch sky, there was a lot that was seen in a different light, and at the risk of being too sentimental and too taken by the Dutch sky, the reality check Cairo offered was the best antidiote to this unnecessary sensationalization.

What if all those perfect moments envisioned and imagined of what a perfect date should be, and a perfect man and a perfect place and the perfect relationship and what we expect it to be and want it to be, across time and space, is right now?

What if we can't project into the future anymore and what could actually happen and will happen has no relaiton whatsoever to our desires and how and when we want them to be fulfilled?

What if the perfect man comes with the imperfect house, with the imperfect job, with the imperfect circumstances at the imperfect timing?

What if the imperfect man, comes with the perfect house, with the perfect job, with the perfect circumstances at the perfect timing?

And the permutations and combinations could go on for some time.

What if no one in this land of sand and dust, and illusions shattered, and illusions created anew, ever declare his undying affection for the eccentric morbid queen?

What if she is doomed to those fleeting encounters on rainy nights nights, in strange cities, so far away from home?

What if those moments are all there is?
For now.

What if forever was right now?

Under the Dutch Sky

2011-06-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

There is little that compares to a sunset under the Dutch sky. Magnificent hues of magenta and light crimson illuminate the clear sky at 10 clock at night and the sheer beauty of it leaves me breathless.
I can see why it inspired so many artists and gave the world the so-called Golden Age of Dutch painting.
But we are a long way from the 1600s and despite the fact that the old towncenter survives almost intact, the Dutch sky no longer inspires the inhabitants underneath it, like it once did.
Its now a magical cascade over an uneven, visually dissonant landscape, with inhabitants that long forsaken their fascination and have pushed their pragmatism to the extreme.
The altered landscape does not compromise any of the beauty and wonder of the Dutch sky. It is still as magical and hypnotizing as ever.
In a moment of realization closer to Dutch pragmatism and far from the mystery of the Dutch sky, the eccentric morbid queen was coming to terms with certain truths about her inner landscapes.
It amazed her that certain things about who she is no longer seemed to be mysterious or incomprehensible as they once were. The uncertainties, the doubt, the fear, all gone, replaced by a keen sense of trusting those bizarre impulses and incessant desires.
If these desires did not express something fundamental about her person, then why are they manifesting themselves the way they do?
Desires are not only mindless preferences, they are an organic manifestation of a deep internal structure, it has its own rationale, one that we might not agree with or understand, but they do, and one step of evolving beyond fixation on desire, is making peace with their presence and accepting that they might signify an absence, or reinforce a presence, or accentuate a lack, or perpetuate an excess, they can do all kinds of things that in many cases lay beyond our control.
And it was at that moment that the eccentric morbid queen made peace with those desires that manifest themselves and the meaning of their fundamental existence.
And in an unglamorous moment, clad in H&M from head to toe, with nothing but almost worthless Egyptian coins in her pocket, and remains of faded brown nail polish on her finger nails, the eccentric morbid queen came face to face with her reality.
The limitations of her attractiveness, the insatiability of her consumerism, the pseudo-seriousness of her intellect, the body-image anxiety, the angst surrounding her future, the deep-seated fear of being judged for all of that.
The constant terror that she might be, in spite of everything she likes to believe, nothing but a phony.
There is nothing genuine or real about her, just like her mass-produced outfit, her depth is just as superficial, and can be easily and endlessly replicated and come across as very visible at its very seams.
She may erect (what an ironic choice of words) all the walls she likes, but in the end she fools no one.
Certainly not the Dutch.
Where what is on the inside is all on the outside, and cheap outfits and visible seams are spotted miles away.
So are fat cheeks, slanted eyes, and 'average' bodies.
You can't mask an H&M outfit with an ethnic retouch, or dress up your 'average' body with intelligent conversation.
The Dutch have little time for conversation, if you don't fit in their time slots, they are not interested.
Next.
Everything is planned, entered into the calendar, even impromptu sex.
It happens Thursday from 8:30 to 11:30.

And if you don't have a visible manifestation of attractiveness, right where they can see it, then they have no interest.
This is worse than Cairo. Because at least in Cairo you get people putting up the appearance of trying to be deep enough to value your 'other qualities' rather than your 'mere physical attributes'.
Here, no.
If you are not a manly man, then no interest, and no time.
The eccentric morbid queen has little beyond her mediocre powers to entertain, and she can not lure or charm, either by money or power.
Don't let the royal title fool you.
If the eccentric morbid queen is a diva, then she is definitely a diva on a dime.
But she tried.
She played all her cards: the ethnic card, the Arab card, the submissive card, the intellectual card, and still to no avail.
She was not a muscular manly man.
She was not a product of post-epidemic obsession with health and masculinity.
She was not the dark, wild Arab.
She is the pale imitation of a white person.
In a world in-between.
And nothing about the beauty of the Dutch sky, or how tall Dutch man are, or how fair their skin or how blond the hair is, will change any of that.

And that is what she has to face.
And not to glorify or exalt or alter or ameliorate, either by fanciful depiction or sentimental writing.
For one reeks of delusion and the other of self-pity.

It Happend One Night at the ......

2011-05-27T10:04:00.000-07:00

In the heart of Cairo, in the place we-dare-not-speak-its-name, one summer night in May, when the security apparatus collapsed with no hope of recovery, and when fags realized that just as they reappropriated Tahrir Square, they can reappropriate any other place they want - I myself would speak the name of that place we-dare-not-speak-its-name, but bitch gotta keep her mouth shut.
And in a moment when constellations align, the moon is full and Venus is in retrograde, a sudden outburst of life took place in that place we-dare-not-speak-its-name.
Just like planktons in the pelagic zone (no, this is not a codename for an underground gay seedy bar, it is in fact a scientific term), under the brilliant summer sun, the same way queens multiply under the full moon.
The difference is, of course, that planktons are essential for the life of the ocean. But then are the queens not essential for the continuity of life in Cairo?
The queens are essential to night life in Cairo, they spread their luminous green (envy) and glorious red (viciousness) the same way planktons do, making sure that life remains entertaining and lively for all.
The unusual thing about this extraordinary moment is that every one and their mother, and in some cases their grandmothers too, was there.
And I mean everyone.
The expats, the falafel queens, the expat-wanna bes, the has-beens, the tweens, the rent boys, the exchange students (those who come to study "Arabic") the downtown scene, the straight-acting, the ageing bitter queens (present!), the Muscle Marys, and every other social configuration anyone can think of. It was truly a microcosm of the gay community.
It was as if ManSham came to life.
Bitches want democracy and equal access for all, well democracy this!
No need to say that it was a nightmare, massive waves of dissing, just like ocean tide, would sweep the whole space, and you would find every bitch dissing the other right to her face.
Everyone was so open about their viciousness, there was no holding back now. Everyone felt empowered, liberated, every bitch felt high on power, like she owned the f*cking place.
There it was: a place to be, not only a selective context, like some "exclusive" party ("I would have invited you, its just not your scene!"), no - this was a public space, open for all.
And there was no stopping them.
At some point, as Fat Ray (you may remember him from such posts like 'Fat Ray and Public Bathhouses'), it felt like Stonewall without the police.
Thats why I was telling a friend, that this is the perfect to call the police.
Too bad the pussies wouldn't show up.
Because if they did, those bitches would have taken them down!!!

On Memory, Cyberspace, and Serendipity

2011-05-11T16:47:00.000-07:00

One day archaeology will switch terrains from the caves of South of France and the Russian Urals, to the gigantic servers of Microsoft and AOL.
One day, excavation will not be for bones and skin, but for words and images engraved on metal discs with binaries of 0/1.
I am always troubled by the notion of memory in age where it is so instantaneous and yet so transient.
We can capture the most minute and fleeting of events, down to a microsecond (make that millionth of a microsecond), and yet we can lose this complexly compressed piece of information in a second.
As fast as we captured it, just as fast we can lose it.
And our only resort is our biological memories.
Which are are not mechanical devices that encodes in binary language or in compressed formats.
Our memories are active agents that construct their own narratives. Some times we are an accomplice in this process, and some times we are just spectators, watching, literally viewing a series of visual and sonic material that seems so foreign and alien to us.
And that we have, little or no control over.
And some times in moments where certain states of mind trigger strange and unfathomable recollections of events and individuals that are no longer present (in any form, not even virtually) so vividly before our eyes.
And the content of this recollection shocks and surprises us.
For we don't remember things 'that way'.

I don't remember you 'that way'.

Long time ago, when I thought about every encounter I have with a man as a rehearsal for my biggest and finest performance, when I thought that if Mohammed does not want to come to the mountain, the mountain will come to Mohammed, when I thought that among the 3000 profiles on all those social networking websites, there has to be one profile that I can find interesting, when I thought that I could always relocate somewhere else and actually experience a meaningful relationship for once, when I was still 25 and had no idea that if I flinch, I am going to wake up and realize I am 30 and still here.

At that point in time, I came across one gentleman who I never talked about to anyone before.
He was so sweet, intelligent, fun and for once without any major cultural or social baggage. None that I can not handle anyway.
And we talked and talked and talked and he was just the perfect interlocutor.
It didn't hurt that he was pursuing his masters degree in Germany.
And he fell in love with my words and I fell in love with his brains, his sincerity and genuineness.
He even called me once from Germany and I promised to visit.

But amidst a sea, rather a hurricane, of change, I drifted away and he seemed to have drifted away too, and slowly I let my memory archive this 'event', and allowed my memory to practice its full agency in reconstructing this mnemonic narrative with little or no interference on my side.

And I flinched and woke up three years later, jaded, embittered and very out of touch with reality.

And one day when one's space feels crammed with objects and people, and yet the distance between oneself and the outside world feels immense, my gentleman logged online.
And his screen name gave me a jolt, it felt like something took hold of me and suddenly jostled me down memory pathways I though no longer existed.
The amusing bit is that, I was thinking about memory and cyberspace, not long ago, and I was wondering, what happens to all those memories that are generated every second across luminous screens and endless cables of fiber optics? Who is going to preserve them? How do we access them, long after they are erased from the metal discs that carry them?
My wondering came to an end.
My gentleman had no recollection of me or the events that my memory preserved or rather created.
He was still polite and we exchanged profiles and at one point in time it struck me.
I might have remembered certain facts that correspond to reality and I might have created a whole set of memories that are entirely fictitious.
And that realization not only scared me but made me feel incredibly lonely.
And after seeing his profile, it even scared me more.
Last time I saw his profile he was a sweet, cute young man, now he was an overtly muscular guy (almost all of his photo shots are at the gym) and last time I checked he was gay, now he is a bisexual, last time I checked he was looking for something different, now he was looking for lecherous masculine men.
Not only that, if they are not truly lecherous and truly masculine then it is a waste of time.
And I laughed.
Not only because this was a completely different person than the man I used to know, but what I found even more hysterical that I don't fit into either descriptions.
There is nothing lecherous about how I approach people and the last thing that I would be, is a masculine manly man.
Who is this person?
And is it possible that I have given my memory so much license to the extent of creating this entirely fictitious construct?
He wouldn't recognize me at all.
Even after pointing out indisputable facts about who he is.
Only when I started talking like I used to, did he remember.
It was my words that gave me away.
Without them I am unrecognisable. Invisible. Unseen.

And that thought in itself terrified me.
It filled me with absolute terror.
What if, for any reason, I lost my mastery over my words, is there nothing else to me but that?
What if I were monosyllabic with him, he wouldn't have remembered me?
And if this was not entirely the creation of my mind, how can one transform from a gay and interesting person to a bisexual and lecherous muscle dude?

Is this a tragedy that will be resolved by an Oedipal coup de grace, when I realize the horror of my action (in that case my memory) and gouge my eyes?
Or rather a biblical scene when I am trampled by a horse and see the light of God?
Or in the end, like Nina Simone says, its all just the imagination of one single woman?
I will think about that tomorrow, maybe then I will recreate an entirely different mnemonic construct and completely obliterate that one.
After all, tomorrow is another day.

قبل أن تتئبرزوا

2011-04-30T12:56:00.000-07:00

أولا بشكر صديقتي العزيزة مواليد برج الحوت رفيقة الكفاح و شريكة النجاح اللي حدثت فأبدعت و تكلمت فأمتعت، بكل ما تحمله كلمة متعة من معاني و إشارات و زي ما بيقولوا كل لبيب بلإشارة يفهم! صديقتي العزيزة هي اللي ألهمتني أني أكتب البلوجية اللطيفة ديه و الفكرة في عنوان البلوجية أنه تريئة على برنامج ديني كان اسمه "قبل أن تحاسبوا" و كانت في مذيعة بنت قحبة تقف تشاور على مئذنة مسجد و تقولك "قبل أن تحاسبوا" طبعا ده كان أيام هوجة الحجاب و التدين في العقد الماضي و كان موضوع البرنامج عامل زي برنامج المواجهة بتاع ملك إسماعيل أيام التسعينيات بس مع الفرق أن "قبل أن تحاسبوا" خد شكل إخواني حبتين. المهم طبعا فيه بنات هتسأل يعني ايه تتئبرزوا و هيبقى ردي أن تتئبرزوا فعل جي من أوبريزا و أوبريزا يعني بوكس البوليس الشر بره و بعيد، يعني لما أنتي تبقي واقفة مع صحباتك على أول الشارع في الجار (مع تعطيش الجيم) و يجي البوكس يلموكوا لامؤاخذة ديه اسمها أوبريزا!

و أنا مش مستغربة أن في بنات مش فلوينت أوي في الإنتي لنجويج (أجاين مع تعطيش الجيم) يعني من فترة قصيرة كنا قاعدين مع بنت لطيفة و كانت قرأت البلوجية بتاعتي بتاعت ارجالة اللي اختفوا من البلد (بلد معرسة مافيش فيكي راجل على رأي كيكي) و سألتني يعني ايه كوانين؟ طبعا أنا عارفة أنه فارق السن و الاكسبوجر (اجاين مع تعطيش الجيم) ما بيخليش البنات على نفس اللفل في التمكن من الإنتي لنجويج (أجاين مع تعطيش الجيم) بس ردي عليها أن كوانين في أصل اللغة يعني فرن لامؤاخذة و مفردها كانون و تجمع على كوانين و معناها يعني بنات ولعة من الآخر. و طبعا ده شيء مفهوم أن البنات تكون فايرة من حالة الكبت الجنسي و الحرمان اللي بيعانوا منها...

و بدون إطالة على القارىء و مط و تطويل على الفاضي زي ما بيعملوا في مسلسل جلي (بدون تعطيش الجيم)، لما صديقتي العزيزة أوحت ليا بالعنوان ده لفتت نظري لحاجة مهمة جدا (طبعا غير أن المذيعة بنت القحبة فكت الحجاب و عملت برنامج تاني عن بيوت الممثلن و الديكور) أنه في فعلا فجوة عمرية بين الأجيال و بعضها و بالتالي فيه ألوت أوف رفرنسيس مش مفهومة إطلاقا. و الحقيقة أني أنا فعلا مصدومة و مفروسة من الجيل الجديد. كلهم بنات بروجريسف، فري أوبن مايندد و تلاقي البنت من دول عندها سكشول أكسبرينس و هي لسه عندها 17 سنه و عادي و مافيش مشاكل و فري و كوول جدا!! و أنا أقول يا ربي ماكناش بنات فعلا

و حتى (و أموت و في نفسي شيء لحتى) لما صديقتي العزيزة بدرت بنت القحبة بتاعت قبل أن تحاسبوا و أثوت أت واز فري فنيي و أنا و هي قاعدنا نبنج لما اتعمينا! بس حسيت أنه لما أكتب عن البدرة ديه مش أي حد يفهمها. حسيت أنه الموضوع ليه خصوصية عمرية معينة و تجربة سوشيليزاشن معينة. بمعنى أنلس أن أنتي طلعتي على السين في وقت معين و بدروكي الكوانيين بتوع فترة ما قبل الانترنت و تعرضتي لأسلوب معين في التعامل و برامترز معينة لسوشيل انتراكشن (أي نعم هي برامترز بنت وسخة بس معلش) مش هتستوعبي حاجات كتيرة.

اتس لايك البدر و الإنتي لنجويج أر داينج أرتس (تنهيدة)

فعلى سبيل المثال هاجس الأوبريزا ده كان فعل هاجس حقيقي بيئرق حياة كل الكوانين اسبشلي ذوس اللي عاصروا موقعة الكوين بوت الإليمة. كان في فعلا فترة كل البنات مرعوبة خايفين يتئبرزوا ، كانت فكرة الأوبريزا زي بالظبط أمنا الغولة أو النداهة، اللي تتئبرز ديه يبقى هير كارير أز أوفر

بس بصي على بنات اليومين دول: فكين شعرهم و منطلقين آخر انطلاق! و بقينا احنا الجيل المعقد اللي عنده هاجس الأوبريزا!

زي بالظبط مصطلح البدرة: و البدر لغة لما الحاجة تقع و تنفرط و معناها لما تيجي صحبتك اللي معاها سرك و مثلا تقول أت أنتي مش توب و لا حاجة و أن أنتي بوتوم عظيم، ديه اسمها بدرة

و ده بردو يندرج تحت ما يسمي الدارك أرتس (لأنها فعلا غامقة و شريرة) و كل بنت في الدنيا معرضة للبدر في أي لحظة! كتشلي كانت فيه دعوة بتدعيها كل الكوانين أت سوم بوينت: و هي - “ يسترك ما يبدورك" و كأن الشغل الشاغل لكل بنت أن هي ما تتبدرش!

أنيهاو و أنا بكتب البلوجية ديه حاسه أني أنا في برنامج شاهد على العصر! (و ديه طبعا سلف-بدرة)

Revolutionary Quips

2011-04-25T03:51:00.000-07:00

"Put it this way, last time I had sex, Mubarak was still in office.."

"Honey, blowing hot officers is not your 'contribution for supporting the nation'!"

"She is SO vicious, she makes Suzann Mubarak looks good"

"You'd better do it, or I will have your State Security file as a Christmas card!"

"Honey, saying 'because I like hot Daddies in uniform', is not enough reason to support military rule"

"For the Nth time, if they arrest you it will not be like Lady Gaga's video. There will not be a bunch of hot army men in briefs running around"

"Lets put it this way, she gave virginity test, a whole new meaning"

The Rites of Passage

2011-03-28T12:22:00.000-07:00

In the same way that you can not call yourself a homo until you go through a certain sexual rite, i.e. someone pops your cherry, you can not call yourself gay, in a Middle Eastern context, without going through a similar social/cultural rite of passage, that is the rite of exodus.
The gay equivalent of the institution of marriage and procreation.
Every bitch in one of those incredibly oppressive countries (yes they are still oppressive even if they are undergoing the so-called 'Arab Spring', it should be more of the 'Arab Shitstorm') and backwards, patriarchal, sexist societies has to suffer the politics of displacement and departure.
Like any vilified minority, we (all of us: rich, poor, tall, short, top, bottom, even versatiles) have to suffer the same fate.
We have limited choices.
And we face a formidable foe, a society that refuses to acknowledge our freedom to chose whatever social arrangements we want to establish, whatever career choices we want to make (mediocre entertainer, cheap drag, events planner,..etc), whatever socialization spaces we want to create (bars, sex clubs, saunas, bathouses,..etc).
Regardless of the moral ramifications of such choices, whether I personally agree with any of them or not, the fact stands: We (for once unified by our plight and miserable condition) do not have this freedom of choice, to be who we might want to be.
What scenarios does that leave us?

None actually.

Very few of us are very very very lucky and are able to escape this miserable existence, but most of us are stuck.
We end up being old bitter, shrivelled, vicious queens whom everyone despises and very few pity.

Unable to pursue any meaningful existence or a relationship through which we psychological grow as human beings.

To add insult to injury, all of us have to face this rite of passage, having a friend, a lover, an acquaintance, a dear friend, a former lover, a sister, leave at some point.
And it becomes a ritual mourning. One is always losing someone.
The ensuing amount of venom and bitterness is unfathomable.
I can not begin to describe how dark and hateful it is. Horrid is a kind word.
It fills one with such nausea and rage, moral outrage as a matter of fact.

And as Neurda once said, 'Love is short, but forgetfulness is long'. Short-timed happiness with congenial fellow beings, is outlived by years of abysmal sense of loss.
A sense of loss that does not go.
You wake up: it is there, you sleep: it is there, you eat: it is there, you go on with the mundane, dreary existence: and it is still there.

Imagine if some people whose lifestyles are sanctioned by religion and society and yet they still want to escape our miserable existence, i.e. heterosexuals, where does that leave an underground minority?

I sometimes wonder at the poverty of studying human emotions in Western academia. Aside from technical neuroscience experiments, the whole range of human emotion is still completely in the dark.
Yet even the very little that we have, is in itself in awe at the choices people make that might be life-threatening on a conscious, rational level, but is emotionally consistent with how they feel.
It is in this context that I myself am at complete loss at how and under what understanding, if any, do we still even consider any form of relationality in this harrowing reality of gay people in the Middle East?

I am the one who always believed in the supreme value of human emotion and the capacity for feeling as an intrinsic human capacity without which we lose our humanity, am now at odds with this very same capacity.
I want to slap it across the face and punch it in the gut and wrench its heart out and set it on fire.
And stand and watch in frightful ecstasy.

The psychological cost is unbearable.
I remember watching Transamerica (in an Anthropology class, unsurprisingly) and there was a scene when Felicity Hoffman finally underwent a surgery to have her penis transformed into a vagina, and after her surgery she meets with her therapist and she is in trauma over the change she went through. Not just the physical pain, but she kept pointing to her heart, saying 'it hurts, it hurts', her therapist's answer to that was, 'that is what hearts do, they hurt'.

The poetics of it though no longer seduce me in being blind to the excruciating consequences that hearts and feelings leave.
I can't ignore how terrible it is to attempt to form meaningful attachments with others only to have to face their dissolving in time, and when I say 'time', I don't mean existentially as the omnipotent, limitless concept, but 'time' as in 6 months at best!
The endless, futile attempts at creating kinship systems and temporary social networks in the gay community in Egypt is heartbreaking.
You are either a bunch of eccentric, has-been, queens in pale shadow of your youthful glory or a bunch of steroid bunnies with pitiful attempts at having a sex life, desperate in acquiring status, thinking of sexual prowess as currency.
Both scenarios are hardly appealing.
And they only reflect the fundamental problems plaguing the gay community. Its an ageist, exclusive, classist community where sex is the basic mode of exchange and status.
Trying to create social groups or kinship systems was a way to alleviate some of those grievances and ugliness.
But even that seems to elude us.
We are not even half as competent as other minorities (i.e. Jewish communities) in integrating this never-ending state of loss and mourning into a tradition and develop it into the politics of memory and remembrance and imbuing it with meaning or spiritual wisdom.

It remains an unhappy consequence of an oppressed minority that seems to endlessly suffer from a rite so violent and so heartbreaking, and just inevitable.
In the end, I will quote the Queen of them All, Wilde, 'But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning'.

"Mad Girl's Love Song" or Sylvia Plath, Post-Revolution and Madness

2011-03-20T04:29:00.000-07:00

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

And alcohol fumes fill my head,

I wondered if it was just a dream,

I opened my eyes and you were dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I stood longing for that embrace,

And the kiss you promised to give,

It was not you who did,

I knew I made you up inside my head.

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

A Revolution overwhelmed the false Idol,

And angels and saints flew instead,

They celebrate and I dread,

I wish I never knew your name.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

You sung me songs and dances bizarre,

I am no longer sixteen and young,

You dissolved like vapour and fled,

And I am left with you inside my head.

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

I stare at the mirror and I can't see,

It is your reflection, the image you left,

I shut my eyes and you are still not dead,

I wish I never made you up inside my head.

"Mad Girl's Love Song" is a poem written by Sylvia Plath in 1951,

The poem was first published in the August 1953 edition

of Mademoiselle. (Information retrieved from Wikipedia)

(Words in italics are the author's creation and not Sylvia Plath's)

Monster

2011-03-05T16:30:00.000-08:00

Before any bitch gets all excited, no this is not in reference to Lady Gaga's song. So you can relax and take it easy with the giggles and stop doing those spastic movements like you are possessed by a gay alien.

I was a little at loss as to whether to write this post or not. I got a lot of mixed feedback on my last post, people were shocked as to how I can completely change the authorial voice, content and style of my writing to such a degree. It did feel like someone else wrote it. It is true the caustic bitterness was still there but it is definitely ten shades bitchier and much more trashy.

So this post will be an amalgamation of many things, and many events and all kinds of random shit going through my head.

Whatever the feedback was for my last post, for me it was a liberating experience.
If one think of speech acts as acts constitutive of reality, i.e. what you say makes up your reality, and that there is no existence beyond language, i.e. you are what you say, this was one of a kind experience for me.
I was relating to my identity in a way that is not unusual to me, because I do use Arabic to express my sexuality in everyday life, but that is the first time I actually write in Arabic, and in a very specific kind of Arabic, a butchered mix of gay slang and faux-educated one.
It was spunky (yes pun intended) and fun. And I enjoyed it.
And although some bitch might judge the content for being 'intellectually inferior' than my other posts, well my answer to that is: I am not writing theorizations on human sexuality, I am writing about what goes through my mind when I space out under the shower. I know some will think, 'is this what you think of when you space out under the shower??' and the answer is: yes.
I am an intellectual queen that is often mistaken for an African-American lesbian.
And I am not remotely apologetic about it.
But it is this that made me think of writing this post.
Monster as in etymological sense of it, 'a malformed creature', foreboding, inspiring a negative omen, 'monere' is to warn in Latin.
And it is in this 'made-up' creature, with various parts, that are not only different, but come from different places. I think the word شتى (Shatta) in Arabic is more accurate, as it gives a spatial dimension to it, shatta does not only mean various, but it also coming from different places and even indicates displacement as in شتات (shatat), namely diaspora.
That is what lies at the heart of it, this sense of displacement, hence the foreboding appearance, the discordant elements, that seemed to be forcibly placed together, creating this disfigurement.
This feeling does not originate based solely on interactions with the wrong gentlemen/ladies. Definitely part of it is tied to one's ego and one's perception of psychological validation, but also a part of it is intrinisically tied to self-perception and the social interactions that affirm (exacerbate?) or negate (undermine?) this perception or maybe even assumption.

And it is in these social interactions that our assumptions about ourselves and others are "corrected" or continuously redefined. (Not that I am advocating social determinism but I am subscribing to the notion that there is a constitutive capacity to social interactions that can not be ignored).

Evil Sister or The Assumption of Evil
It is no secret how exciting and frightening is the current moment in time for this country. But it is also no secret how dry and dry we all have been since the breakout of the revolution.
And this state we all arrived at, whether by choice (people really were concerned about making the revolution work) or by force (all foreigners were forced to leave the country resulting in destroying the sex lives of many girls), the result was one and the same.
We all needed a break. Or rather a ball.
And who else but Ice Queer ventures to give a party while army tanks are stationed all over the streets of Cairo?
Hands down the girl knows her shit. I have never seen such attention to detail before. She definitely went the whole nine yards and then some more.
The theme of the party was to indulge in our "uniform fetish", specifically towards the army.
It was a safe haven for all the sexually oppressed girls to go wild with their authoritarian fantasies. It is a shame though there were not any real army involved.
But anyho, I am not writing here about the party, but rather its hostess.
Who I always presume is motivated purely by indefatigable appetite for snideness and evil. And maybe as she keeps using her sloppy psychology explaining that it is me projecting or maybe it is just more convenient, mentally convenient to relegate someone to a specific stereotype, because it is easier to deal with a stereotype than to acknowlege the complexity of human psyche.
But true to her monstrosity, my Scorpio hostess combined such contradictory and perplexing traits, forcing me to see her in new light.
She was genial, warm, funny, vicious, concerned, empathetic, dismissive, selfish and a host of other things, that do not necessarily go together.
But it was a combination as such that describing her as evil or that her motivations is purely guided by evil would too superficial and untrue.
This is not me accepting the Scorpio hostess for all her flaws and imperfections, but its a complex gesture towards her, as complex the one she has showed.

Sister this and Sister that, and Sister - Fuck You! or the Assumption of Goodness
Consumption of alcohol does not only decrease psychological inhibitions and impairs judgement but it affects the brain in such a way that the ability to think of long-term planning and the consequences of one's actions is temporarily suspended.
Having said that I do not and I can not accept the argument of 'temporary intoxication' as an alibi to wrongdoing.
In our long-awaited party, I came across dear friends that I have not seen in a long time (because of how chaotic living conditions in Cairo are at the moment) and it did feel like a big gay reunion. I was genuinely happy to see those I held in such high esteem.
As I entered the party one promising prospect (I can not use the term 'gentleman') that I saw in a few other parties was making his way out as I was making my way in.
And although I always felt that he gave some signs that he was not interested, I couldn't help but sense some interest somehow. But then again of course misjudging someone's psychological cues is a classic case of a delusional mind. And my mind is definitely.
I was a little dejected knowing that my promising prospect just left the party. And I spent a good deal sulking and pulling a long face.
But since this was a party celebrating our glorious Armed Forces, the Armed Forces did not disappoint. My promising prospect was forced to come back to the party as it was passed the curfew and no vehicles were allowed to drive.
Excited and anxious, and not able to read my promising prospect behaviour very well, I confided in a dear sister, and explained to her my dilemma while she was relishing her state of exalted drunkenness, having arrived late, everyone was completely shattered and I was not even remotely tipsy yet.
She, sweet and supportive, and completely bombed offered her wise counsel, and said, 'you should definitely go for it! He is not that hard to get at all! As a matter of fact, I think he already made out with two people!'.
Horrified that my interest of the night, did not have that much discretion, I was emboldened, and decided if other bitches can have him, why can't I?
While looking for my promising prospect, I was chatting with another dear friend, and as I turned I found my sweet, supportive sister making out ferociously with my promising prospect.
Nothing embitters one sister against the other, but ruining a promising prospect.
So I stood and watched them and true to the monstrosity of it, I was unable to make any judgement. Was my assumption of her goodness mistaken? Can I blame intoxication as the one element that would motivate such a vicious act?
It was monstrous because it manifested two things so irreconcilable to me.
Sister, sister I trusted you, sister, sister - Fuck you!

Sister Soul or The Assumption of Knowing
Horribly disappointed in one friend, I still decided to go on with my plans, incestuous it might be, but it will have to do for the night.
Waiting in line for the bathroom, there he was, my promising prospect, standing all alone, I approach him and in a moment where my own fear of rejection, my fear of others knowing how I feel, and against my better judgement that was suspended by then, I ventured and kissed him.
Now I have been rejected in many various and colourful ways but I was never pushed aside before.
That would be a first.
Stupefied by the apparent, self-evident rejection and the implicit violence of pushing someone aside, the evening was ruined for me beyond hope.
But then there appears at the periphery of such an event, other possibilities of intimacy and engagement.
Friends that presumed you knew and only caught a glimpse of who they are, but in the context of a 9 hours party, where people are forced to stay together (as the roads are blocked), and in a state of profound intoxication what you think you know, is maybe not as close to the truth as you first imagined.
Standing in the kitchen, in our state of profound intoxication, we spoke of faith, love and the impossibility of belief in a situation like ours.
This was a remarkable conversation, with a lot of heart, a lot of soul and rare moment of naked truth.
We both confronted a lot of fears, complexities and what we think we know about ourselves and other people.
It was a moment of looking at our own monsters, and that was made possible by this willingness for openness, for the sister soul.

My judgement is still clouded by my inherent tendency for uniformity and consistency and I still can not understand or begin to fathom these paradoxes cutting the heart asunder.

فين الرجالة يا أماي؟ راحوا مع هنادي في الوبا

2011-02-24T06:55:00.000-08:00

كثير أوي بتسأل السؤال بتاع: " هو انتي ليه ما بتكتبيش بالعربي؟" " هوا انتي ما بتعرفيش؟" و بعيدا عن إيحاء " الصراحة راحة يا روحي و أنت ما بتعرفش"، لأ أنا باعرف يا روح أمك و لو عايزة هاكتب أحسن من أجدعها مدون كمان بس هي فين النفس؟
و سبيكينج أوف النفس مين له نفس يعمل أي حاجة اليومين دول، ناهيك أنه يقعد يكتب على بلوج؟ مش عارفة أنا نفسي مظطربة و أفكاري مشوشة حبتين. بس في نفس الوقت قررت أني أعبر عن حالة الهذيان و الانهيار العاطفي اللي بيمر بيها مجتمع الكوانين في مصر من اختفاء الرجالة في ظروف غامضة (زي اختفاء الداخلية كده بالظبط)، و تدهور عينة الشباب الموجود على المان جام، و توقف البارتياهات التعبانة اللي كنا بنروحها و خصوصا بعد حظر التجول و حال البنات اللي وقف (نوت ان ا جود واي) بسببه و إلخ إلخ إلخ
أنيهاو، امبارح باليل عدت عليا أعز صديقاتي الكوانين و طبعا كلكو عارفين هي مين، و بدون ذكر أسماء و تلويث للسمعة، و قبل هي ما تيجي على طول أنا كنت واقفة باحاول محاولة فاشلة أني أعمل كيكة (زي بالظبط محاولة الداخلية كسب ود الناس بعد الفضايح اللي عملوها) و لأن الفرن معرس فالكيكة فشلت، فنزلت لديدي بقولها الحقيني الكيكة بازت
هي: ايه اللي حصل؟
أنا: الكيكة اتحرقت من تحت و التوب ماستواش
هي: طبعا البوتوم لازم يتحرق
أنا: آه يابنت الكلب! أشوف فيكي يوم
هي: ايه يا ديدي دايما كده الحق يزعل
أنا: أشوف فيكي يوم لما البلطجية يوقوفوكي على الدائري و يشوهوا كارتك
هي: ليه كده يا ديدي أنا عمري عملتلك حاجة
و تطرق بنا الحديث بعيدا عن مصير البوتوم المشئوم و التوب الميئوس منه، إلى حال البنات في ظل الثورة و مارسنا عادتنا المفضلة في تقطيع فروة البنات و تشويه صورتهم و قبل ما نكمل الحديث تطرق بنا الكلام عن حياة ديدي العاطفية
هي: ديدي أنا قابلت شاب لطيف جدا و ابن ناس
أنا: بتلاقيهم فين أموت و أعرف
هي: أونلين طبعا! هيكون فين يعني؟
أنا: ما أنا مرمية أونلين طول اليوم ما شوفتش حاجة
هي: أنتي بس ما تعرفيش تتعملي مع الرجال صح (مع هزة الكتف بدلال و ميوعة مفرطة) يا ديدي
أنا: قصدك أن أنا مش شرموطة زيك يا رخيصة يا واقعة
هي: ده حقد! موتي بغيظك
هي: المهم يا ديدي أنه شاب لطيف جدا بس مش انترستد فيا! أوفيسلي أنا مش التايب بتاعه (و انهارت عند هذه النقطة و بدات العويل) ليه ليه؟
أنا: (مش قادرة أخبي الشماتة) مرة من نفسنا حد يقولك مش انترستد
هي: ليه كده بس! ليه العنف ده مع البنات؟؟
أنا: لازم مع الأشكال اللي زيك
هي: طيب أنزلي من العربية يا بنت الوسخة
أنا: ما أحب على قلبي!! هاتطرديني من الجنة اياك؟
لن و لم تكون هذه هي أول مرة ينتهي بي النقاش مع واحدة من البنات، حتى القريبات مني، بهذا العنف و الحدة
ماهي كل بنت فاكرة نفسها هند رستم أو واحدة من جوسب جيرلز و أنا ما بقدرشي أمسك نفسي و بابقى هاموت و أبدرها بدر السنين!! فاكرة نفسك مين يا روح أمك؟ على ايه؟؟ على الطول و على الجمال؟ و لا على أصلك الواطي و ماضيك العرة؟
ماهو كل بنت علشان لبست بنطلون ضيق و عملت شرموطة افتكرت نفسها ريحانة و لا واحدة من الشراميط دول! ايه يا ختي ده؟؟ ده جيل ايه المهبب ده؟ ماكناش بنات ولله
المهم أنه من الصعب على أي بنت في مجتمعنا و في ظل الظروف الغبرة اللي احنا فيها أنه أما تسمع أن واحدة من صحبتها علقت واحد أنها ما تولعش من الغيرة على غرار مسلسل عايزة اتجوز مع الفرق طبعا أن في مجتمع الكوانين دس ويل نوت بي كونسيدرد أوفر أكتيج
أنا طول النهار أقول لديدي "أنا زي أي بنت في الدنيا كلها بادوب من كلمة حلوة تلمسني و أحسها" و هي طبعا ترد و تقولي " لأ أنتي مش زي أي بنت أنت لزبين" و طبعا بيقى ردي عليها سلسلة من الشتائم القذرة
ماهو في ظل العيش في بلد الألف كوديانة و صفحات و صفحات من بروفيلات البوتومات الشاملس في كل حتة، صعب على البنات أنه مايبقاش فيه نوع من التنافسية و الكيد المدمر. فديه تبدر ديه و ديه تحاول تعلق صاحب ديه و ديه تنام مع أخو صاحب ديه عشان تبدره و هكذا لعب الهوانم على السراير و سهر الليالي على الشموع، كل واحدة تقعد تفكر مين نام مع مين و نام معاه امتى و وضع قذر لأن أنتي بتبقي مهددة في أي لحظة أن تيجي واحدة شرموطة بنت قحبة و تقولك " آه مش أنتي مصاحبة فلان، أنا نمت معاه قبل كده و بتاعه صغير" و تبقي أنتي مش عارفة تعملي فيها أيه؟ مياة نار مثلا؟ و لا مطوة في وشها و كارتها؟
ولا مثلا تنامي مع حد و تصحي تاني يوم تلاقي مصر كلها عارفة و البنات يكلموكي واحد ورا التانية " مبروك يا ديدي! كفارة! فرحتلك من قلبي! ربنا فك نحسك أخيرا!" و تبقي انتي مش عارفة تردي تقولي (زي أغنية ألسا " مصدومة مش بنطق، مش عارفة أرد) و اللي هوا فرحتلي بجد يا كس أمك؟؟ يا حرباية منك ليها؟؟ ده انتو يتفتلكوا بلاد
يعني وصلت الدرجة بالبنات أنه في عز المظاهرات و الثورة كان في بنات بتقولك أنا هنا عشان التحرش!! و تبقي أنتي عايزة تفولي لها " عشان توقفي التحرش و لا أيه بالظبط؟" و يبقى الرد "لأ عشان الناس تتحرش بيا" يا نهار أبوكي أسود
أنا عارفة فور أيه فاكت أن في عدد من البنات نزلوا المظاهرات عشان يجهرشوا!! كده عيني عينك
حاجة فظيعة!
أنا و كل البنات عيشين على الأمل أن الرجالة العدلة ترجع تاني! ده نداء لكل أصحاب الكارات الرحيمة: سيبوهم يظهروا بقى!! حاجة تقرف

So Proud of my Girls

2011-02-15T14:37:00.000-08:00

There are very few moments in history where a nation, with all its colors, races, religions,denominations, socio-economic classes are able to engage in an event as monumental as a revolution.
'We', the gay community, are no exception.
This post is about three wonderful examples of our community, whose role and involvement in this revolution was not only examplary, but also inspirational.
They have inspired me and many others to go on and march and believe that change is coming and that we must be part of it and that we are in fact part of it.
I can not imagine myself doing anything at all to do with the struggle for freedom and justice without them.
I, and so many other, owe our participation and sense of camaraderie, to those inspirational characters.
They are our heroes, and for that they deserve an honourable mention in this blog.

The Bohemian Artist
The archetype of this story leaves little to the imagination. He is the typical bohemian artist. He has more wine than furniture, antique silverware but no sofa, and an exquisite collection of Hamalyian salt but no bread.
Everything to do with excess and fulfills our fantasy of the 'crazy artist' is clearly emobdied in the hero of this story.
No one expected him to not only participate, but to become a central figure of those involved in this revolution.
I have known my bohemian artist for over a decade, longer than I care to remember. And knowing him so well, I have to admit that I was floored, stunned, to see this level of activism, involvement, fearlessness that he showed.
Since the very first day of the revolution, he opened his house, the artist lair, to complete random strangers who needed shelter. He cooked vegetarian food for the revolutionaries and distributed sweets and rare delicacies for those stranded and with no supplies. He tirelessly filmed and recorded police brutality and sent it to every major newspaper in the world. He used his extensive contact list to spread the truth about the extent of viciousness and vengeance the regime went to, to suppress the revolution. He risked his own life when snipers fired at his place and threw tear gas bombs on his balcony as he refused to move somewhere safer.
When I urged him to leave Tahrir and go stay with his parents, he told me if I leave, who will spread the truth about what is really happening?
He used every possible cyber forum and social network tool to inspire, instigate people to break their apathy and their fear and pushed them to act.
His moral outrage against the regime went beyond politics and rose to the level of humanness that I have not seen before.
For his fearless and extraordinary courage, for his generosity of spirit, for his love of mankind and his own kind, the Bohemian Artist deserves to be at the very top of this honour list.

The Jewish Princess
As any human phenomenon, homosexuality is universal. It cuts across class and across ethnicity and across socio-economic strata. The way a gay community is organized might be according to a particular social paradigm (classist, ethnic, religious,...etc).
Our community is no exception. It is strictly divided according to class and social status.
And the story of this girl (and by girl I mean boy) is inspiring in many ways than one.
My hero, or rather heroine, has blood bluer than the Danube, and if anyone I know deserve the title, old bourgeoisie, she would take it with little or no competition.
As such, the marriage of class and economics is inevitable, and belonging to this minute segment, she and her class stand to lose the most by our revolution.
It is no secret how sensitive financial markets are to the political and social systems they exist in, and those who operate solely within those domains are the ones first to suffer any instability or chaos. My princess was royalty, but like all true royalty, she refused to be swayed by narrow capitalistic and class interest and was one of the very first people to march on the street on the 25th of January.
She went above and beyond the call of duty, the expected duty of someone of her stature, and risked the ire of her peers and cohort and insisted that this is her moment to speak against injustice and to finally support the people that have long been oppressed by this tyrannical regime.
She risked her life, being beaten, arrested, and even the excommunication of her elitist society, and marched and marched, and talked for endless hours about the future of this revolution and why it matters and why it should continue in spite and despite of the interest of the capitalist minority. One that she belongs to.
Again, and again, dressed in designer jeans and looking immaculate, she squeezed herself in the swarms of Tahrir protesters, and went beyond her Jewishness and cheered for our glorious revolution.
She graced us with her presence, and defended the principles of justice and freedom against the better judgement of her class and clout.
For her fearless and tireless efforts to be involved, to be engaged, to be present, she deserved an honourable mention in this blog and a bow for this community.

The Unexpected Activist
The hero of this story surprised us by the tenacity of his approach and his unfaltering perseverance. I have long admired him for his magnificent argumentative talents that would put any sophist to shame and his uncanny ability as a logician. An impressive intellect that could stand its ground and argue its way through anything.
But none of us expected him to direct those talents at inspiring and instigating action. My Sagittarius heroine, spared no one the wrath of her rational indignation and every day around the hour, her Facebook was engorged with statuses ranging from 'O Rise Ye Faithful' to 'Becursed those who falter'.
My heroine was on the streets of Tahrir almost everyday, cheering, hollering, inciting, and demanding regime change. She conversed, dialogued, discussed with her fellow revolutionaries, and in her presence, and in her moral integrity she gave us all hope and made us all proud to be together and to be there.
My Sagittarius instigator reminded us, again and again, why we as a community matter.
And for that, and for her indefatigable efforts to unite everyone around one cause she proved to us that we are part of this society, that we should take part in this society, that our voice and presence is just as important as everyone else.
For this she deserved a honorary tribute and a salute from me and everyone.

Incestuous

2011-01-22T14:35:00.000-08:00

Your sister tells you: 'I slept with this guy.....'
And half way through her sentence, you tell her: 'Oh, I slept with him too....'

Your sister asks you: 'Who did you sleep with?'
You tell your sister: 'XY is his name'
Your sister tells you: 'Oh I slept with him too....'

Your sister tell you: 'How was the sex?'
You tell your sister: 'Ok. How is the party?'
Your sister tells you: 'Just OK? Come come, everyone knows already you had sex!'

You tell your sister: 'I just met this guy he is....'
And half way through the sentence your sister tells you: 'Oh, I know him! I slept with him before! Bad breath, one testicle, versatile,....Oops! I said too much!'

Your sister asks you: 'Tell me what was the guy's name, I might know him'
You tell your sister: 'XY is his name'
Your sister tells you: 'I know him. He is partnered by the way....'

You tell your sister: 'Let me fix you up with this guy. I know he's cheesy but the sex is not half bad!'
Your sister tells you: 'Give me the number...'
You tell your sister: 'xxxxxxxxxx'
Your sister tells you: 'Its XY! I already have his number. He is a douchebag'

It is no secret how incestuous the gay scene is in general, and ten times as much in Cairo.
The chance that anything stays private is close to nil and the chance you sleep with someone that did not already sleep with half your friends is close to nil as well.

There is no escape.
Put a minority that is sexually active and promiscuous by definition in one space, and there you get it.
The most complicated incestuous arrangements ever witnessed.
The degree of its complexity is overbearing.
Nothing is a secret, no one is anonymous, no one is invisible and nothing stays hidden.
The chance of a 'clandestine' affair is a romantic fantasy. An idealism so far fetched its no longer comprehensible.
You would not think that with a minority that is so underground, so 'invisible' to the outside world that this would be so 'communal', so 'public'.
It very much feels like we were so fed up with our invisibility, specifically located within our sexuality, that we decided that which we must keep hidden from the outside world, we will reveal, so proudly, amongst ourselves.
There shall be no more secrets amongst us. No more invisibility.
Our sexuality will be acted out, manifested, amplified, exalted, announced, circulated, so all shall be known.
There shall be no censorship, no sense of reticence, no holding back.
For why should we?
If the world wants us to keep what we do (which is part of who we are) a secret then why should we continue the silence amongst ourselves?

But oh this goes beyond verbalizing desire.
This has body politics written all over it. It has competition over limited resources (i.e. Men).
It has demographic nightmares and socio-economic hell.
It has the claustrophobic and stifling atmosphere of a minority. Of a ghetto.
Of 'Sista I had him first' and 'Sista he wasn't man enough for me'
Of 'Sista the boy is mine' and 'Sista you can have him, I don't want him'

And it is vicious, and it is horrible, and there is a lingering atmosphere of this competitive drive to secure the biggest number of extraordinary sex partners (hot, top, hung, cut, uncut,...etc), the same way one would accumulate fortune or academic degrees.
And one is judged by one's performance.
It is no longer about subverting identity or expanding a field of desire or securing the same social and political rights, or seeking acceptance.
No.
Its gossip, its chatter, tittle-tattle, blabber blabber, twiddle-twaddle and can't you just shut up?

Your sister tells you: 'Keep up that attitude and you will never get laid!'
You tell her: 'Sista don't bother me'

The Other Woman?

2010-12-29T10:06:00.000-08:00

'The Other Woman is the one I hate,
The Other Woman is the one despised,
I looked in the mirror and sadly realized,
The Other Woman is me of late!'

It is no secret how dire the situation is in Cairo. The chance, or let me use a better word, probability of finding an arrangement that has any promising potential is close to zero (the position of nothing?).
I think it is this absence of the sense of possibility that is most disheartening for everyone.
It creates this feeling of claustrophobia and unmitigated bitterness.

I remember sending a message to a particular gentleman whose credentials included a overtly sized penis and thus enabling him to pick and choose among as many partners as he pleases. However, this gentleman was not content in this position of being only acknowledged for his equine genitalia and insisted on adding the qualities of 'rational thought' and 'intellect' to his 'profile'.
So when I sent him a message exalting the virtues of a generous endowment, he dismissed me on the grounds of age and an undue 'fairy-ness'.
He was man's man, and he liked his 'men' rough.
What chance did an faux-intellectual fairy have?
To his credit though, he expressed his admiration for my laudable efforts in 'attempting' to be a writer. He found it interesting and also lamentable that he was not given the gift of 'self-expression'.
To which I answered, I would flush self-expression down the toilet any day if I could be a rough, man's man.

It will not be the first time where the only virtue I am praised for is my verbal competence. I long for the days when I could still get 'innocence' and 'civility' as qualities to be admired.
Now its just verbal competence; 'you are kind of a writer, aren't you?'

So when in a Christmas party another gentleman showed remote interest, I wasted no time in gulping down my vodka and cornering him in the bathroom of my host. An experience in which his reaction was, 'but you look too innocent to behave in such a wanton manner!'. That of course elicited my famous shrill, evil laugh, that even I find offensive.
Not the one to shy away from sharing those experiences, I was relating the incident to Kiki and lo and behold, its her moment to judge the most self-righteous bitch on the scene (me that is), 'well honey, he is married with kids!' she said in venomous tones that little concealed her exhilarated sense of victory.
There it was, I was the Other Woman. The one everyone hates.
It was futile to try to defend myself, 'the damage is done' as Kiki said, 'you are just like everyone else, no better'.
How am I supposed to know that he is married? Should I run an ID check for people I plan to kiss?
Or even better I should hire a detective to screen potential sex partners!
As if they are that many anyway!

Little did I know that Fate had another 'verheiratet' gentleman to toss along my way.
I was to play to the role of the 'Other Woman' yet again.

My other married gentleman was not even that handsome. A German by birth, he was no stranger to Cairo and his profile clearly states: 'Ich bin glücklich verheiratet und suche hier wirklich keinen Sex !! (translating into: I am happily married and I am not looking for any kind of sexual activity here).
Now my German is less than basic but I can recognize the words, happily and married in any language.
I was bored and basking in the glory of my existentialist ennui when he sent me a message with a wink. I put on little resistance and lured by the fact that he was very close in proximity, I decided to go meet him.
His profile picture does him great justice, but unfortunately reality does not.
His kissing was awkward at best, his physique unappealing and his conversation pleasant bordering on cloyed sweetness.
Yet in one particular area -or rather organ- he did not disappoint, very German in that sense. He was even circumcised. Making me the only person in the world who was intimate with more circumcised German men than anyone else!
After a real face-to-face encounter, I explained, 'I am in no mood to be intimate' and he superficially consented to not engage in anything specifically sexual. And we actually ended up discussing his decade old marriage. Ironic I know.
However, complete apathy on my part, resulted in being 'disrobed' and him 'sleeping' with me.
There was no unbridled passion, or urges I could not resist. This was not the man of my dreams and the only thing stopping me from sleeping with him is the little annoying fact that he is married to someone else.
It was none of that.
It was banal and boring.
Mediocre at best.
And I was dumbfounded, how could something so evil be so banal?
There was nothing grand or awe-inspiring about it. There was none of the Nietzschean drama of going against the limitations of ethics and the shackles of morality. There was none of that.
There was just me being too lazy to act up against what I believe to be morally detestable and personally abominable.
I became the other woman. Not in the fabulous 18th C sense of Madame de Pompadour or the feminist reworking of the term 'slut'.
There was nothing radical or subversive about it, there was nothing emancipatory about it.
It was dull and uneventful.
Exacerbating my own personal agony. I didn't even struggle. I just let it happen.
I miss being impassioned about a moral cause. Nihilism is frightfully dull.

This One is for the Girls

2010-12-06T12:28:00.001-08:00

Ok ok I get it, I'll write a more "sexy" post.

Thats what I kept telling my devoted readers after a spell of faux intellectual posts that was strictly intellectually friendly.

After numerous rumours that the eccentric morbid queen is facing a dry spell and that she is indulging in post-structuralist sapphic caprice, the eccentric morbid queen decided to put an end to those vicious rumours and write something more "sexy".

Fine lets get dirrrrty and put it down for the girls.

Long time ago, before WikiLeaks took away our so-called "innocence" regarding America's foreign policy, the eccentric morbid queen thought she was a woman of means and decided to have a place of her own. Believing in the old-time adage:

"For one t0 have sex, one must have a room of one's own" (with due apologies to Virginia Woolf)

This of course didn't last, but while it did it produced interesting effects.. !

A firm believer that the issue of space, personal space, public space, private space, personal space is one of the most contested issues in a society like ours.

So when finally enjoying the privilege of such elusive and contested prerogative, the morbid queen decided its time to explore all those endless possibilities and engage with eligible Egyptian men.

Yes, I said it, the taboo, 'Egyptian Men'.

Its out there and now we have to deal with it.

Whether fetishized, or vilified, or dismissed, I still think I owe it to my people to give them a chance.

And a chance she did!

One Egyptian gentleman made it worth her while *wink wink*

Fulfilling some of those "ethnic" fantasies, the dark skin, the cheesy talk, the undue sentimentality, all of it. The Egyptian treat.
And the eccentric morbid queen was treated to an overdose of all those lush promises no man ever intends to keep.
And that gentleman promised her the world.
Never the one to give in without being ruthlessly critical (yes I used the word 'ruthless' and 'critical' in the same sentence and it was not a Freudian slip) she dismissed all those empty, scripted bullshit her gentleman made and only took it for what it is, a good time!
And why ruin something good if you can have more of it?
Emboldened by her new found sense of false freedom the eccentric morbid queen decided to call up that same gentleman the day after and ask for an encore performance.
Ah! But its not that simple!
Egyptian men don't have the reputation of 'm3araseen' (all talk and no action) for nothing.
The gentleman never answered her calls.
And to add insult to injury when trying to set another time for that so-called "second date" the gentleman stood her up!
Offended beyond measure, the morbid queen decided that she was well beyond her feminist days, and that Egyptian men should remain right where they are, nothing but a fetishized fantasy.

What do we do without Judith Butler?

2010-12-01T04:28:00.001-08:00

Of course like any self-respecting intellectual queen and any devout lesbian I made sure to attend at least one of the two lectures that Judith Butler (Judie as one Kuwaitie audience member asked to call her) at the American University in Cairo.
It was a holy pilgrimage for all the faithful followers of the Queen of Gender and it served as a LGBT reunion of some kind.
However, the lecture was not about LGBT issues or even Queer Theory.
It was about the notion of exile in the writings of Palestinian Poet Mahmoud Darwish and the writings of Edward Said.
Already a subversive act given the fact that the lecturer is a Jewish intellectual.
In a typical post-structuralist fashion Butler deconstructed the texts, opening them up to possibilities and at some point even going beyond the limits of semantics, proposing the perpetual sense of displacement words like Nakba offer or establish. Not only in the sense that the actual aftermath of the Nakba is still happening till this very moment (the Palestinian refugees are still displaced) but in the sense that it never consumed its catastrophic potential.
Palestinians are defined by exile.
In the same way that modern (I use that term furtively) Jewish identity is defined by the Shoa.

As I sat listening to the narratives of mourning and exile, I couldn't help but think about Butler's other notions about categories of gender.
What do we do without transvestites? Two spirits? Drag?
What do we do without AIDS?
I myself can not imagine contemporary LGBT identity not directly formed or constituted without the aftermath of the AIDS epidemic in the 80s.
The notions that bareback sex is the reason why LGBT community suffered one of its most devastating losses since the Holocaust.
And the resurgent discourse of the medicalisation of homosexual practices, throwing us two centuries back, when same-sex practices were defined as pathologies.
The moral, sexual, cultural, personal choices current LGBT individuals make are inherently tied with this - 'this' being the 'nakba' of the 80s or even worse the attempts made to maintain a certain sexual ethic while introducing such practices as 'safe sex'.
And in that particular instance, I wonder if there is any such thing as 'safe sex'?
But that would drag me into a whole side topic that I would rather dwell on for later.

The question still remains, now that we are liberated from the categories that bound us, what do we do without them?
Wasn't it the subversiveness of these categories (drag queen, transvestite, cross-dresser,...etc) that actually reconfigured our relationship to the entire matrix of our identity?
When I asked Butler after the lecture what do we do without categories (being the anxious Virgo that I am) she said 'would it really matter?'
And in a realistic, pragmatic turn she added, 'that as long as people make choices that make their lives liveable' that it does not matter.

I like the comfort and the challenge of categories.
'I choose my choice' quoting Charlotte from Sex and the City, in a very post-post-feminist statement.

Fetish this!

2010-11-07T01:53:00.000-07:00

It is interesting when being controversial in itself becomes a fetish.

Brain Sex?

2010-10-17T13:36:00.000-07:00

I wish I had a post like Ice Queer's
something genuine and meaningful, that is not twisted in mental agony like the shit I write.
And that is not stultified by overbearing intellectualism that even I find pretentious.
I wish I could write with this personal tone that is not a shrill tone or a hysterical coloratura, that is even, controlled and almost sweet.

Sigh...

I will have to do endless rewrites of the things that I have in mind so I can bring it down from its abstract convolution and into something melodic.. the art of simplicity, if you may.

But no.

That paradise is not for me.

I live in my head, unfortunately.
It is where everything happens.
It is my G spot.
You rub it, I orgasm.

In every sense of orgasm.

People say the importance of the brain in achieving orgasm is not understood and can not be overestimated. And we all saying that fucking is totally a 'mental' process.

It is said that as a person reaches orgasm the brain centers responsible for emotions-specifically emotions that have to do with fear, anxiety or inhibitions are almost shut down.
And at the same time the overwhelming sensations of neuromuscular euphoria takes over.
Creating a state of intensity and a mental sense of "liberation".

But what if we can achieve that without actually involving sex?
Or more like: Is it possible to achieve this without actually having "traditional sex"?

Today I was walking around the university and as I walked I ran into a professor I knew and one that I had an S&Mish relationship in class with when he gave me a course years ago.
He was a muscle Mary with penchant for fascist, absolutist ideologies and I was faux-serious intellectual queen.
The combination was hilarious and disturbing on so many levels.
And it made me realize that some men "mobilized" the feminine side of me, made the inner diva come out, with a big auburn wig, red lipstick and painful high heels.
And it is completely unconscious.
I don't mean for this to develop, and I only realize its happening when the high heels start hurting my back and I feel I can't stand "straight" (pun intended)

But I enjoy it.

And I even enjoy it more when I realize that this man is not offended that he brought this inner drag queen out.
That secretly - for some twisted reason - he likes it.
Or at least pretends he is accepting it!
It becomes more of a turn on.

And it happened right as I was walking by his office.
We exchanged pleasantries, he asked what am I doing there, and the next thing I know we spend 30 minutes discussing the the post-revolution regime in Egypt and the scenarios for change.
While the excitement by such a topic of discussion can be disputed, the excitement that 'we' (me and him) felt was intense.

I realized that this stimulation was as exciting as actual intercourse.
It was an 'intercourse' of another kind.

It was an 'intercourse' of the mental kind!

Relation, Relational, Relationality but not Relationship?

2010-10-03T08:52:00.000-07:00

This post is one of struggle.

A struggle to articulate deep-seated ideas, notions, beliefs, emotions about something as fundamental and internal as our understanding of how we relate to others.

How we perceive our interpersonal interactions with others and what importance do we accord these interactions, how meaningful are they to us and how aware are we of their effect on us.

How aware are we of the kind of effect we allow these interactions to have on us.

And I struggled to define what is a 'relationship'.

You see my dear reader, I don't know what are the parameters that define 'a relationship'.

How do these parameters function within our context.

The context of Cairo, the conservative, oppressive, heterosexist, patriarchal, socially backward, stifling context.

In that context, what is a 'relationship'?

And in our context, the same-sex relationships, how is that fathomed?

Its already an incredibly precarious question vitiated by all kinds of postmodern nonsense, crude biological determinism and mainstream pop psychology.

So how to navigate this terrain, with all these vicissitudes, added to the horrors of your own context and still maintain a semblance of humanity and dignity?

How can we think of a relationship not as follows:

1) A social upgrade

2) A social upgrade

3) A social upgrade

4) A loose arrangement for blatant promiscuity

5) A fictitious construct to spite fellow vicious queens

How can anyone be in this personal arrangement that is not a construct to fulfil some pathetic social function, or to act as a social upgrade for an aspiring oppressed homosexual or that masks an inherent inability to go beyond adolescent sexuality?

It is impossible.

And I can think of relations, relational, and relationality.

Relationality as the idea that reality is contained within the positions of the objects existing and their relationships to each other.

So there is no reality beyond these relationships.

Reality does not, in that view, exist independently of those entities, objects and the positions they take and how they relate to each other.

So what if these entities are in different positions where they can not have a relationship with each other?

What kind of reality is that?

Or maybe the relational, the interpersonal interactions one has with his fellow human beings that ultimately constitute or constructs his personality.

In that view, even if one does not have 'real' relationships, one develops imagined ones.

Rendering one's reality on the margin of psychosis.

But then it is only in this framework, where even if there is no 'relationship' within a context, one develops imaginary ones.

In this light, cyberspace and all its configurations becomes intelligible to us.

The notion of a 'long-distance' relationship that is only activated through cyberspace.

That for me while I think borderlines the hallucinatory, it is a reality for a great number of people.

Myself included.

A week elapsed since I wrote the very first lines of this post, and taking the advice of a very dear friend, I am going to mark the passage of time by using a different ink colour.

I have not-I could not stop thinking about that post during that time.

But I could not write either.

My overwhelming sense of fear and anxiety - at such a profound level - stops me cold from being able to write.
I am paralysed by my own dread and the very fact that what I will write will acquire shape and form, will somehow have its own existence, it will become "real" and I will have to confront it.
While if it remains just a few ideas roaming in my head, the shape and sound of words will not face me as they do now on screen.

For amusement sake, lets be honest, I could never relate but to two kinds of men:
A. Deeply eccentric
B. Psychiatrists/Psychologists

A for their unusual ways in relating to other people and B for their unusual habit of not judging.

It sounds funny (but it is not) but there is this effusive sense of relief one (myself in particular) feels when you are sitting with someone who is not at all surprised, offended, turned off or the least bit judgemental of who you are.

It soothes my constant feeling of anxiety and self-consciousness.

So for all the men that were in my life at different points in time, only those who were adventurous enough to explore alternative ways of "relating" managed to get through and only those who could see the humanity behind it all are the ones that I could relate to.

Not the wisest or most enduring choices.

For those hallucinogenic and hallucinatory encounters were a completely subjectively imagined relatedness, that never transformed into 'relationship'.

And by 'relationship' I mean the universally acknowledged social arrangement that is so well publicized in Novels and TV.
One could go on and critique it and even point out to its apparent "whiteness" or "heterosexuality" or "Westernisation" but somehow the notion in its form endures.

Anthropologists and Psychologists say that any human being needs one caring parent (of either sex) to be able to grow and develop into a healthy, sane adult.

I would extend the same theory and say that an adult needs the presence of one caring partner to maintain his well-being.

So we might form endless modes of relatedness (cyberspace, aerospace, urbanspace,..etc) and explore hundred relationalities (long-distance, short-distance, three way, groups...etc), but the basic drive or impulse, our intention will remain the same.

Saved by Randomness

2010-08-17T06:50:00.000-07:00

Pressed by many good friends and my own desire to write, I decided against a well-thought of post, to a rather series of vignettes (not the first time I do that) that unravel one after the other randomly, with no overarching theme, and no clear thread that seems to tie these vignettes together.
The only thing in common is their randomness.

Vignette (1)

'If I am not out with friends or at the gym, then I am having sex'

There it was, written so effortlessly, no doubt, no hesitation, nothing to hold one back from declaring such series of actions so readily.
Not apologetic in the least or slightly clouded by moral hesitation or contrition.

Almost flagrant - brandished in my face.

The above statement was an answer to my question, 'What are you doing tonight?'
And to further mortify me, it was declared as a generalization, a sequence of actions that happen every night.

Said one Lebanese gentleman. With no moral qualms, no deep psychological conflict, simple and to the point.

But the truth is never simple and never to the point.

The truth is anything but simple.

What amazed me about this declaration, is the implicit mechanistic feel to it.
Its as if its executed without much forethought.
The Lebanese gentleman has mastered the art of know-how of those three actions so much, that the process of self-reflection was no longer necessary.
It became akin to 'being' himself.
That is what I find scary. That a process becomes so intrinsic to what we do, that it no longer invites self-reflection or 'after-thought'.

Going out with friends, working out, fornicating, have one and the same intellectual and psychological engagement and thus stir no mental or emotional reaction.

How can anyone make his 'being' so flat?

Vignette (2)

Fellating soap?

My aversion to oral sex is no secret.
I say it everywhere and to everyone.
It does not do it for me and I have yet to see a man (and a specific body part of that man) that inspires me to do otherwise.

I always feel the act in itself has a lot of power play more than pleasure.
Realistically nothing about someone's penis provides an exciting oral pleasure, neither in terms of texture or flavour.
Even if some people claim differently.

However, as they say there is always a first time.
And one Cancerian gentleman with gorgeous eyebrows and magnificent arms, has been coming and going out of my life for some time now, and aside from awkward exchange of kisses (for kissing is not his forte) we never ventured beyond 'getting-intimate-while-dressed' point.

So in a rare moment when a Cancerian completely abandons his caution and inability to take action, and cowering in to their obsession with oral sex (Cancerians like Libras are primarily oral creatures) and me wanting to go beyond my own inhibitions and revulsions, he lightly pushed me 'downwards' while we were kissing very ungracefully as usual.
For once I took the hint and headed 'south'.

Now one of the key motivations for such an avant-garde move is the fact that he was immaculately fresh down there.
It really did feel like fellating a bar of soap.
Not a trace of anything human about his body or this particular body part.
Much to my relief.

While I was in the process of fellatio I kept wondering if I was doing 'it' right.
Anxiety of performance never leaves the male sex.
But then if the number of orgasms is any indication of sexual gratification then I did pretty well I think.

Vignette (3)

The politics of infection?

Before the demise of Kiki (for as of two days ago she has severed all ties with me, much to my delight and mental relief) she was on a quest of half-hearted activism that she was involved in, for purely selfish reasons of course, and in a moment where such colourful attempts pay off, we (the gay community that is) were given the address and location of an anonymous HIV testing and counselling facility.

It goes without saying that Kiki was the first one to go and 'try it out' and it goes without saying that she demanded that I go and offer all the moral support as a friend.
That I was not available and she to chose to go with the person I last imagined she would (the Aquarius gentleman who is now married with two offspring) made little difference to her.

However, my own moral indignation at her thoughtless and careless behaviour, did not stop me from wanting to go myself and test.

If my blog is a valid record of my sex life then I have nothing to worry about.
But I do.

I am not the biggest fan of safe sex.
And I am completely aware of the moral, political, sociological, psychological ramifications that puts me at risk in.
Not to mention pathological as well.

I realize the wave of judgements that is going to fly at me from every direction once this is out.
But its a fact.
Given the choice, I would really rather not have sex at all than to 'practice' safe sex.
And me being the son of a pathologist and coming from a family of established immunologists, surgeons and physicians, I choose the first.

So, its more of no sex in the city kind of choice.

No one knows as much as I do about HIV and the consequences of being 'infected'.
The disease in itself redefined the position of the gay community and how it views itself and how the outside world views it.
There was a whole new political dimension to the disease.
And even now, the choice to practice safe sex is not one that is primarily based on health-informed decision making.
Its a political choice.
Despite the fact that the majority of those who are currently infected with HIV are not gay people.

One infection reveals so much and at the same time very little about your biological and psychological and moral choices.

If you are HIV+ then you are everything the community is trying not to be (at the same time you are everything the community wants to be but hopes not).
HIV single-handedly forced the gay community to find a new sexual ethic and 'reform' its sexual practices for some time.
Maybe for a decade or so.

But then safe sex did not prevent the outbreak of more traditional venereal diseases, like the outbreak of syphilis in San Francisco a few years ago.

Promiscuity still remained the norm.

And the question that was going through my mind as I was heading to the testing facility to offer Kiki moral support on collecting her results and getting myself tested was:

If I was not promiscuous and yet I turned out to be HIV+, what does that signify?

Even with safe sex practices, nothing absolutely prevents the transmission of the virus more than 95%.
Nothing.

Does it mean that everytime I would like to be intimate with someone, we both have to run tests for every major STD/I?

Sex is messy.
And for the longest time syphilis was considered one of the most devastating ailments for those who chose to practice 'free love'.
They even had posters discouraging soldiers from sleeping around in the 1950s.

But people refuse to acknowledge this fact.
That sex is an instinct, but unlike food (which also can get you seriously sick if you are not careful) it does involve another human being.

All your other instincts do not involve another human being to fulfil them (you don't need someone to eat, unless you are immobile and then the risk of passing disease in such a case is minuscule)

Sex is the only instinct that requires the active participation of another willing partner to be fulfilled (I am not concerned with the solitary explorations or gratification of one's sexuality. I strictly speak of the act itself)

There was no outbreak of HIV because people ate together nor did anyone ever get to do anything more than wash their hands before they eat.
But maybe washing your hands amounts to 'safe' practices?

As the attending physician was drawing a blood sample, I couldn't help but notice the beard and the prayer mark on his forehead.
He knew that he was drawing this sample for an HIV test.
He knew that I was referred to him by the testing facility that mainly caters to gay people and prostitutes.
And I was thinking how would I feel if I were in his place?

If I were a conservative, middle-class Muslim, drawing a sample for an HIV test from a gay man?

I will leave that for Ice Queer to play with.

There is a week waiting period before you get the results.

I had a week to ponder over the politics of infection. And I kept thinking how would everyone around me think and feel if they discovered I was HIV+.
In the context of a Middle Eastern, Muslim, allegedly conservative society. Where homosexuality amounts to compromised masculinity and fear of penetration ranks with fear of being stabbed to death.

My own natural morbidity made sure that I entertain every possible scenario in which an HIV infection played the starring role.

When it was time to go get my results, it was already Ramadan and I was more than reluctant to go get my results.
Knowing how it is to get HIV test results from a public facility (even if anonymous) especially during Ramadan.

Of course Kiki refused to extend the same courtesy to myself and come along for moral support and as usual she never bothered to ask about the results.
I had to go alone and weather the storm of discovering.

So under the glaring Cairo sun and in the scorching heat I made my way among the crowds and headed for the testing facility. A guard at the door asked me where are you heading and I said at such and such facility, and he shot me a look of utter disdain, a look that said 'you are one of them queers, aren't you?'. I was not dissuaded by such welcome and went ahead and headed directly to the office where a veiled middle-class woman inquired whether I came to collect my results.
I said yes.
She gave me the results and then lectured me on the woes of unsafe-sex (she used the word practice).
And warned me that people are only allowed to test once.
After which they are supposed to be informed about safe practices and should not be in danger of contracting the virus.

I thought this is idiotic, but nodded nonetheless.

As I walked out from the building and wondered at the sheer randomness of such a devastating disease and the stigma inextricably linked to it I was far from being immune from the politics of infection.

The Truth Shall Set You Free?

2010-08-03T03:52:00.000-07:00

In the Gospel of John, Jesus addresses the Jews who believed in him promising that if they hold on to his teachings, then they shall know the truth (other translations use 'will' instead of 'shall' I will stick the Kings James Translation) and that shall set them free.

Free from what?

The bondage of belief in something that never 'really' is.
The notion of truth here, is a knowledge that corresponds to reality, a reality that if we believe in we are no longer bound to illusions and the frustrations and misery that it creates.

Of course believing in Jesus is one truth, but here I speak of a much simpler and maybe more "worldly" truth.
Carnal to be exact.

The reality I speak of, is the reality we all face when you browse through the handful of profiles and cyber-representations of all those anonymous individuals we hope are the "right" ones for us.
There is 'topmancairo', 'noproblem', 'toohotforwords', 'machomacho', and the list goes on and on of profile names that are meant to stir and inspire us (dare I say excite?) to actually click and see.

And it hinges on two modes of operation:
1) Person X has a series of personal portraits that reveal to us more than we would like to know about his body, so we get to know him in the 'biblical' sense.
2) Person Y is too discrete for his own good, so he lists a series of certain physical and personal attributes with a little snappy text about how 'serious' he is and how 'please do not waste my time' if you too are not as "serious" as 'I am'.

In both cases reality as far from either of the two representations.

I doubt Jesus would agree with Debra Messing when she said, 'The sexiest thing a man can give to a woman is honesty'.
Aside from the appeal of honesty in a way that would excite us sexually, I think this is one part of the truth that liberates us.
In a way from all the expectations, assumptions, frustrations,...etc

In both cases person X and person Y are so far from the truth.

Person X assumed that obscene personal photos can make up for a personality and person Y assumed that the so-called discretion he seeks justifies all the delusional attributes he claims he posses.

I am personally all for subversion.
Appropriate something and make it your own.
This is halfway through creativity.
But that does not include fictitious narratives about oneself.
Claiming that you're combating the sexual objectification of the body in cyberspace.

So when I click on your profile and you claim you are too intellectual for this space and yet you are the ultimate 'top' of your generation using the term 'XL' to refer to your penis size, while in reality your intellect does not go beyond petty journalism and your penis is below the universal average (6.5 inches according the WHO largest survey ever done to find a median average for the adult male penis) then THIS is not subversion.

This is delusional.

This is the kind of bondage we all fall servile to because of the margin between the "truth" and what we read and see.

We are always "playing" within this margin.

What we hope might be true and what we know very well is far from reality.

I for one, would rather someone tell me 'I am morbidly obese with a below average size penis' than to say 'Fit with an XL schlong'.

(maybe to be continued)

The Orgy of Viciousness

2010-06-03T00:43:00.000-07:00

Not in the sense of a sex party, but in the archaic sense of an ecstatic ceremony where participants, driven by ecstatic frenzy, indulge in extreme intoxication and sever acts of violence resulting in Sparagmos, the sacrifice of an animal or a human being by ripping it to pieces.

The consummate act of imitating a wild god.

I never knew the day would come and I would participate in an orgy, in the modern or the archaic sense.

And I was never aware that gay people worshiped the Goddess of Viciousness.

They offered her sacrifice, engaged in orgiastic rituals and even go as far as Sparagmos.

Here is a snapshot of the ceremony:

'your hair looks terrible today', said a raving alcoholic

'...... addiction to intellect & pseudo-sophistication' said the one person with chronic semantic failure

'You're just like Lynette, always tired and undersexed' said another novice

'Don't worry sweetheart, God will give you plenty! (referring to sex)', said another participant

When did it become perfectly fine to rip my personal life to pieces and offer it on the alter of unbridled viciousness and personal amusement? Or pass it around as hors d'oeuvre in a cocktail party?

When did we come to celebrate crude psychology and mechanistic explanation of action and intentionality?

(it would really help if you can pick a book some time and actually try to read. I know your language abilities are limited, but it might do you a lot of good)

Psuedo-sphostication? Shofty?

Nothing fascinates more then the way humans imitate the divine or how they try to internalize it.

But this was not ecstatic ceremony to celebrate a Nature God, this was everything anyone should hate gay people for.

A violation of personal privacy, a compromise of trust, an unprecedented display of vulgarity and a very disturbing social dynamics where someone is undermined because of their personal choices.

I am astounded by how incredibly amoral everyone in this 'orgy' was.

Astounded.

The raving women who ripped their own children to pieces had much more morality then the group of gay people I was sitting with.

They were driven by their belief they will become more godly.

Not overcompensate because you are an oppressed minority mistaking promiscuity for individual emancipation.

Truly the ethics of the slaves, to quote Nietzsche.

Sitting there, I realized I was tired.

I was incredibly fed up with the claustrophobic, paranoid, morally despicable atmosphere.

There was no sense of camaraderie, no respect, no meaningful attachment, and the emotional range of anyone within 5 miles radius does not go beyond the emotional range of an armchair.

When I started writing this blog, aside from my desire to amuse and exercise my intellectual wit, it was truly an attempt to engage with the so-called community and maybe, just maybe offer it as a witness or a testimony of what everyone of us has to go through, very much a la Jewish Diaspora kind of writing.

I felt I owed it to myself and to others to write and voice our -if there is such a thing as "our"- side of the story.

Not because I am a juvenile attention whore, who loves using semantically disastrous phrasing (yes sweeite, we know you can use a thesaurus, but while you are at, can you consult a grammar guide too?) and shallow simplistic psychology to stir meaningless controversies about redundant childish antics.

Blame it on Gossip Girl.

Or write about uninteresting sexual encounters in abominable mediocre style.

How banal is that?

And I still believe and always will, promiscuity is not meant for humans, no matter how much analogies you draw between humans and primates or humans and jellyfish.

The emotional cost of promiscuity outweighs any pleasure no matter how great or immense.

Gay people should definitely look up evolutionary biology.

If the subject of morality, is oh so "frightfully dull".

Try Wikipedia.

I am not a disembodied, floating mind, that has no physical or sexual substance.

And I am not Ugly Betty as someone once suggested.

I do not overcompensate by "pseudo-sophistication" or do I like it when people tell me you are nothing but a "brain".

I am a totality of human experience, that exists through actions as much as it exists through ideas.

And if writing this blog made everyone think differently, then maybe I should just stop writing altogether.

3288

2010-05-10T16:13:00.000-07:00

Is the number of people who viewed your profile.

And thats only my latest "creation".
There were many avatars before that. I never kept track of how many visitors were in total.

But in terms of recent memory 3288 actually browsed my profile.

What does it mean?

Do I get an award for the biggest number of visitors?
Does it mean anything in terms of whether or not my profile is interesting and has a "crossover" appeal?
Does it make me a star (quoting Madonna here)?
Is it a true measure of desirability at all?
Or is this the average number of visitors a 2 years old profile gets?
Who knew statistics would come in so handy now.

The number of dates I had versus the number of visitors, creates a ratio of exactly 1:1000
Almost.

I was having lunch with Kiki the other day, and she trying to be nice and concerned, asked me, 'tell me about your latest love entanglements?', bitter beyond belief and offended she even asked, I said, 'you know very well I don't date in Cairo. Egyptian men don't like me".
Insisting on proving me wrong, although she's very much aware that I am always right, she continues to say, 'You should create an account on Facebook just for hooking up with guys, thats the way to do it nowadays it seems!"
The answer is still no.

There are exactly 5 eligible single men in the entire the gay scene in Cairo, and there are over 10,000 of us (us being a generic term, comprising not exclusive to, queens, bottoms, versatiles, Top-wanna bees, muscle marys, gym rats,....etc)

Its just too much competition.

But then where did the 3288 visitors come from?

If anything it confirms my suspicions and my inner most fears about myself and the men around me.

And I can sensationalize this, and splash it all over the blog, like some of us do, longing for attention and recognition, and I can pretend to be cool and open-minded like some others, while inside I am terrified for being judged, because I was judged before.

I won't pretend either.

I am not so distant from the many horrific facts and realizations 3288 reveals, and I am not secure enough to just excavate my deepest psychological angst online.

3288 and 3 dates in 2 years might be an incredibly scary fact, but whats even more scary is trying to rationalize it in a way that would not be ultimately hurtful and insulting.
I am my harshest critic.

So for now, I choose to pretend to take Kiki's advice to heart.
I choose the state of denial.

Dans Les Cabines Noires?

2010-04-15T01:39:00.000-07:00

Yes yes yes, it had been so long that I almost forgot how to blog (among other things to which only my memory of it convinces me it exists!).
Its not that life has been uneventful in the least, there were plenty of events, but none that I can sexily splash over the pages of my blog and none that fall under the category of "awkward sex". It can fall under the category of "cruel city" maybe, but there was no sex involved. Apparently there is no sex when it comes to Cairo.
Sex does not "translate".
And a queen can do so much with the memory of good s*x or any s*x at all.
I blame it on those vicious queens who keep jinxing everything I do!
Seriously!
How could have thought that "queen venom" is that potent?
Easy on me sista!
But the threads that unraveled with malice, were also woven with opportunity, and before I know it I was heading to the Land of L'amour where people speak like zat.
Now the French are a peculiar bunch, they don't believe in showering as a cleaning strategy, they talk too much, and eat too much cheese and drink too much wine.
Not to mention they speak a language that renders them physically unable to speak any other language.
I have yet to meet a native born French speaker, who can speak any other language but French without an accent.
Anyways, this is not a tract on the follies of the Franks.
There is a whole industry that is based on that (Why French women dress so nicely, why French women don't get fat, why French men are so seductive,....etc).
But my little brush with the gay scene in France "inspired" me to write of my own experience in the former land of the Gauls.

Ok, saunas are hot - no literally, hot - and an interesting place to socialize and hook up and all that, but seriously the scene is France is completely pivoted on "health clubs" i.e. Saunas!
There is nothing else!
If you don't take your clothes off, and wrap yourself with a towel and carry the key to your locker around your neck, you are doomed!
And between the steam of the sauna, and the hamam and the general humidity all over, its really wet!
And not in a good way!
Perhaps this is a counter-strategy to the complete lack of interest in daily showering?
Who knows!

Now another thing about French men - aside from the fact they speak no language other than French and have no interest in speaking any other language - is that they have very strict sleeping hours.
By 1:00 am everyone is gone and in bed.
On a weekend!
What the F?
The first time I walk into one of those "health clubs", it was almost empty, thats one thing, and everyone was leaving and it was 12:30! On a weekend!
God I miss Berlin!
Of course it was no use trying to hook up online.
I had no idea which websites are more popular than others, and when I tried to look online it was useless.
The only guy I managed to "engage" with, had a very last minute family problems and couldn't make it.
*Sigh*
Aside from that, it was a catastrophe.

As days passed and my desperation grew in this beautiful old port by the Mediterranean sea, I decided to go for the subversive, more of the retro really.
I strolled down the Rue Canabiere, into Monoprix and got myself a sexy Rimmel red nail polish!
In all honesty, you can not call yourself a queen if you haven't dabbled in the "dark arts" (and by dark arts I mean classic make up).
Intensely excited and looking forward to the prospect of finally having my finger nails glow with shades of red (and if that is the only thing that got me excited you can only begin to imagine how dire the situation was!), I completely forgot that I am in a homophobic country in general (again this is not Berlin) and the city that has the biggest number of Algerians and Sub-Saharan African immigrants and refugees.
And we both know what that means.
Homophobia to the extreme.
So as I took the tram down the beautiful boulevard, two gentleman, one of African descent, one of Arab descent, came and sat next to me and my Pisces alter ego (he too had his nails done under my influence) and started assailing us with very colourful insults in French.
And although I absolutely refuse to speak in French (C'est un question de principe), I understand perfectly when someone calls me a flaming queen/r!
Short of physical violence it was the playful ingenuity of my Pisces friend that managed to save us.
This by far one of the most hostile encounters I have ever been through, including the time I was mugged.
Taking note that nothing exists after 1:00 am we made sure to hit the "spa" at a more "decent hour", we then thought that 11:30 is fashionably late.
Wrong again.
Second time in a row, we arrive and there are only about 4 people in the entire place.
Devastating.
Desperate and unnerved, I finally conceded and decided to go into the Hammam.
Now let me explain the facts, the Hammam has so much water vapour its almost as if you are breathing water.
Its foggy and you can't see anyone and everything feels heavy on your skin.
I endured all these hardships for the sake of getting it on with a Frenchie.
What I did for love.
Anyways, I sat there, and a few centimeters away was a cute French frog, whom I could barely make out his silhouette but went heads one and we started getting "intimate".
After a few playful moments, I thought it was getting somewhere, he did go somewhere, I didn't!
Not willing to give up so soon, I moved up to the next Frenchie!
However, easy on the BO!
I couldn't, and finally gave up.
I decided to hit the shower stalls and just go home, only to find my cute French frog there having a quick shower himself!
Its destiny!
I approached him and picked up from where we left, only to end up with him going to a happy place, and while I was on my way to happy place the evil French queen of a concierge came screaming 'We are closing'!
What the F***!
Pissed beyond belief I gathered my things and headed out looking for my Pisces alter ego, but he was no where.
As I was getting dressed my French frog was getting dressed too, and he asked me, 'Does everyone speak English in Cairo?' and my answer was 'Why, of course!'
He then bent down (he was really short, which made me feel like a wild Amazonian woman) and kissed him saying, 'Peut-etre la prochaine fois!' and as I ran out he said 'You speak French!'
When I got to the entrance my Pisces alter ego was waiting for me outside, saying that he kept looking for me and when he asked the evil French concierge where I could be, he replied, 'Mais monsieur dans les cabines noires!'
That cunt!
My Pisces alter ego kept saying I am sure my friend is not 'dans les cabines noires', but the evil witch would not hear of it. He said there are some cabines are just so dark you can't see them!
You French cunt I was on my way to the Cabines Noires and you had to shut the f****** sauna down!

Disturbia

2010-02-27T04:29:00.000-08:00

This is not a typical post where I describe a particular setting and reveal to the readers the inner workings of our delightful community.
Its more of a personal epiphany if you may.
A realization, however, that can only take place within this setting, with these very same individuals who constitute, our so-called community.
And that is highly fragmented and uneven.

Our Patron Saints of Fantastic Parties, devised an elaborate scheme to give us a ball. Literally.

And a ball we had, disco ones as well, and many of them too.
Suspended from all over the ceiling.
Shining and flickering like some strange magical lamp.

And as I sipped on my poison, in dosages not recommended by the FDA and will not please my hepatologist, I was confronted repeatedly by my past, the choices I made, the actions I did, and the people I knew and my present, the present moment, the present present of my presence, and I was struck by how far I came from the angry chick with issues to the docile, alcoholic vagabond that I am now.
I slowly traced how my Victorian morality was put to the test, and how the margin between what is prescribed and what is applied became very clear, amidst my alcoholic-induced mental haze.
Perhaps the only thing that was actually clear, was this discrepancy.
What is right?
What do people think is right?
How should people act?
How can we judge someone's action as being right or wrong?

And we can argue Virtue Ethics, Consequentialism, Deontology and I would still be at loss of how to judge my own actions presently and in retrospect or those of the people around me.

Is there such a thing as an open relationship? Is it possible to have multiple sexual partners at the same time? Is it possible to desire an infinite number of sexual partners equally? What constitutes desire? And can we control it or understand it?

How do we relate to others? How do we define this relationship in reference to the people around us? Is it a process of negotiation or again a presumed, non-disclosed agreement that we are aware of by our intuition and emotions?

And I stood there, in the midst of the arena, and I scanned the space populated by such varied and heterogeneous individuals, and there it was, those who made me question the meaning and boundaries of desire, and whether or not fucking is not a completely mental action, or rather transaction?
And how do condition ourselves to think someone is attractive or not?
And our own feelings of possessiveness or jealousy.
The limits of our own desirability.
Now that is the bitterest of all poisons.
The green-eyed monster, that started me right in the face, and almost brought me to tears.
I could taste the bitterness and the vehemence of my own emotion.
It was disturbing, in a non-glamorous, Rihana kind of way.

Are we attractive as far as we think we are?
Or is it, anyone is attractive in the right outfit?
Or with the right personal trainer we all look good?

I have dwelled for a long time on the nature and different forms of alliances and friendships we form in our so-called community.
It has long fascinated me.
The matrix of social, economic, cultural and religious vectors that comprise such a matrix and how they dictate the kind, duration and the very nature of these relationships and friendships.

And we constantly re-invent ourselves, in the Temple of Fast Paced Consummerism, our High Priestess being Madonna, one season our hair is black and we are Hindu, the next our hair is Strawberry Blond and we are Jewish, elapsing decades needed for training and understand the very labels we adopt and drop along the way.
And as we transform, our fellow worshipers change too.

I currently worship at the Temple of the Self-Professed Queen, with the disco ball as our emblem, and Hip-Hop and R&B as our sacred music.
As I was fucking my knees "praying" (i.e. executing half-interesting dance moves using the wrong body parts), thinking it is all more of mystery religion/cult of pre-Christian world, with complex process of initiation and the same orgistic rituals.
Of course without the anticipated enlightenment or ecstatic revelations of the mystery cults.

Quelques Jours a Birmingham

2010-02-06T05:30:00.000-08:00

After a dry spell, a dark spell and a curse, I was finally ready to disconnect, and impose a state of self-exile upon my self and leave Cairo for a while.
I was ready to get displaced physically once more!
Bad idea! (who could have thought flying could be such a traumatic event?)
I'll get to that later.
Arriving in Birmingham cloaked in secrecy and only telling very few friends, my trip was still jinxed and the 20 pages of functioning men on Gaydar seem to have lost their way to my room!
Bitches!
I mean really, what is there to envy?
I went to Birmingham, not London, I went in February which is the worst weather by far, and men in the UK are not kosher.
I am a Semitic girl to the core and I like my men circumcised.
So why on earth jinx it you bitches??

Birmingham is not the most glamorous city on earth. Its a little shabby and the scene here is a little odd.
So in a nutshell, one could not get up, one I couldn't get it going, and only a drag queen managed to get it up and running!!
The irony....
This gives you an idea of the gay scene in Birmingham.
To the scene's credit, I did enjoy an exceptionally wonderful date with one local gentleman, who happened to be half-German (leave it to the Germans to fix things!).
He was sweet enough to show me around, take me to all the hot gay spots (the gay village) and he remained very well-mannered through it all.
Three cheers to Anglo-Deustch lads!

The real adventure did not come from Birmingham, it came all the way from Rome.
Tall, tousled hair, playful eyes, and stunning eye lashes.
And he sat right next to me, and his cologne, lemon and frankincense filled my senses and he looked at me, "there you are", he says, smiling.
And I answered, "serendipity. It must be fate".
I was in love.
The man just oozed charm and sex appeal.
And he knew it, and he was not at the very least, shy or modest about it.
He flirted shamelessly, I only laughed and playfully hit his arm, but all I could think of was how it would feel to get my arms around him.
Days pass, and I see him, and he always winks at me, sits next to me, always flirting, always saying, "I knew you would be here".
Then one day, walking down the street, a little distraught, he comes along, and I tell him, "what are you doing here?", to this he answers, "why, I came for you of course".
He invites me to his hotel room, so secure in the power of his seduction, me so enamorada, sur le charm, I say, "sure, why not?".
I end up in his arms, and he is more beautiful out of his clothes than in them, and being me, I don't hold anything back, I gush, and gush, the emotional slut that I am.
He figures me out in a second.
And he holds back and assesses how to work around this.
And he already has a plan.
A very intricate choreography of how this "meeting" should be like.
So while I fantasized endlessly about this moment in my head, and the flying sparks and the sizzling passion (you read one bodice ripper of historical romance and it haunts you for the rest of your life), it was way better in my head.
Here I was in the arms of one the most influential individuals in the world of art in Rome, and I deny him the pleasure of performing fellatio on him.
And he resented me for it.
He was so rigid, and his moves were so scripted.
But I was living the fantasy in my head, and I didn't care that he spurnt my advances, and told me, "its better if we just cuddle".
The man could not get me out of his room fast enough.

Not at all affected by this sudden turn of events, I was still on cloud number nine.
In my fantasy, he is well endowed (in reality he is average), he is circumcised (he is not), and he is a great kisser (he is not a bad kisser, but don't hold your breath).
I was still intoxicated, and I was enjoying every second of it.
The randomness, the audacity, my own complete lack of inhibition, and the way he batted his eyelashes when he spoke.
I wanted to savour the moment, before the very masculine scent of his cologne wears off my skin.

Veiled

2010-01-23T03:23:00.000-08:00

Feet veiled, legs veiled, pelvis veiled, torso veiled, arms veiled, neck veiled, hair veiled -
Face veiled.

And what she covered, I revealed, and what she possessed I didn't, and what she gave, I couldn't.

Our bodies were not one, but I thought his was ours.

His body is not veiled.

Mine remained always.

And what he revealed then, was covered in between, revealed now, but not to me.

My body was veiled, then, now and always will be.

Because his body can't.

Les Enfants du Paradis?

2010-01-14T14:30:00.000-08:00

Not in the very least is that an allusion to the cult classic of French cinema.

Not at all.

Its a sinister take on the the notion of "privileged children".
A faux-chic take on a bunch of no-good, spoiled brats.

But I digress...

It all started on late Cairian night, me and my Pisces alter ego, dining at the ill-famed bar in downtown (which every queen was after my head for daring to utter its name on my blog) delightfully intoxicated, on a cherches pour encore s'amuser, Kiki Jr. mentioned that all the girls were feasting on cheap beer and poisonous vodka at one particular establishment (which will remain unnamed) in our little Manhattan.
So we couldn't think of something more exciting than to join Kiki Jr. and her minions while sipping on our pride and joy, the "national beer" and pseudo-vodka.
Just as we are about to reach the ridge of the island and alight the stairs, we had our first encounter with the infants of paradise.
KiKi Jr. center-stage, directing the flow of conversation, manipulating and stealthy stabbing here and there with her Scorpio barb, ex-lovers, future ones, rival queens,....etc.
One particular Mademoiselle Bovary was going about the possibility of "faking" male orgasm.
Feeling sympathy for such anti-masculine statement, that would incur the wrath of the 17 other queens, I waited in anticipation to see who will deliver the biggest sting of them all.
Kiki Jr. no doubt.
In a split of a second, with a mental agility that would put a world chess master to shame, she delivered her blow to the unfortunate victim.
Taking pity and knowing very well how it feels to be in the presence of older, vicious queens, I retorted and admonished Kiki Jr., "Calmes-toi maintenant!", French being the primary lingua franca for Kiki Jr., even if she fakes being an Anglophone.
Not expecting praise or accolades for my motherly intervention, the little Mademoiselle Bovary snapped and said, 'C'est pas grave! Tous le monde comprennent le français!'

What the F*ck!

Cet petite con!!
I just trying to deflect the sting from one of the most venomous Scorpios in the entire gay scene and this is what I get! 'Tous le monde comprennent mon cul, chérie!'

And then after a being consumed by wrath and frustration at this complete ungracious, discourteous behavior, I was amused.

Immensely amused at the complete lack of proper judgment.
One major drawback in being young, is not being able to judge whose on your side and whose not.
And the queens don't make it easy for you.
They are vicious.
Alliances are constantly shifting, and one day a sister, the next day a witch.
So one would think, out of sheer pragmatism, that little con, would appreciate the maternal gesture, a much older and wiser queen made for the sake of alleviating the blow.

And I would drink to the polygots and raise my glass and say kudos for you all, for mastering two different Indo-European languages, and not being able to grasp the basic notions of courtesy and civility.

And that is what annoys the shit out of me pour les enfants du paradis.

They don't know courtesy or social grace if it stares them in the face, literally.

My intervention for the damsel-in-distress was not at all motivated by condescension or an attempt to disempower her infront of her audience.
It was Virgo humanism thats all.

Well, too bad, I guess I will leave Kiki Jr. to corner her next victim and sting away!

I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It

2010-01-07T04:04:00.000-08:00

Well, not the biological sex, as a girl, but a fellow sister that is.

Let me rephrase.

As the countdown for the new year draw near, all the girls in town were wondering where is the big party and who is going to host it.
Fate had it that our party pioneers and organizers were out of venue and could not think of a place where our party can take place.
Ever the one to subvert and scheme, I had a devilish thought of convincing Kiki Jr. and her lovely partner to host the party.
And you can have issues with Kiki Jr. and go all out cat fighting but her adorable Pisces partner is the epitome of everything sweet and charming!
After some negotiations, Kiki Jr. consented, with a some provisos to host the party.

And I went to the party with an open mind and a lot of alcohol.
I decided I will face my fears and go places I didn't go to before, overcome my limitations.

This is when 'Mimi' happened.

Mimi, is a sweet, lovable, huggable, kissable, peaceful, open, very dear friend.
She's everything I am not.
She has no fear, and she never judges.
And whatever you throw at her, she takes in a stride and comes back for more.
So after two rounds of scotch, one vodka and one rum, I was ready to swing and so was Mimi.
In a moment of sheer Sapphic delight, we started kissing on the dance floor.
All the girls gasped in shock and disgust, screaming, 'Fish'!

And while I was lost in my lip lock with Mimi, I could hear some of the snide comments the bitches were saying about me in my head:

".....there is a woman who singlehandedly redefined our understanding of lesbian sex..."

".....she gave lesbian sex a whole new meaning...."

".......she was fearless, fierce and quite desperate...."

But my own fear of being judged yet again, was my driving force to keep on going.
I was beyond the point of no return.

The only point were I had to disengage, was when Kiki Jr. was having an existentialist crisis and I was really terribly concerned and overcome with guilt.
After all this was my idea.

So Kiki Jr. had a bitch fit and then the dust settled on, we went on the roof and had a quite moment, more of quite a moment.
High on my lesbian wave, me and Kiki Jr. decided to go beyond our own fish fear and kiss.
And for the second time in a row, I kissed Kiki Jr. and I liked it.

Kiki Jr. then got the fish bug, went down, grabbed and kissed Kiki Sr.!

This is when I knew that something was wrong.
Someone dropped a fish bomb on the party.

Kiki Sr. then turned looked at me and wanted to kiss me!
I pleaded with Kiki Sr., 'I am your sister', I said, 'You can not this to me', but Kiki Sr. was well into her shark phase and she was fierce.

I thought it was anthropologically fascinating and sexually very frustrating, but whom I to judge?

The Tradeoff?

2009-12-30T06:39:00.000-08:00

(special thanks to my wonderful Taurus friend, who gave me that extra push to finish this post!)

So back to cyberspace navigating its illusory possibilities, indulging in the most irresponsible forms of optimism, willing myself to believe that despite its apparent dire condition cyberspace and the extensive, temporary networks it creates can really offer "us" opportunities.

And I was blissfully happy in my illusion, not the least bit anxious about the truth being revealed or rather the truth unraveling before my eyes or the reality that does not correspond to such fictitious cyberscape.

And once again, I venture and make yet another encounter with Egyptian men, this time I make sure my sample is varied, truly a "random sample".

Without going on much about the degrees of randomness or how representative my sample is, it suffice to say it encompassed 3 different ages groups, three different geographic configurations.

1st box:

The biggest segment of our population, what makes the demographic bomb a potential blessing rather than a catastrophic phenomenon.

Generation Y.

Those born after the 1980s, those who witnessed the slight upturn in the world economy and the mass spread of home computers.
I grew up when notion of using computer anywhere outside academia was an anomaly.
They, on the other hand, grew up in a time where a massive gay subculutre was well established in an alternative cyberspace.
Speaking of a 'generation gap'.
Despite my clear ageism, and inherent bias, I forced myself to go against my mental prejudices and court the interest of those who were born in the 1990s.
And while I drag around my old-fashioned values and hard-earned liberalism, generation Y believe they have it all.
Or rather they deserve it.
No, bitches you don't!

Generation Y is definitely more aware, but information is not knowledge and awareness is not wisdom.
And maybe I was impressed by how mobile and involved generation Y is, but I am not thrilled with the extreme moral and intellectual poverty that seems to be the defining feature.
Of course there are exceptions, but in the end they all share the same
'we can do it all attitude'.
As senile as this sounds, its a major turn-off.

Generation Y are 'mostly Top', are not interested in relationships, and think they have elephantine genitalia.
I was not thrilled by my encounter, for the 1990s boys talk themselves out.
There is the tradeoff between what you say and what you do. You either say it or you do it!!
Yet budding groves have their charms, in a very Colette-esque way!

Box (2):

The curse of the gay society, the bane of existence for many people, including myself, those who constitute the 30-40 box.
Those are even worse than generation Y.
Generation Y are not without their charm, those have the air of sexual depravity and complete mental impoverishment.
If you are 35 and still think you are "too young" to be "tied down" or there is "enough of me to go around", then Cairo, we have a problem.
How can anyone be that delusional?

Its hilarious really.

I don't think there is a tradeoff here, because there is nothing to trade really!
I have already trashed men in their 30s enough not to repeat myself again, but seriously, what the *&^%$#??

Box (3)

The unfathomable.

Men at their prime, they say a man only begins to be himself, his true self, only he when reaches 40 years of age.

Even Cabbalists agree.
You wouldn't think that someone in his 40 still does not want to make peace with his sexuality or does not have a place of his own.
I mean if I live to reach 40 and still can not manage to have my own space, I will do the honorable thing, and disembowel myself, Japenese style.
What is going on?
One man after the other at the threshold of 40 and well into their 40s who are still figuring out their sexuality.

Isn't a little too advanced to still ponder whether you should "sleep with boys" or not?

Wula eih?
What am I missing exactly?
Why is there the tradeoff?
Those who are interesting,
don't want to be called gay,
those are interesting and don't want to be called gay still want to be in relationships,
those who are interesting and don't want to be called gay and still want to be in relationship, can sleep with boys don't want to desecrate their abode of martial bliss!

There is then those who are interesting,
don't care what they are called,
and designate an alternative space for sleeping with boys,
but those who are interesting, don't care what they are called and designate an alternative space for sleeping with boys, want to be "served"!

I am not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me!

Exactly what is sexy about a man lying semi-naked on his back, waiting for someone to "serve" him?
There can be endless interpretations for sexy, but they don't include this one.
The "starfish syndrome" as my dear friend calls it.
Those who just lay there, arms and legs spread wide without moving a muscle.

When did sexual prime translate into complete laziness and apathy?
Aren't you supposed to reconcile yourself with all your fears and insecurities by the time you are forty?
Don't you accumulate enough experience (sexual or otherwise) to know that no one likes a starfish?

Why is it always one thing or the other?

You've been J**gd'd!

2009-11-11T10:58:00.000-08:00

The following vignettes is what happens when one becomes morally de-centered

Scene (1)

Me sitting in trendy restaurant in our 'little Manhattan', with a cheeky British lad, engaged to be married, sipping Gin Tonic, heady with the intoxicating mixture, trying desperately to make sense of the semiotic nightmare I am sitting in, feeling as if someone swallowed the whole of Cairo history and selectively regurgitated for touristic purposes.
My cheeky lad was not too averse to my flirting, and I had no intention of curbing it.
And in the climax of the moment Kiki Sr. walked in, had a quick look then instantly called me a "shameless, drunken slut".
It did not stop at here.
After explaining that this was an informal work meeting, that my gentleman is engaged to be married, Kiki Sr. attacked me and affirmed the fact that I have zero credibility in her eyes, and that I have no nerve judging her and her loose lifestyle ever again.
She promised to get this little piece of information to all those who are concerned.
I pleaded and cried, and told Kiki Sr. that all that I have left is my reputation.
Kiki Sr wouldn't hear it.
She answered, "Too late you should have thought better before hitting on work colleagues who are married, bitch". *snap snap*

Scene (2)

At another fabulous party, the it-girl of the 1990s, the quintessential player that embody everything negative and hypocritical about the gay community, turned into a born-again Muslim and now desperate to get back to the scene, was shaking her bums in a very suggestive manner as I was making my way through the dance floor, suddenly grabbed me and starting rubbing herself against me!
Famous for her dirty dance moves years ago (shall we say a decade ago? oops!), it was indeed very surreal to see her trying to get these moves going for her again, and of all the people, with moi.
With a history of miscommunication, sweet sixteen heartbreak and a whole bunch of evangelical terrorism, it came as a little shocking.
In the heat of the moment, her butch piece of jewellery (surprise surprise, a chain) came undone, and who but me offers to clasp it back on?
I could blame my intoxication for my sense of abandon or complete lack of proper judgement, but as I judged him endlessly in my mind, and to his face, I judged myself even more for paying him any attention at all.
The two Kiki's witnessed the scene, and once again a whole heap of admonishments flew across at me.
"How could you after all that he has done?"

Scene (3)

Me standing in a corner on the main street, in our 'little Manhattan', and before I make a turn I find one particular gentleman coming my way.
In a moment of sheer awkwardness and 'karma-will-bite-you-in-the-ass' feeling, I judged myself, "slut", I said.
"What the f*ck was I thinking?"

This particular sunny gentleman, filled with joie de vivre and a certain chutzpah came from far away lands, across many oceans to our magical Cairo and Fate had it that we meet and although the word "chemistry" is generally over-stated, borderline cliché, but I have to say there is a certain serendipitous element of compatibility that seem to exist with some people and seems to be completely absent with others.
In this case it was very much present.
And gestures, movements, actions seem to float so effortlessly, never forced or contrived.
In spite of the fact that I have preached the doctrine of self-control and ladylike behaviour for the longest time and earned the reputation of the celibate spinster, all that seem to dissolve before my eyes and my so-called sound judgement.
And I looked in my gentleman in the eye and said, 'Mama always told me, no man likes something he had too easy'.
He kindly dismissed my fears, but what irony.
I believe our "encounter" was not all that unpleasant, but if he doesn't call you back....
The that means something.
And if you see him a few days later prancing around 'little Manhattan' with some pretentious queen with the wrong shades, then you know screwed up.
"How could I, after all that I have done?"

She's Legal, her Party Wasn't!

2009-11-01T10:26:00.000-08:00

So as everyone was recovering from the last party, which was too fabulous for me to even blog it, Kiki Jr. decided that the moment has come to give a ball, the highlight of her, ahem, stellar career in the gay society, and that everyone queen would envy and that would be the talk of the scene for days to come (which is the utmost any queen can hope for considering the attention span of queens in general).

To push things to the extreme, and be all controversial as ever, Kiki Jr. decided that her 21st birthday bash would be a themed party, a costume party that is.

Fearing that all the queens would mistake costume for drag, she stressed that each queen she should keep her wig in her bag and think 'outside the box'.

For a whole week every queen in town was thinking, 'what should I wear for Kiki Jr's party?'

Me and Kiki Sr. were no exception.

For days at a time Kiki Sr. talked of nothing else but 'what costume should I wear?'

And while I thought the prospect of wearing a costume is exciting, I knew it would be near impossible to have a nicely done costume in Cairo.

It would not go without notice and all kinds of wrong attention.

So I opted for 'soft drag'.

Meaning, heavy eye make up, lipstick, nail polish, no wig and a trashy outfit.

And after much useless resistance, Kiki Sr. followed suit.

So clad in my gorgeous Pashmina scarf (trying to cover up my indecent outfit), I was making my way to this fictitious suburb east of Cairo.

Sans make up we made our way to the residence of Kiki Jr. and her beau.

Fashionably early, we were both horrified and amazed at Kiki Jr. costume (photos available to select audience on Facebook) it was a leather top with a star situated mid chest, and hot leather shorts with straps on both sides, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Kiki Jr. was officially "out" to the society.

And to add just the right touch, Kiki Jr. wore fisting gloves.

While everyone is saying 'fisting is the new anal', I beg to differ.

Fisting is a pathetic excuse for loose bottoms and below average tops to get off.

Very sad...

And like they say, 'if its big, don't fist it'.

Anyways, Kiki Sr. volunteered to help me paint my nails, we both failed and I had to go without my dream of having the pseudo-drag queen look.

And it hit me while I was putting on my eye makeup how erringly familiar my face looked in the mirror.

I was a 'retouched' version of my mother!
Every girl's dream!
The version where testosterone ruined the smooth lines and soft features.

So with a lot of Freudian 'inversion' and a hint of psychosis I made my way to the party arena.

Kiki Jr. in my honor got us all dry Martini!
A girl's bestfriend!
I couldn't wait to 'have my cup filled'!

And in honor of Kiki Jr. and her birthday, I offered free Tarot cards reading to whomever Kiki Jr. bestows the honor to and chooses.

Here I was sipping on my gorgeous maritini willing myself to get intoxicated, and watching (acutely aware of my own voyeuristic position) and while waiting for the party to fill up Kiki Jr. beau, being the wonderful host that he is, offered me his delightful company. An incredibly perceptive Pisces, I am constantly amazed by how well he can read people, and I feared for his sake that he should know too much! *wink wink wu keda*

Like in every other party, there was the good, the bad and the ugly.

But my vote goes for the one person who actually managed to come in full drag, wig, high heels and all.
I thought it was prodigious.
While our dear sister lacked the charm and vivacity of typical drag queen, she made it up with a stunning figure and the perfect outfit.

And in our corner below the staircase, I was lodged with two chairs, two candles and my deck of cards.
I gave readings to many, danced with few, and indulged in a drinking binge of assorted alcoholic beverages.
Though I was exposed to the many intimate details of so many people that time, I am in no liberty to disclose them here or else where, yet I was touched by how everyone was looking for the same thing.

The same question kept appearing over and over again.

Love reigned supreme.

And in the few stolen moments, between the different readings, I got a chance to dance, in my completely intoxicated state, I did a few moves I was shocked I did, I did a few moves I was surprised I could.
The magic of alcohol!
And while I was in my "loose" state, there was one particular gentleman that me and Kiki Jr. long pined after.
She out of foolish pride refused to pursue (and rightfully so I must say) and me out of respect to her person and our friendship.
But we both had a lingering, unfinished fantasy involving him!

So there I was gyrating my pelvis, swinging my hips, and putting out all the moves I could, making myself "too available" as Kiki Jr. always tells me, and he being the cock tease (more of ass tease to be specific) that he is, only hints but never does.

Men!

By now I was too hot and bothered to be teased so, I decided to look for Kiki Sr. who was already drunk and gyrating her own pelvis in a way no one thought possible.
Myself included.
Instantly I followed her around the dance floor, and before it turned into another "fish convention", Kiki Dr. disengaged.

Kiki Jr. on the other hand was celebrating her moment, getting groped by lesbians, exes, ghosts, all were in love with her scanty leather shorts and fabulous endless legs.

I had every intention of staying till the wee hours of dawn but with my present state of intoxication I thought it would be best if I excuse my "leather" hostess and let Kiki Sr. grab me and leave!

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag!

2009-10-10T04:00:00.000-07:00

Since it seemed like such a long, long time since our last party, it only seemed natural that one convulsive get together is overdue.
So my two gracious hosts, with the famed Libra hospitality and the renowned Gemini charm, threw a birthday bash!
So me and the two Kikis and a whole bunch of other people made our way to the west of Cairo, the former enchanted fields that are now edifices of stone and cement.
And while Zamalek screams of long gone exoticism, and downtown echoes with the belle epoque, west of Cairo after midnight, still has the enchantment of endless fields of trees and vegetation set aimlessly along the Nile..
And in an atmosphere of enchantment and intoxication (who knew Bacardi Gold can get you floored in under one glass!) I had several encounters..
A dear French friend, who masks his incredible sense of integrity and honesty under an unceremonious facade of French coquetry. A friend of friends, and friends from times immemorial.
And I missed the memories and I missed the friends, and I missed him, and I missed the brutal honesty.
In a few tete-a-tete moments, he offered me his wisdom and indispensable counsel, I was relieved and content, happy to know the mysterious works of destiny that splits people apart just to reunite them at the strangest of moments.

And Kiki Jr. who delightfully intoxicated like myself, became my alter ego, and what Virgo inhibited in me alcohol removed so effortlessly and what Scorpio soured in her, alcohol transformed so jubilantly.
And before we know it, we were incredibly in sync, and finished each other sentences!
It was a peachy pas de deux that we both found exhilarating.

And one Sagittarius gentleman, who long captured my fancy, and I consciously willed myself not to be overcome by such pubescent feelings, and opted for a warm but cordial exchange.
But rum is a magic potion and whatever common sense I long prided myself with, stealthily slipped away, leaving me standing, defenceless, stripped out of any common sense or fundamental rationality.
And I could only see desire, feel it, palpable, like the alcohol, dangerous and thrilling and completely irrational.
And I was less in control, more open, less reserved more vulnerable added to a charming streak of idiocy that intoxication produces in one's character.
And he was not.
And he could read me, and I ventured to kiss him, and he offered me his cheek.

And if that was not enough rejection in one night, and one incredible stupid act, in my jovial state of mind, and uninhibited self, I bumped into an old friend, no longer friends, whom I trusted and he never made the effort to live up to this trust or have the courtesy to warn me of this lovely impending breach of trust.
Alcohol makes you many things, one of them is being naive.
In my naiveté I approached with open arms and he offered me his hand to shake.

So much for courtesy.

But I did enjoy my time, among kindred spirits and the memory of absent ones.
And while I will stay away within a 20 miles radius from Sagittarius men (for they bring the silliest side of me), I floated contentedly among warm Water signs (Pisces, Scorpio and Cancer), and enjoyed the wonderful hospitality of my Gemini and Libra hosts.

Experimenta Arabica

2009-09-15T16:04:00.000-07:00

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:...."

Forbidden ones, ridiculous ones, absurd ones and banal too.

-A sore one I must add.

It is the lingua Arabica, al-ʿarabīyah, ʿarabi, the tongue of the natives, the dark-skinned natives, the language of crisis and the language in crisis.

What a difficult "thing" to write about.
And what a formidable task that stares me back in the face, fearsome and Semitic, majestic and foreboding, marking diacritics, uttering guttural phonemes.

How could a language of such status be subjected to crude sociological and historical manipulation?
How could a native tongue become a personal taboo?
Personal? I would say collective taboo.
And I think the word 'taboo' could not be more fitting, something prohibited, and sacred all at the same time.
Arabic became a taboo.

And while everyone takes pride in not being able to converse properly in Arabic, or to even deny any degree of fluency in the language at all, I am amazed by such degrees of internalized self-hate.
It became a status symbol and an indication of sociological class to abandon any relation to Arabic, not as a language per se, but its legacy, history and culture.

And it remains to be disputed and contested what kind of legacy it is, and observers and analysts are spilt in equal groups, but the richness of the heritage and the legacy is acknowledged by anyone who came close to knowing it.
Not to mention native speakers of the language.

And while bilingualism is a trait to be admired, the cacophony of sounds that rise in union denigrating Arabic is alarming and upsetting.
A language is a people's memory, history, past, dreams, desires, a weltanschauung, all that is chucked in the trash in the aftermath of a post-colonial trauma.

And a whole series of binary associations were constructed, native/backward, Arabic/ignorance, monolingualism/low-class, Bilingualism/prestige,.....etc

It became so internalized, that even desires were expressed in a non-native language.
We -I included- were unable to express our fundamental desires in Arabic.

Every dim-witted, half-educated queen who thinks she can write (you know who are you little shit), showers us with mental refuse and a series of semantic failures, calling it "a blog".

And every homo in Cairo, who was lucky enough to get access to Mansham or Gaydar, writes a little reportage filled with orthographic disasters and syntax nightmares, insisting that that is "English", and flatly refusing the suggestion that Arabic is in fact a better modus operandi.

Ever the one to subvert and upset, in the physical of sense up-set, I decided to conduct a little experiment, the Experimenta Arabica.

I will flaunt my bilingualism unabashedly over all of them gay websites and see how will the vicious queens react! lol

Will they become queasy at the sight of the Arabic script? Choosing not to acknowledge it and move on?
Oblivious of how significant is this silence/absence?
The silence which has become the only thought in Arabic.

Arabian Nights

2009-09-11T17:15:00.000-07:00

What if Scheherazade forgot the story?

The only way to save herself and her kind was to lure her king, her executioner, by one tale after the other, while she was painted in words, that enchant and bewitch, the words turned to gestures and the gestures to subtle moves, moves that tempt and beguile, and her king moved from a listener to a spectator and she, to fend for herself, had to dance desire, instead of verbalizing it, and what was once heard was now seen and touched.

But the king is dead. Long live the king.

The royal box is empty, Scheherazade forgot the words, forgot the dance.
And the king long gone is replaced by queens.
And the belle époque, the beautiful lakes and grand boulevards, the reincarnation of Paris along the old pathways of medieval Cairo is nothing but an endless market of mass produced basic commodities and cheap florescent lights.
And the grandeur of multiple layers of architecture and the fancy cars that once drove down those boulevards are all but a distant memory.

And while I walked, I thought about the enchantress, the words, the gesture that disseminated desire, 'if you still want me, you can't kill me, you must possess me first, and you never can, not for this night'.
This is how the story went on, night after night, one gesture after the other.
Little glimpses of magic, weaved once by words, and another by subtle motion.

Now the words are forgotten, the movement no longer subtle, the enchantress a whore.
The beautiful columns, the painted panels, the engraved geometrical patterns, and the nights long gone.

Scheherazade no longer needs to remember the story or lure her spectators.
She can just offer her ass and that would do the trick nicely.

10, X, 十,สิบ,열, とお

2009-09-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, on that same very day, I was sixteen.

Six ten, ten sixes, six and ten.. What does it mean?

Numbered in days, months and years. And they seem very far and I feel them very near.
And at once they seem too familiar and at once they look so strange.
And there seem to be so much Time between one memory and the other, and for another it seems Time never passed at all.
Thats the tragedy I think.
We never really understand how or why Time can swallow something and not touch the other.

Are we not grateful to the arbitrariness of Time?
How it pillages and plunders, destroys this and enshrines, embalms that?
And I for-got (fore-gone?) all which filled those years and days and I was entrapped (in-trap?) in moments that never seem to end.
End.

Some sensations, sensed, sent, take a whole lifetime to decipher, to fathom.
Others fly, like ghosts.

I never forgot when I first was kissed, I never imagined two people are able to be that close, such intimacy never seemed possible or perceivable.
Such closeness was thrilling, frightening and improbable.
How vulnerable we are when we kiss.
And how fragile is our hearts when we are sixteen.

Time plays the cruelest of tricks, it makes us believe in possibility.
Then it reveals to us the error of our judgment.

No one teaches you about yourself, who you are and how you are, like the man that breaks your heart.
He points out to every imperfection, every lack, every reality you refuse to confront and take it for what it is.
I was in love once, foolish and amorous, and I tripped and fell flat on my face.
Take it from me girlfriend, never trust a man.
Especially one that you love.

Was I in love once? Definitely. At least that is what it seemed to me back then.
Am I still in love? Remains unknown to me.
Was I punished for everything I was not? Absolutely.

I was punished for everything I didn't understand, I didn't want to understand, I refused to understand, I couldn't understand.
At one point I was young and sentimental, clingy and immature, at the other I was psychotic and indulgent then the Almighty God Himself was summoned to reveal how evil I am.

What does one do when you bring God to punish you for what you are?

If you don't believe, then men are designed to be promiscuous, love is for heterosexuals and women.
If you believe, then men to men action is evil. How come you don't have a vagina if you were meant to be with a man?
If you believe, then mankind is supposed to marry and propagate the species. How come you don't have a uterus and can not bear children?

Believe me I wanted to, nothing that I could help or change.

Every organ, muscle and fiber tissue was invoked to invalidate my feelings.
If its not pectorals, its a vagina, if its not testosterone, its a uterus.
Every category and biological function.

What remains, but my sixes and tens, his wife and kids, my memories and his beard, my words and his God.

What remains?

A drag queen once told me, "Sweetie, men don't love, they fuck. If not with their penis, then with whatever organ that comes in handy."

Well, in that situation I will pick the penis.

Crazy Eyes, Aquarius Eyes?

2009-09-04T17:15:00.000-07:00

While this blog is becoming less and less about awkward sex and more and more about the awkwardness per se, it should be renamed 'Awkward (beep) in the City', nevertheless till the river runs completely dry, one has to make the best out of it.

Getting this disclaimer out of the way, every sign usually has a characteristic physical feature that defines it, the Aries smile, the Leo hair, and the plus célèbre electric Aquarius eyes....

My fascination with Aquarius men was no secret, for the longest time they were my holy grail and the one sign I pursued the most and the one sign I was happy eating the crumbs that fall off their table of intellectual ambrosia.

But while passions dim, subside (like waves maybe?) and even the staunchest of followers will give up if s/he is forever spurnt.

I happily turned my gaze towards the lazy, sensual Taurus.

I found their deliberate, stubborn ways, comforting, safe, if you please.

And while Taurus were not so free from treachery themselves, I would pick their stubbornness any day of the week over the Aquarius madness.

But you know what they say about Karma, any unresolved experience will keep happening time and time again till you actually learn how to confront it and make peace with it.

Till you have learnt your lesson.

Pretty cruel, aye?

I learnt a lot from Aquarius men (not really in the plural sense, they were not so many men, Aquarius or otherwise!), but am I ready to let go, or the wheel of Karma will turn one more time, just for the briefest second?

Some time, not so long ago, when Bush was still president and irresponsible bankers were still mortgaging overpriced properties, and Swine Flu was a racist joke, I came across one fine, young, Aquarius gentleman, whose typical Uranian nature, both in the 18th Century and astrological sense were both attractive and repulsive all at the same time.

The reckless, devil may care attitude, combined with sense that anything can happen was a feeling I enjoyed experiencing.

But the fickle, flighty and temperamental Aquarius nature cut me cold in my tracks.

I made a mental note to myself that it would be interesting to get to know this Aquarius gentleman intimately (in the biblical sense that is) one day, but decided not to give it much attention.

Not that the Aquarius gentleman himself, gave any hint of interest.

And Time elapses and goes by, with motion not very clear to me, and when I least expect it, crossing the street in our "Little Manhattan", I spot him.

The crazy Aquarius eyes is the first things that I see, or register.

I was truly happy to see him, and he, ever the blunt, politically incorrect person that he is, asks me all the wrong questions and tells me the wrong things.

"You gained weight", "Do you still log on ManSham (he actually calls it MJ, which I think is a very tasteful way of putting it)".....etc

And I look at him, in a very "Un Certain Regard" moment, and I think of desire, my weight, his eyes, my history with the entire constellation, his aloofness, and the odd vibes he surrounds himself with.

His idea of something "steamy" is making out on a desert highway.

While I am all for nature, and flower power and connecting with mother earth, I am not thrilled with the idea of highway patrol or the prospect of public exposure.

But that’s Aquarius.

The more shocking and unsettling it is, the more sexy and attractive it is.

Its their Karmic lesson to shake up the system.

And its mine to make sense out of the mess.

Of course not without the thrill of awkward sexual tension!

http://buttfuckegypt.wordpress.com/2009/08/26/ramadan-traffic/

2009-09-04T10:46:00.001-07:00

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Kol Sana wu intie Tayeba ya Kiki hee hee!!

2009-08-24T15:22:00.000-07:00

Far from the truth that I do not believe gay people to be spiritual.

The tradition of gay Wiccans dating back from the 60s is quite a colorful and an endearing experience of how a minority can appropriate an already marginal esoteric sect and make it sound more cloyed and sentimental than it already sounds.

Call me old fashioned but I like the so-called muscular Christianity.

Anyways, out of spite, and a little malice and one dark dash of vindictiveness I received a message from Kiki Jr. wishing many happy returns for the blessed season!

Far from me to be surprised or even slightly shocked at the vicious venom that Kiki Jr. spits all around her, for a split of a second it gave me junk food for thought.

Quickly dismissed from my mind, I then came across darling M's pure gold, the word that says it all, the "moral bankruptcy" of the gay scene.

Put two in two together the junk food for thought, and the statement that resonated deeply with what I always felt, the moral maladies of the gay community.

And while I might disagree with M on a few points, one of which would be the fact that there is a GLBT center in every major European city I can think of. Which usually offers support groups, AIDS counseling, youth activities,...etc.

If the lifestyle choices, and identity representations of the gay community remains to be in desperate need to be thoroughly examined and overhauled, these basic features are moral conditions that merits a sustained, recognized, acknowledged sense of what a community is and stands for.

But what do we have?

A quick scroll in the three main networking sites that we have (being the good Muslim girl that I am, I only checked them after Iftar *wink wink*) we don't even find the semblance of organization or even the desire to.

And I don't mean organization in the radical, leftist sense of creating a group with the purpose of destroying and overthrowing the existing social order in mind.

No, I mean organization in the sense of a basic structure, a corrective mechanism, by which interest are articulated and served in a way.

What do we have?

We have the moral hypocrisy that Kiki Jr. keeps singing its tune, justifying every vice and "sin" because of the so-called double standard.

Is it a moral hypocrisy?

Far from me to be "ungenerous" in such a blessed season, but one quick look at the thousands profiles on Mansham, and I was astounded by the heartfelt wishes of Ramadan Kareem and Kol Sana wu entom Tayebeen.

Is it hypocrisy or a desperate attempt at reconciliation?

I am not judging whether its a valid (or successful for that matter) reconciliation, but it shows the deeply conflicted nature of all those who expressed their desires (dare I say sexuality?) in this particular way.

Can we fetishize the rituals of a religion (the way our martyr and Lady of Prepetual Ignorance did) and indulge in an attitude of complete apathy and disregard for our place in society on the grounds of moral or religious hypocrisy?

For how long can we keep this show running?

Ghettos can exist forever, but the point of confrontation is bound to happen.

What legacy can we capitalize on? We don't have Milk or Stonewall. The Queen boat fiasco can hardly account for a struggle for human rights.

What is our moral economy? Or lack thereof? The complete absence of a system of values or the semblance of particular norms can not continue to exist on the grounds of moral hypocrisy or moral relativism.

Is there any structure or mechanism by which we express or even sustain the so-called virtual community?

The word community itself elicits such sneer and aversion from the people I know/knew.

For how long can we actually dismiss our own complete lack of any moral fiber and yet still exist?

wu ramadan kareem ya kik!

http://buttfuckegypt.wordpress.com/2009/08/09/me-myself-and-mega/

2009-08-21T02:42:00.001-07:00

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Religious What??

2009-08-18T03:05:00.000-07:00

So the unsuspecting me was just about to open my MSN messenger when out of nowhere popped this window on my screen, like one of them malware programs, with Kiki Jr. flaunting her latest post.
A warning and hazard triangle flashed atop of the message frame, this link might lead to unsecure content.

Even the messenger didn't like the shit Kiki Jr. was writing.

Being the good friend that I am , I went ahead and started reading the post.

Instantly indignation made my blood boil and I thought Kiki Jr. crossed all lines this time.
Without enough warrant or rightful claim.

What happened?
What exactly did I miss?
When did it become absolutely acceptable by everyone to disrespect one's own culture and heritage so blatantly?
When?
When was self-hate become the standard attitude?
When did ignorance become so much celebrated?

Kiki Jr. always accused me of being an in-closet uptight, conservative prude, who is not as liberated or emancipated as I seem.
But when did emancipation entail vulgar moral consequentialism and complete superficial understanding of meaningful human phenomena?
Is that emancipation?
Is Kiki Jr. the prophet of a new "religion", oops I used the taboo word, how about the word "cult"? thats "sexy" enough, right?
When did it become the standard sexual preference to everyone to sleep with someone, their father, their brother, their cousin and their priest all at the same time, if possible?
When?

I can not begin to describe my disappointment with Kiki Jr. (censored).
Perhaps I might be mistaken, or I didn't get to witness this part, but when did Kiki Jr. publicly denounce her nationality and so-called faith?
As far as I remember Kiki Jr. is an Egyptian, Muslim.
And if Kiki Jr. is so open about advertising her most intimate perverse sexual fantasies over every possible public domain, then she should have the balls and renounce the tradition and culture that oppress her so.
Or is she too scared?
Afraid to be judged maybe?

But here is my problem with Kiki Jr.'s last post, its distasteful.
On so many levels.
Taking pride in such an ignorant and insulting masquerade of religion, any religion that is, is flat ugly.
Not to mention the one you are nominally part of.
What a terrible misfortune that could befall someone.
To actually believe it an achievement to masquerade one's own values and traditions.
Sad indeed.

Even if Kiki Jr. stopped believing or cared to believe, the way to approach such legacy, such history, such experience should be of utmost humility and respect.
The masters of us all, those who really knew, would never do what Kiki Jr. did.
For the sake of appearing as liberal and progressive Kiki Kr. indulged in such pathetic little act.
As if Kiki Jr. had any understanding whatsoever of religion, any religion that is, including her own at all, to be able to speak of it, and about it and to criticize and make a mockery out of it.

I told Kiki Jr. that she can not at all take credit for creating a controversy.
It requires no talent of any kind, no ingenuity or special understanding to play on people's basic emotions and sympathies.

If this was a heart-felt piece about the emotional and intellectual dilemma of someone who actually got involved in one of those same-sex communities and showcased it with a little more depth and nuance of meaning, then I would have been the first to salute Kiki Jr. on such remarkable feat.
But to take pride in actually berating religion and what it stands for and what it means that is something that I can't celebrate.

I completely understand that a group of people hijacked religion and presented it in a certain way that made it highly unattractive and terribly oppressive for almost everyone.
And its very unfortunate that this particular group is quite vocal and very well presented.
That does not mean that religion should be dismissed or treated as a nauseousness or some hindrance to full sexual nirvana.
Or that we should retaliate by eroticizing the oppression??

While Kiki Jr. goes on and on about how incredibly sexy and irresistible she is (I personally thought the role of the delusional sex bomb was already taken be Kiki Senior, but what do you know) is one thing, but mocking 2000 years worth of traditions and values for the sake of some attention, is a cheap trick.

I mean, for Christ sake get proper therapy and spare us the bullshit.

No Country for Gay Men?

2009-07-31T11:29:00.000-07:00

As a gossip queen who lives on fads and pseudo-true information Kiki Jr. brought to my attention the upcoming "gay bomb"
A new book by a journalist "exposing" our underground world and what happens "in-between" men.
Suspicious as usual from media treatment of homosexuality, especially in the Arab world, whether positively or negatively, I hurried to Facebook and checked the pre-release press information.
While the inevitable controversial subject really got my interest piqued to an extent, I was still cautious, far from optimistic.
The last thing "We" need is another media fiasco and a subsequent State Security crackdown.
As if things are not shitty enough as they are for every now.

Fate had it that a copy was available through a friend and I got to skim through the next big thing since Soad Hosni threatened to write her autobiography.
What a sham!
What a pathetic excuse of journalistic mediocrity!
Rubbish at its best!
A contrived piece of bad writing, bad reporting and an unabashed use of real life drama for the purpose of infamous attention.
When will self-seeking, semi-talented people stop using minorities as a getaway to stardom?
Of all the controversial issues in this country, this do-no-good nobody had to pick homosexuality?
If you are not talented and you don't want to work on making up on what you lack and you are too lazy to try anything else why take this shortcut and hurt the interests of others while publicly alleging that you are "supporting the rights of oppressed minorities"!
Oppressed minorities my ass!
The book creatively called, "In the Country of Boys", is supposed to be a story of poor gay kid and his struggles in life as an Egyptian living in Cairo.
Trying to pitch the book to big scale bookstores, the author sent samples to all the major book retailers in Cairo and of course, no self-respecting bookstore would put this trash on their shelves.
And this has nothing to do with minorities, and nothing to do with gay people.
The book is just bad.
Period.

What does our wonderful , supportive author do?
He threatens to file a lawsuit against everyone who refused to buy his book!
LOL
Speaking of defending fundamental human rights!
Not only that, he threatens to organize a strike and he actually created a Facebook group to boycott all the bookstores that refused to buy his book.

Now I am not only insulted as a gay person by the shallow, crude and opportunistic way in which this gentleman represented "our struggle", I am insulted as a person that someone can so blatantly violate the very principles he claims he's defending.

This is not a passionate defender of human rights, or gay rights for that matter. Thats a self-serving, media-hungry hooligan.

The Country of Boys is no Country for Gay Men!

Nights of the Inferno

2009-07-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

While every queen and non-queen dilly-dallied by the azure waters of the North Coast, I was stranded in the inferno that is Cairo..
Left to my own means and in the company of the mad, deranged and the degenerates to quote Tennessee Williams, I was too oppressed by the heat and the traffic congestion to ever have the leisure to sit and write.
So I decided to write a string of vignettes, all almost taking place at night, the delirious Cairo night..

The Scenic Heartbreak or What Happened in Berlin Last October (1)

Sooner than anyone expected me Rica, and Engineer Shahira, were back on track and we were sitting together, planning our biggest, most gayest vacation yet.
Next stop Berlin and Amsterdam.
And while we shared x rated experiences and moments that reeked with intoxication and irresponsible alcoholism, I realized how much I missed Rica and I missed our moments altogether, me, Rica and Engineer Shahira.
In one particular night, we all had to leave, due to important engagements the next day, and Engineer Shahira offered to give me a ride back home, and on the way, I discussed my foray into the Berlin dating scene and my little experience with my Bavarian Sauerkraut.
And while we talked about how hauntingly beautiful is/was Berlin, and the exquisite moments we experienced there, as outsiders and Auslaender, it hit me.
I never, once, talked with anyone about what happened in Berlin last October.
I satirized it in a post, made a few references, but the actual heartbreak, went unnoticed.
Cloaked in silence and complete hypographia.
As I finally started talking to Engineer Shahira about it, about how beautiful was Berlin, that I would sit by the Brandenburg Gate and cry, because I was so miserable, yet I was so moved by how scenic my surroundings were.
I could not be in a more beautiful place.
And the more I drank in my surroundings, the more I cried.
The Linden trees, the maginificent architecture, the little forets, springing out of nowhere, in the middle of the city.
I was awe-inspired, and I was terribly heartbroken.
I never fathomed how can anyone sustain, withhold, (contain?) two diametrically opposite emotions like this.
The wonder and the joy of regarding this scenic, sensory experience, and having to reconcile it with a bitter melancholic interiority..

I could have Sex with your Eyebrows or its Wrong to date a Bisexual (2)

So for the dry spell that has lasted for a decade now, it was no surprise that I was still hung up on my bisexual gentleman.
After he announced that he, as everyone in this scene, does not believe in same-sex relationships and would look forward someday for having a wife and a family, because his genes are so precious and should be passed to the next generation, in addition to the common argument of social norms and values of middle class respectability.

I thought this was the end of it.

I am vicious queen who likes her men gay.
Call me old fashioned, but my mama (not my biological one) always taught me never to trust a bisexual.
And I took her advice to heart.

But then, my bisexual gentleman would not take no for answer.
He pursued me like the plague, called me at all hours, and expressed his most sincere desire to "see me".
Now I am just simple girl who can't say no to such stunning pair of eyebrows.
Not to mention the gorgeous arms that go with it.
I let down my guard and agreed to see him a few times.
And I did enjoy myself, to an extent, it might have been the buzz from all the sexual tension permeating the air, but he was pleasant, when he was not too trivial and he was sure fine to look at.
I secretly smiled at his contrived show of masculinity and the awkwardness that went along with it.
But besides the amusement and the promise of sexual tension, I knew that sooner or later I will have to give him an old-tomato (ultimatum), either he gets serious or he gets out.
After all, it is wrong to date a bisexual man.

A Bootie Call or I am too Horny, I can have Sex with my Dog (3)

One particular gentleman, who possessed the typical sexual imaginere of all Egyptian men had taken a liking of me.
He was not really a homosexual, he was not really a bisexual, he was omnisexual.
He would sleep with his dog if he was not brought up believing that animals are lower creatures.

We went on a date once, and he's actually cute, but he's constant talk about his ideal fantasy, me, him and another woman, or me, him and another man and a woman, put me off for about two years.
Then one day, he called me, and he talked about how much he misses me and would love to see me. He then asked if I was free that night and invited me over at his place.
I told my friend, who was sitting next to me, and she said, thats nice, and I told her, no sweetheart, thats not nice, thats a bootie call.
Thats a horny man, who is so desperate that he is flipping through his phone calling whoever is out there that wouldn't mind sleeping with him.
Now beggars are not choosers and I am not the kind of girl who turns down an "eager" gentleman.
Especially if he expressed his wishes in such a charming and sincere way.
But I had to let this one go!

I am not plan B and I don't do sloppy seconds.

I Chatted with a Gulfie and I liked it (4)

Keeping up with my tradition of I Kissed a Saudi and I liked it, I almost removed all restrictions, all reservations I had for Gulfie dudes.
My new policy was, if he's Gulfie and cute, go for it!

And after Kiki Sr. pressed me to no end to revamp my profile on the "gay Facebook" (she swore by it), I finally conceded after realizing how trashy mansham became.
True to Kiki Sr.'s prophecy, I came across a whole variety of "profiles" that I really liked.
One particular gentleman from an island in the Arabian gulf was exceptionally cute and sexy.
After drooling all over his profile, I sent him a desperate message to which he replied very graciously and gave me his email!
The next three days were an unabashed exchange of obscene sexual fantasies.

The boy knew his shit.

And once again the eccentric, morbid queen exceeded her own expectations and had it going with a Gulfie.

And it was sexy, it was fun, it was uninhibited.
As usual cyberspace offered one such license, one would not dream of having in a parallel, more real dimension.
But all is not steamy and sexy, and soon it was revealed by chance that that particular gentleman is not satisfied by one "girl".
"Threesomes" were his thing, he said.
That was the end of it.
Two is company, three is crowd.

And while this fine specimen of cyber sexiness was a little irresistable, threesomes killed it for me.
However, I have to admit, the boy sure could "hold a conversation". Pun intended.

The Eccentric Morbid Queen Goes to London!

2009-06-25T00:33:00.000-07:00

Well not really, but cyberwise, by all means!
The Eccentric Morbid Queen is officially published in parallel blogosphere!
Due to her remarkable contribution to the miserable scene in Cairo, the Eccentric Morbid Queen has now launched her international career in the gay blogosphere!
Check it out girls, and eat your heart out!
Kisses

http://www.qindblogazine.com/article.php?article_id=227

What Would Nietzsche Do?

2009-06-18T16:12:00.000-07:00

Following the fairy logic of what would Audrey do, after my last moral tract, it would be more appropriate to substitute Audrey - despite being better dressed - with Nietzsche to answer the rampant, entrenched moral dilemmas.
After a hiatus off the scene, my bisexual gentleman still showed a keen interest, it was both confusing and touching, and while I was enamored by his perfect skin and gorgeous arms, I knew there was a fundamental clash between our so-called moral principles, but what chance do moral principles have in front of exquisite eye brows and well-defined pecs?
What would Nietzsche do?
A lot! He dissed the only women he ever loved, and forever spoke ill of the entire female sex.
Here I was entangled in the magnificent arms of my bisexual gentleman, stroking the insides of his thighs, while he was pinching my nipples, and all I could think of, was "is this right?"
If I disagreed with this particular gentleman over crucial lifestyle choices, and if I knew before hand, that beyond the awkward above-the-bra-action, there is nothing really to it, is it still morally correct to engage any further?
What would Nietzsche do?
Gone were all these lofty notions about right and wrong, evil and wickedness, Mary Midgley, G.E. Moore, Kant, all flew out of the window, one by one, I watched them pick up and take flight.
And it could not be solved by some PoMo jargon, that refuses grand schemes that explain reality, in terms every incident or phenomenon is its own point of reference.
As attractive as that is, this wouldn't do either.
I was entrapped in the hell of dry spells, gorgeous arms, and bisexual men and it was not a pleasant place to be.

This was not the only moral dilemma in store for me for that week.
Despite my self-imposed exile, it was time to face the music and make an appearance in "I am not dead" statement a la Pink way.
And in the little bar, in the old colonial quarters, the one which every queen bashed me for mentioning its name publicly on my blog, I was standing there again, thinking contemplating about my moral dilemmas.
Did it make sense standing there?
Was it any different?
What would Nietzsche do?
Well he retired to the Swiss mountains, went mad and ended up under the custody of a Nazi sister.
Too much for solitude and self-imposed exile.
Syphilis might have had a hand, but STD or not, I had little desire to end mentally incapacitated under the care of an equally disturbed sister.

And before I could dwell further on the Swiss mountains, the black forests and the Nazis, I bumped into an old friend right outside the old tavern.
A friend from another world, a world of magical beings and postmodern anxiety, namely Egyptian contemporary artists.
I discovered it was another dear dear friend's birthday and I had to go say hello and wish her happy birthday, at a party not very far from the old tavern.
I dragged Kiki along, who complained as usual that she is torn between so many choices, and how she is going to leave throngs and throngs of admirers and friends behind.
Not paying much attention to everyone-loves-me routine, we were soon on the way to the postmodern party.
Well they sure know how to mix drinks in postmodern parties!
Who could have thought that Ouzo with watermelon and fresh mint would be such a refreshing drink?
And in the age of atomization and fast erosion of indigenous cultures, reflected in the party, I saw my childhood friend once more.
Standing not very far, talking with another friend, I overheared them talking.
I could not fathom what was said, I only heard out random phonemes sailing through the space in between.
And while I did not really get much of what was being said, I realized yet again how I missed the voice. The sing-song, the cadence of the speech, the way it echoed, and it hit me, and as I was processing the voice, divorced from words or verbal utterance, as pure sound Kiki dragged me whining again about all those who can't live without her at the old tavern.
We rushed through, and after a five minutes drive we were back at the old tavern.

I was back on the scene, in the scene, next to it, besides it, face-a-face with it, one person after the other slowly trickling, there was Kiki Jr with her endless legs, perfectly tanned skin and in all her social climbing glory, confronting each other, expressing dismay and reproach, battling with doubt and sincerity.
What would Nietzsche do?
Probably bomb the old tavern with everyone in it and then publicly disembowel Kiki Jr for not being ruthless enough.

But we are a far way from German Idealism, Swiss Mountains and not close enough to the moral indignation Nietzsche showed throughout his life.

Its now a contrived hodgepodge of New Age philosophy, a dash of moral pragmatism, and a little PoMo rationale.
Thats one thing Nietzsche wouldn't do.
So until we know, I would like another round of this fantastic concoction ofOuzo, New Age philosophy, mediocre friendships, fresh mint, moral dilemmas and watermelon please!

A Critique of Sexual Morality

2009-06-09T11:35:00.000-07:00

After being put off by my detractors for an interval of time and having the priceless chance of introspection and the distance and the time to "judge", I let myself be possessed with a number of troubling thoughts that fought and struggled, screamed and yelled at each other, all in the space where my poor mind is, till one voice articulated itself so clearly, so convincingly I decided I will listen to it.
And while listening to 'Coming Home' by KD Lang, (and at the risk of sounding like the typical cliche), it dawned on me, the apparent defeatist attitude that rang throughout the song.
A note I personally identified with.
And the fact that KD Lang was singing it, made all the more significant.

The love of my life, the person who singlehandedly altered the structure of my brain and the very molecules that swim in its every nook and cranny, once told me, on the eve of his impending new reformed, heterosexual life:
"You will never win, the scene will always be the same, what makes you think you can change it?"
And while my gentleman was a worthy intellectual opponent, a fact I now decry the complete lack of such an opponent, the words once ominously prophecised, sound to me more true than ever.

With the series of recent, extremely unfortunate events and after five whole years of this bullshit, to quote Jasmine Sullivan, where am I standing? How far was I from the exact situation he so eloquently described?

Far for me to ever turn heterosexual, or born-again Muslim, I never left my faith or my culture, I keep them like a vile of poison attached to my neck, my seemingly deadly salvation in the most extraordinary, unexpected of ways.
But if I should meet him now, what would I tell him?
How did the scene change since he last was here?
Did people really change? To the better?
Do I have different friends from the ones me and him once knew?
Am I happy?

And in one last attempt to defend my position from within the gutter, as Oscar Wilde puts it, our so called ghetto, I will argue for my case, one last time, before I retire and finally exit "the scene".

Homosexuality = Sexual Communism?

While Plato and Marx strove to achieve a condition of complete communism of property including our own bodies and our sexual partners, in attempt to abolish the power and complex oppressive moral order attached to it, in attempt to un-sex it or rather de-sex it.
We rather arrived at the same exact condition through the complete opposite route.
If its a penis and it has a pair of testicles attached to it and it can preform the function of fornication, then it belongs to everyone. Every queen has a claim, more of a right.
In our world a penis belongs to everyone.
(i.e. queens, insatiable bottoms, alleged versatiles, curious tops, not-so-curious tops,... etc)

In a way that disconnects the penis from the body.
The person, the body, no longer exists.
Its a penis and it belongs to everyone.
Everyone and their sister (metaphorical sister that is) has a right to the penis.

If its consensual, its right

I hate this argument. NO. NO. Its not right. Consensus, mutual consent that is, is an a priori condition, pre-existing to the sex act, if its not consensual then its de facto categorized as a crime, rape is a serious legal violation.
Its exactly like saying, if its visible, its beautiful.
"Beauty" is a qualifier, a characteristic of a condition that is perceived in an object after a particular mental process, in which its "regarded" or "judged" as sensorially pleasing.

Same goes for our argument, "right" as in morally correct, is a condition we arrive at after applying a certain moral scheme that thoroughly examines such and such a condition rendering it "right" or "wrong".
Something might be inherently wrong or right, but we still do not arrive at this truth except after we apply our minds to it.
Therefore, we can not say if its consensual, its right.

If its responsible, its right.

Responsibility here in the sense of giving oneself the capacity to choose and hence foresee consequences of such a choice and consciously decide to undertake this particular course of action, being completely aware of these consequences.
Attending to the consequences of that choice.
Far from the sexual choices everyone seems to be making (myself included) these days, in this scene.

This capacity, this moral agency, activating this moral agency is what emancipates one as full-reasoning human.
Take it away and we lose an essential aspect of our humanity.
The ability to see choices, choose and foresee consequences.
Dehumanizing in an unimaginable ways.
Now that is true Evil, with a capital E.

Like I always say humans are complex creatures and exhibit complex behavior, we can not reduce a human to his penis, ass or restrict him to "consent".

Responsibility does not lie in using a condom or saying "is that good for you baby?" or "Do you want me to go slower?"
These are merely sexual preferences and moral bioethcial necessity for survival.
Moral in the sense of conferring harm on an unknowing subject while being aware of it, and being aware of the subject's ignorance (the wide range of sexually transmitted disease is an elusive kind of information)
But the responsibility I speak of goes beyond the moral pathological discourse of STD and HIV.
As determinantal as those conditions are, my notion of responsibility precedes the sexually transmitted diseases discourse.

I am speaking about the human being as an active moral agent.
The only "active" I see, is being "on top".

Homosexuals are promiscuous by nature, Men are polygamous by nature

Thats a winner if you ask me.
One dude says that and everyone in the room shuts up.
Its Darwin at his best and worst.
Biological determinism (the notion that we can not escape the rules of our biology) is not only fascist, its silly.
If chimps are polygamous or elephants are polyandrous, what does that have to do with humans?
Evolution explains a lot about our history, place in the environment, the choices we make consciously and unconsciously, but what the hell does an ape's sexuality has t do with humans?
Black Swans form lesbians pairs to raise their young, so?
It does not mean that we share the same environment and ecological system as the Black Swan or that we have the same genetic make up.
Nothing in our genes dictates our moral choices per se.

We are prone to certain states of mind, but unless we are completely mentally incapacitated (in case of brain damage or an integral part of brain is malfunctioning) we have full control over our bodies and the choices we make concerning those bodies.

Men or Women are not promiscuous by any nature.

Because of the simply fact that there are human choices and conditions even evolution can not explain (like homosexuality for example), its very clear that not every social arrangement humans get into has the ultimate aim to help humans procreate or produce off spring (for some people though, that is slightly true).

Of all the animals, animated beings, and multicellular organisms, producing an offspring is the byproduct of fornication, not the sole product.

A big hole in the evolution paradigm appears.

If men do not fornicate with the biggest number of sexual partners to increase their chances of producing offspring to propagate their species (the main and only reason why all animals mate), then why do they mate with all these sexual partners?
The motivation of pleasure is a tempting rationalization, but then we would have to take "nature" out of the discourse.
Nature has nothing to do with this.
Seeking pleasure, is a complete mental, rational choice, it has nothing to do with "our nature".

How can "nature"/evolution/biology explain phenomenon like altruism, infanticide, faith, betrayal, love, melancholy, hate,.....etc?
Evolution stops short.

Anthropology, philosophy, neuropsychology,....etc step in.
And all try to explain and never fully succeed to adequately explain all these complex states of being.

Now come tell me about monogamy.

Until they map the genes of homosexuality, I think that blaming "nature" or "biology" is the most pathetic excuse for immature licentious sexual behavior that has nothing to do with chimps, elephants or the praying mantis (which devours its mate after mating).

If wo/man wants to be faithful, s/he will be.
S/he does not want to, s/he won't.
As simple as that.

I know it sounds like such a disappointment, but is completely our choice.
No Brian Kinney, Emperor Hadrian, no Oscar Wilde, in the end its our choice.

We choose to attach a penis to a body.
We choose to be responsible for our decisions.
We choose to be faithful or not.
Its a choice.

And like the darling Charlotte (in Sex and the City), "I choose my choice", I choose not to be part of "this".
Whatever "this" stands for.

The Pleasure of Hating

2009-06-04T13:26:00.000-07:00

"...have I not reason to hate and to despise myself? Indeed I do; and chiefly for not having hated and despised the world enough"
- William Hazlitt, On the Pleasure of Hating (1823)

Against all the Odds?

2009-05-30T11:12:00.000-07:00

After my little diatribe, that seemed to drag endlessly, I thought I could use some time "off the scene", just till the heat cools off.
But our Lord works in mysterious ways!
Before I know it Kiki had a bunch of parties lined up her sleeve. I confided in Kiki it will not be a very sound idea that I make an appearance, considering how popular and loved she is, I would hate it if people start associating her with me, which would be unfair to Kiki and so far from the truth.
But Kiki would not have it any other way, and insisted that I show up and face the music.
And if I get bashed on the head, then I deserve it, I had it coming, she told me.

So out of Cairo, on towards the suburbs, our little ghetto, I was escorted by three kindred spirits, whose concern about me and all that has been happening lately, endeared them more to me and I found this sincerity touching and very unexpected.
I was not completely absolved from all of my sins, but in a show of sympathy and compassion and in a very Tennessee Williams moment, the crazy, delusional protagonist found kindness with unexpected strangers.
I was relieved and decided to enjoy the moment of temporary peace and postpone the moral argument for later.
There was a party to attend to!
As usual there would be no party without Kiki or her music.
Our very liberal host, who spared no space and no means for our comfort and enjoyment made sure that we have everything we need to "get this party started".
And started it did.
With lots of pelvic gyrations, contorted facial expressions and lewd, suggestive gestures and movements, the dance floor was awash with people.
But as usual, each individual seems attached to his/er immediate line of kin.
We all constellated around our respective groups, and it was interesting and amusing to see how the space was divided.
And the lines by which the space was divided, held little empty space where the tension most concentrated.
The closer you get to those lines, the stronger the tension.
Till one moment one person crosses the line and this is when the real show begins.

This time, it was a not a very happy moment! The person who crossed the line was heavily intoxicated, on a real bad trip like they say, whose foray in uncharted territory was accompanied by an extreme degree of aggression.
One very dear friend was subjected to a very violent ritual of courtship!
Its one way to scream and blow up your cheeks to impress females, and its another to grab and hit them!
Not before long, our intoxicated friend was escorted outside and it was decided its best if we all called it a night.

The very next day Kiki called me announcing that there are at least three parties lined up!
Content and yet a little apprehensive about repeating the same performance again, I decided to gamble and go.
Considering that one particular party, was by a dear dear friend, who I would not miss his party for anything.
With a lot of wine, like it was the Last Supper, we made our first stop, at that enigmatic island at the heart of Cairo, in 50s residential building, we went to our first party of the night.
Our host was a friend of Kiki, who graciously welcomed us and surprise surprise had some very interesting music played in the background!
I knew I liked the party already!
But good things don't last and despite the fact that our host and his partner were both two little darlings, the party was populated by former nemesises .
So out of courtesy to our host we decided to stay for a few drinks and a dance or two.
Kiki, never the one to shy from the dance floor, ventured on and joined the few people dancing, I on the other hand was dehydrated and needed a stiff drink.
I decided I need fresh air to go with my drink, so out on my host's beautiful terrace, a cigarette and fresh air were imperative.
Not long after I was half way through my cigarette, Kiki decided it was time to go.
Go West!
While I was certain that the other party would be the party of the week and that everyone is sure to make an appearance, I gathered whatever moral resolve I had left and decided to make an appearance.
My dear dear friend welcomed with unprecedented warmth and kindness and one I explained that he jeopardized ruining his party by inviting me, he insisted that this was my party too and if anyone does not like it, s/he can leave.
Vindicated beyond my wildest expectations, I was very moved and made up my mind to stay a while and prove to all my detractors that simple gestures of kindness go a long way.

At every corner of the party there were familiar and not so welcomed faces.
There was Snitch Junior in all her social climbing glory, childhood friends, old beaus, a bunch of pseudo-Judas, and faces that I got used to, more out of habit than anything.
One gentleman whom I always had a secret liking, an unfinished business of sorts and through which I nearly embarrassed myself by publicly kissing him.
And a childhood friend, who for some cabalistic wisdom, we both don't really quite understand, went separate ways.
But I missed him.
And he missed me.
And in a very surreal moment, overcome with longing and anguish we both surrendered whatever it is that kept us apart, and for the briefest interval of time, things were just like what they used to be.
De profundis, undiluted and unrehearsed.
And we gave each other the kiss of peace.
I knew that particular moment it was time to go.
For I could not handle anymore emotional ruptures.
Kiki being the social butterfly she is, was all over the place, I had to drag her and bid our kind host good bye.
It a gamble, against all the odds, but it was worth gambling for.

Dating while on the Job?

2009-05-28T11:08:00.000-07:00

Taking lead from the film du jour, and actually following advice from a chick flick (this is when you know you have hit rock "bottom", in both senses of the word), I eagerly memorized the golden rules of dating that were flashed across the screen.

....if he doesn't call you back...

And while I could smell players miles away, its flattering, from an egocentric point of view, when they actually throw you a bone.

So while Snitch Junior (formerly known as Kiki Jr. but being the Judas she is, she is now known as Snitch Junior) did the inevitable mistake of adding one of her gentlemen to a social networking website, the next thing she knows he was scoring with her girlfriends!
Watch out for those claws!

I personally have a poor record in getting anything off any of the popular social networks, at best it was just eye candy. Nothing more.
Kiki and Snitch Junior (formerly known as Kiki Jr.) had the most success, as I always tell Kiki, the webcam loves you.

Me, on the other hand, I was just a crazy bohemian chick who has a lot of issues.
So, when Snitch Junior's gentleman texted me on my profile, I considered it a personal triumph. One for the chicks with the brain!
Not that any meaningful exchange ever took place between me and that gentleman over cyberspace.
None at all.
Apart from his cell no. I could not elicit more than a three words sentence.
But a victory nonetheless and I kept wondering how would Snitch Junior' feel if she knew that her "fabulous, charming gentleman" is a player, who wouldn't mind scoring with one of her girlfriends.
After an interlude of texting, my gentleman called me one very early morning, saying "what are you doing now?", my standard answer at that time of the day, "some of us have to work" , yet the bohemian part in me suggested we meet nonetheless.
And while I am all for work ethics and professionalism, what harm could a sneak date do?
An innocent tete-a-tete over coffee.
If anything could be an usual way to motivate employees!
So without further ado, a time was set and on an island, which people forget its an island, among Art Deco crumbled buildings and old exotic trees, and among renovated mini-restaurants and snazzy, hip shops, I met my gentleman.
And he was everything a queen would want.
From the land across the salty (shall we say red?) sea, with gorgeous arms and a beautiful skin tone, that would put any artificial tan to shame.
Educated, worldly, playful, unabashedly flirty, my gentleman was a delight.
A perfect coffee break!
And with the right level of sexual tension I bid my gentleman caller adieu, with a promise (I know we shall not keep) to meet again.
He never called, I never bothered.
For I knew that aside from the bizarre circumstances and the engaging conversation, it was futile to bet on that handsome gentleman with the gorgeous arms.

And while Snitch Junior (formerly known as Kiki Jr. ) did her best to keep that piece of prime man beef all to her self, Fate had it other way!
And despite the fact that Snitch Junior (formerly known as Kiki Jr.) gave her blessings grudgingly , in the hearts of my hearts I knew I would like to keep it friendly and eccentric.

Sass will Bite you in the Ass?

2009-05-24T08:02:00.000-07:00

My grandmother always told me, be careful what you say, for you will chew on it later.
The meaner the words, the meaner the taste.

Not that I ever pay attention to advice, I pass it on, thats what you do with advice.

But in an unprecedented interest in what I write, all of sudden people realized that I write and I actually write about them and an intense surge of moral indignation overwhelmed everyone and in a ridiculous feat of self-righteousness, people I never thought I would hear from again, demanded, threatened and warned me to remove any reference to themselves or their lovers or friends.

Some went as far as the threat facial mutilation (very classy indeed), others quietly but sternly demanded that such unabashed distortion of facts be removed.

While I am infinitely flattered by this detailed reading and interpreting of what I write, I am astounded by the moral condescending and patronizing attitude!

Gentlemen and vicious queens whose conduct towards myself is at the very least abominable, had the nerve to actually claim the upper moral hand, because my writing "reeks of bitterness" and "falsehood".

Really??

Did everyone all of sudden settle happily in conjugal bliss and this scene as I know it, converted to some esoteric Eastern religion?

Those who appreciate my frivolous posts, understand it as a gross generalization and sensationalization of true, existing facts.
What I write can never be taken or read realistically or literally.
"Vicious cunt" is hardly a sociological category, much to my own dismay.

But the prevailing reading of a "bitter spinster" who is constantly angry about her surroundings, only is true as far its funny or satirical.
The moment anyone actually takes for granted the playfulness, the vitriolic style, literally, the whole magic is gone!

Nothing succeeds or inspires as excess.

An apologetic, flat, linear writing about this scene and this community would be the last thing I would read or would like to read or write about for that matter.

The language must have a strong element of exaggeration, manipulation, undertones, overtones, subtext, ubertext, modal variation, unprecedented license when it comes to facts and so on and so forth.

Those who are afraid that this "colorful" language might affect them or project them in an "unforgiving light" and so instantly asked that I censor it, defeat the entire purpose of this blog.
Not that I did not purposefully remove these references, but save your pity sweetheart, I am not the first queen to be jilted and act bitchy about it!
At least I had the balls to write about it!

More interesting to me is that my scathing critique of the prevailing shallowness, disloyalty, complete lack of respect that are actual there, very strongly present and that seems to make everyone who read this blog self-righteous and indignant.
I am sorry to burst your bubble but I am not sure what part of vicious queens don't you get?

If I count the times that someone said something absolutely cruel and untrue about me, I would go to triple digits.
And if I count the number of times that malicious gossip was said about me, I would be in the same triple digit range.
And I think of the numbers of times of those particular gentlemen whose "moral record" is anything but questionable, were dishonest and perfidious, we are still in that triple digit range.

Lets call a fairy by her name, and lets not all act shocked that yes actually a lot of the friendships that are formed within this community are dissolved in the most horrible of ways.
And lets not act so shocked that very few individuals in this community actually value honesty and truthfulness.
And lets not act so shocked when the few scarce gentlemen out there, play the 1000 and 1 queens against each other, by the mere lack of any gentlemen to begin with.
And lets not act so horrified that the moral makeup of this community does not veer from crude pragmatism, moral ambivalence and downright intentional malice.

I can look myself in the eye and admit that yes, what I write reeks of bitterness, a lot of self-delusion but its never shallow and never lacks color!
kisses

On Censorship and Denial

2009-05-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

To be confronted, con-front, fronted, af-afront, affronted, to come face to face, to be faced with something by someone, a summoning and a contestaion of wills, where usually one individual triumphantly imposes his will on another.
It usually entails a coup de grace, a swift blow that decisively destroys the opponent.

I was confronted, and censored.

And while the act of being silenced and robbed of the right of free speech is a abominable violation of human rights, I didn't mind it one bit.

One very common interpretation of what I write, is defamation of character, which is a legal violation in itself, and a double ended weapon, used very commonly to filter out what should and should not be said.

What I think was my decisive blow, was not taking a post or two or a reference or two out (physically removing them), it was being dis-acknowledged (un-acknowledged, de-acknowledged).

"Who are you?"
"Do I know you?"
"Do you know me?"

And I wonder, what does it take to know someone?

To know their names? when were they born? their likes? dislikes? hopes? dreams? personal fantasies? their level of arithmetic competence? what schools they went to? their classmates? their families?.....etc etc

How do you "claim" you know someone?

And based on that claim, what kind of right are you granted to speak (or ill-speak in my case) of this person?

Is it enough that you kissed them? Or held their hands? or discussed their childhood?
What is the qualifier?

I think the act of denial, is the worst violent speech act anyone can do.

"I don't know you."
"You don't know me."

Its a little scary when you believe there are a certain sequence of memories, of events that you think you and someone shared, participated in, and they avowedly deny it ever happened.
There is a certain level of terror in it.
Terror in the sense of an extreme sense of fear and dread that physically makes someone shake and tremble.
You become terrified that you were "imagining" things.
These memories, these recollections are all fragments of your imagination. They never happened.
And you have no right to hold on to these acts or events.
And hence you're denied, you're denied as in inflected object, and denied yet again as an inflected subject, of the privilege of making this claim, that "you know" such and such.

I was not horrified by censorship, as I was horrified by my denial.

I understand that I can take an undue license of denigrating someone, but a full, frontal disavowal is something else, I was not prepared to face.
To confront.

I will consciously and physically censor myself, remove, excise all these references and texts, and every time I censor myself, I will deny myself.
The two acts, will be a simultaneous process.
I will remove a discursive statement and simultaneously remove a memory.
It never happened.

I don't know you.

All or Nothing?

2009-05-18T14:48:00.000-07:00

So after Kiki jinxed my date to no end (rumor has it she consulted a voodoo priestess) and it finally worked, here I was finally sitting in a mediocre coffee house, very middle class with a hint of trashiness permeating the air, with my unnamed gentleman (I didn't know his name till that very date) basking in the glory of his exquisite eyebrows, magnificent skin, and imposing physique when he decided to open his beautiful mouth and speak.

Big mistake.

Acts of speech are a serious business. One should never attempt to do them unless one is absolutely certain s/he can bear the consequences.
In my unnamed gentleman's attempt to be a little more intimate and deep, he asked me what am I looking for and what do I expect.
Up to that point the profoundest thing we said to each other is our preference for fruits and junk food.
Relationships was a whole different realm, that we, I, avoided purposefully, for I know how men are.
And I know the moment relationships step on the scene, its a cut and a wrap, done and done with, over and out, finished and executed, literally.
It was done and done with.
My unnamed gentleman, with his exquisite eyebrows and stunning skin, was not only a bisexual, but was very much keen in maintaining the traditional setting of a house, spouse and children.
Thanks Kiki for the wonderful hex!

That was one violent speech act.

One that always stirs terrible emotions, feeling of injustice and resentment and a general feeling of helplessness.
Every time a man (from our Vaterland) reaffirms that heterosexual marriage is the natural course for things, that any one in his right mind would never turn down the institution of marriage with all the sociological privileges it creates, I die a little.
I feel I have to plead my case before a court, already decided on its verdict.
If the general mindset of men, in our glorious Vaterland, is that marriage is the natural course of life, then there is no hope for change.
Random episodes of promiscuity is the best we could hope for.
That is if we do manage to get into these "blissful" episodes.

And as I sat there defending my case, explaining that same-sex relationship, is like any other relationship, it requires the same effort and dedication, the same kind of social entanglement and involvement, I felt I was hitting a brick wall.
The general assumption is that gays, in the very derogatory and narrow sense of the word, are a group of parasitic, self-serving, sexually perverted individuals, who once get tired of their lewd, inconstant ways will happily turn to heterosexual bliss.

I don't want to turn heterosexual bliss. I don't want to have children of my own flesh and blood and I don't want to be badgered in wanting so.
Social decorum is the last priority on my list when it comes to matters of the heart.

Its a very lonely and unhappy place, the place where I am in, where one is certain of what s/he wants and how s/he wants it.
Because of some ridiculous notion of middle class respectability, I am denied the fundamental right to be with whomever person I choose to be with.
What an unhappy, lamentable fate.

Dismissing any significant, meaningful, long term same-sex relationship, my unnamed gentleman said, 'in life I usually go for all or nothing', and he chose nothing when it comes to men!

The Golden Girls?

2009-05-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

Kiki has been back from Denmark for a while now and after a mediocre surprise birthday party it was time Kiki hit the scene once more.

So without further ado it was decided that it was off to ** ****** (name removed due to censorship and peer pressure), the Chez Lui venue in old downtown Cairo once more.

Being a working mama, and slaving in the office till after working hours, I was late while Kiki on the other hand went home for her beauty sleep.

And before I know it, everyone was gathered at the old/new tavern, drinking and being merry, more of being mary, while I was still at home trying to look fresh and irresistibly stunning, to little or no effect.

Just a little after midnight I was pushing the door of the new ole tavern, inundated with smoke and saluted by a male prostitute, I knew I was in the right place.

Rightly fearing that the State Security Police will raid this renovated, overbearing space of contrived sophistication, I made my way to Kiki's table, and whom do I find, but the original crew of the Golden Girls!

(The original crew of the Golden Girls (2001-2005), comprised of me, Kiki, Rica Lopez, Engineer Shahira and a whole cast of minor characters that made unmemorable appearances every now and then. The Golden Girls crew should not be confused with the Madonna Alliance (2006-2009) which comprised of me, Kiki, Bad G, Fat Ray and the Evil Diva. Unfortunately both groups were irrecoverably dissolved, of course except me and Kiki, and are no longer in existence).

So here I was with my old girl Rica, and the sly Shahira, exchanging news, stories, malicious gossip about other queens and reliving all those awkward, blissful moments of yore.

Over tequila shots, deafening sirens of obscene laughter and halos of smoke, we drank to our glorious past and celebrated the serendipitous present that somehow destined us to meet again, in this snug, little tavern, in old Cairo.

Forgotten were all the animosity and the sad memories, we are big girls now and as a dear friend told me, the older you get the quieter the drama, it becomes so quiet, its almost a subtle reference or an undercurrent of everyday life.

You are no longer able to do the hysterics and the acrobatics of adolescence anymore. This is mature drama now, and while grand in entrance and appearance, its toned and rehearsed.

And as I stood there among old friends, new ones, and took in the smoke, the alcohol and the bitter taste of loss and thrill of being reunited with beloved ones, and looked around, friends turned enemies, erstwhile lovers, how much emotion can one queen take?

Confessions on a Dance Floor, Redux

2009-05-02T09:25:00.000-07:00

Nothing more lamentable, heartbreaking, heart wrenching than four sisters breaking up. Its sad, its unfortunate, and you feel like you want to wring the tears out of your eyes, but...
After shedding enough tears, burning old photos, deleting emails, smashing photo frames, you are ready to move on.
Boy, is it hard for a queen/r our there.

What better way to move on than to take old memories and remake them anew.
Redefine the moments, attach a whole new set of impressions, thoughts, recollections, images, ideas, associations with these old memories.
The eccentric morbid queen is not so negative after all!

For over a year Madonna's Confession on a Dance Floor was our bible, me and the so-called sisters, we sang it, dance it and quoted it when we were not unconsciously humming it.
Every single track on that album has a whole set of related meanings and vivid memories.
Well, its time to deconstruct it and put Madonna back in her place, a shrewd impresario who commercialized essential truths for the sake of media worship and fame.
Shame on that no good, talent pimp.

Lets start from the very beginning:

1- Hung-what? Its not even average honey! (And I mean your talent!)
2- If its all an illusion bitch, why are you so hung up on it?
3- After this divorce settlement, who's sorry now?! *snap snap*
4- That track is just bullshit (I love New York my ass)
5- You are 50, you had your fun, and if you know it won't last long, easy on the back flip acrobatics, will you?
6- "Inter-faith homoeroticism"... mmmm, thats fresh, at least its kosher!
7- Your sisters? Your brother just trashed you in his last book! So much for "sisterly affection"!
8- The stakes are high indeed, if you only focus on the glitz and glamour, then it really won't matter when you're gone.
9- I think this is by far the worst blow to Jewish culture since the Spanish Inquisition.
10- Well, he pushed you alright and now he has an obscene sum of money to prove it! (ouch!)
11- Feminism is so passe! And you had it easy girlfriend, a few boob shots and little sex talk and you were all over the place! So much for the 9 languages Cleopatra spoke or the cunning ingenuity of Mata Hari!

Law of Attraction

2009-04-28T12:28:00.000-07:00

So Darling M held us all in awe with his latest post and without gushing like an adolescent queen I will show my own appreciation for his thought provoking post, by writing back to back!

When I read something that I like or enjoy I don't remember much detail, I usually remember certain words, a particular turn of phrase that somehow lingers in memory and echoes and resonates for a long time after.
And aside from the many picturesque descriptions M infused his post (sunny London and bubbly drinks on the roof) one particular word held my attention.
Attraction.
This act, this word, to attract, to attrirer (in French), to pull "yenjazb" and gravitate (in Arabic), that transitive verb that requires a subject and a direct object all at the same time to take place, to happen.
How do we attract?
What do we do to attract?
And most important of all, who do we attract?

While its very dangerous to put human relationships into an equation, its very tempting to do so, when there is a consistent pattern, a "correlation", we can't help but think of a numeric expression, a standardized numerical expression that can predict this pattern, this sequence, this relationship among those variables that almost always, "certainly" lead to the same result.

There is always a discrepancy between how we see ourselves and how the outside world sees us. The image we project does not necessarily parallel the one the world actually sees, unless we clearly conform to preset image, a certain look, a certain attitude, we jeopardize being marginalized, or un-understood.
No community is plagued with preset images as the gay community.
Anyone that does not conform to a preset notion of this and that stereotype risks being completed dismissed.
Unintelligible at best.
It goes without saying that in Cairo, this is tenfold than anywhere else.
Any slight variation on the tune, any slight "improv" and thats it, watch out for the audience throwing tomatoes at you.

You are either, slim, a muscle mary, a bear, a cub, fashion victim and if you are not any of these you are nothing.
It resembles schisms in the Christian church, a Catholic can not marry a Protestant, a Lutheran can not marry Seventh Day Adventist, and the list of denominations is endless.
And in Cairo, if you have "no type", then you are one classicist ass hole who thinks his God's gift to mankind.

After being present for close to 10 years on the scene, every single person I knew/know kept advising me, "you have to be less picky", "set your bar a little lower", " a bitch like you will never attract the muscle Gods, muscles Gods only like other muscle Gods",.....etc
And I let all this pep talk go to my head.
And I decided what if I remove the bar altogether (desperate times, call for desperate measures), and even the simplest task of asking for the average seems to be out of reach.
What bloody twisted trick of fate is that!

I was beginning to think its funny, even average people have set the bar too high!
I was flabbergasted till one day a dear friend pointed out to me, since the average are the majority, they are the ones that are most picky.
A twisted perspective but a valid one nonetheless.

If we borrow M's formula and start thinking in terms of variables, then if age is not a significant variable, body type is not a significant variable, if interests is not a significant variable then the end result is a huge population of men, right?
Wrong.
This is one side of the equation, there is a whole set of variables that apply to the other side.
How the world sees us back.
If you are one sarcastic, eccentric, morbid queen, there is fat chance that there are a whole bunch of variables that are significant.
If witches were burnt at the stake because they could write and read, then that makes me the wicked witch of the west.
Let it roar boys!

Back to our darling M, I wish there was a way where you can control these variables and guarantee a result.
And I wish there was a way one can explain how we do what we do, and why.
Biology, chemistry, genetics, philosophy, psychiatry, and, and, and...
And combine them all and the answer does not suffice.

Like our Lady of Disco once said, "In the end we all sleep alone".

Caustic, Witty and very Tall

2009-04-26T14:32:00.000-07:00

Not one queen has not been seen mourning the loss of Beatrice Arthur , or Bea as she is affectionately called by her fans and admirers.
I was no different.
I was mourning Our Lady of Caustic Humor.
There is a role model for you, a woman with a Baritone voice, a wit sharp as a razor and height that puts a basket ball player to shame.
The woman practically looked like a drag queen.
You don't get a better role model than this.
She always said she was forced to fend for herself, she was the tallest girl in class and she had the choice to listen to people laughing at her, or laugh along.
And she laughed along.
She was voted the wittiest girl in class.
Evolutionary biologists would have a field day.
The sharper the comments and the snipes, the sharper the wit.
And by the time she was on TV she was not only the tallest woman on TV, she was the smartest, the funniest and had so much character, she could spare some.
So much for angry, bitter queens!
I find her my biggest inspiration.. whoever said dissing does not get you places!
Rest in peace Bea.

Swiftly Ignored, Swiftly Intoxicated!

2009-04-18T03:34:00.000-07:00

Much to S.'s chagrin and hate (a formidable degree of hate to the extent I had delete her last comment), someone actually invited me to their party! lol
After a long dry spell of rejection and downright bitchiness, goodness prevailed and the day was saved by gentle, kind hearts.
So you bitches can go on hating.

After being declared persona non grata for three parties in a row, I was finally vindicated and received a sweet invitation to a house warming party!
As Kiki Jr. was saying (who surprise surprise was also invited) I felt like Samantha from Sex and the City when she slept with the wrong man and ended up being shut down from the Manhattan society, the difference is I didn't sleep with anyone and this in no way resembles Manhattan.
Even the bitches there have more class!

That out of the way, the party was held at a 70s developed residential area, when all of sudden people realized they can redefine the landscape and obliterate miles and miles of cultivated land.
While environmentalist may cringe, I have to admit that the choice of location is quite attractive.
So towards the west of Cairo we headed, till the very far end, bordering the highway and there in a quite street with gorgeous little garden and a serene view, was the party.

Populated by a sizable population of lesbians (so Kiki Jr. tells me) and a few Germans and host of some fresh faces and stale ones, I stood sipping on my gin-based cocktail, like some withered southern belle, anticipating the next tune so I can whisk myself and my darlings along and dance.
And I was not disappointed.
The music was in the right order and queue.
For once!
All the standard numbers and more!

Between drinking myself silly and sporadically following the music, the evil diva made a grand entrance.
Along with an old beau, that we both had the hots for.
I was swiftly ignored only to be acknowledged by a curt nod of the head, making everyone wonder whatever happened to the inseparable pair, the two witches of Eastwick, well surprise surprise they are separated and the spell that once bound them together, broke them apart.

Never the kind to mourn in public, the eccentric morbid queen suddenly found her metaphorical poison, the sweet gin, actually toxic and what was once a light state of mental giddiness was now full fledged state of intoxication.
Whether the eccentric morbid queen was drunk on her own misery and reminiscing remains to be questioned, but we know for fact is in less than 30 mins the party was officially over.
Drinks were embarrassingly spilled on antique beds, a partial loss of motor coordination and finally a delayed speech response confirmed to everyone that the eccentric morbid queen was drunk and had to ex the party!
Jinxed!
But triumphant nonetheless lol
Heady and uninhibited the eccentric morbid queen bid her kind hosts adieu and who of all people happened to be standing right there, who but the evil diva.
With impeccable grace and extraordinary generosity, the eccentric morbid queen bid the evil diva adieu as well.
Generous to a fault! lol
Softened, yet still hardhearted, the evil diva bid the eccentric morbid queen adieu back mitigating the palpable bitterness yet still poisonous all the same.
What happens next, during or after was artistically interpretedby Kik Jr., she can be contacted for further information, after she recovers from her crack episode!
kisses

The Secret?

2009-04-11T16:11:00.001-07:00

So New Age philosophy finally hit the gay scene! Now every bitch in town, is raving about "positivity", "dig deep", "hate", "attitude".
How profound!
When did hatred become out of fashion? And anger an "unsexy" emotion?
Comment after comment seething with resentment and despicable self-righteousness.
Like any good Samaritan would do, leave some lame-ass comment inspired from an insipid, recycled, self-help trash.

It took Siddhartha 80 years to search for the truth, and even he, constantly said, "it slipped" him.
Even the Buddha felt sadness, melancholy, anger, fear.
He even overate!
Thats how he died!
Too much pork!

While I have tremendous respect for Buddhism as a philosophy and an extraordinary human legacy, it can not be reduced to some hackneyed cliches of "self-improvement".

Anger, resentment, hate, bitterness, loss, fury are legitimate human emotions, that we as humans are allowed to express and experience, in full range.
Every tone and shade of them.
No one can ever censor our right to experience emotions as we will and as we feel.

Even Jesus beat the Jews with sticks and stones when he entered the Temple, the same Jesus who said turn the other cheek, if Jesus can get furious and angry, why the fuck can't a bitter queen?

Or have feelings become unseemly?
A bitch has a fit and everyone is at her throat!
Bloody hell!
Every single prophet in the Bible and the Old Testament, cussed, called names and even beat the shit out of people, even slapped angels!
Not one single "spiritual" leader that we know of, be it Confucius, Buddha, Guru Nanak did not at some point experience a "negative emotion" and express it in the most verbal, colorful, physical of ways.
Even Muhammad, experienced anger, hate and sadness.
None of these enlightened figures ever preached the excision of emotions.
Negative or otherwise.
What they preached is moderation, a constant state of mindfulness.
We should be aware of where are emotions are taking us, not to suspend them in mid air like a trapeze artist in the circus.
Thats not human.
Thats artificial, artful and pretentious.

Preaching the doctrine of "positivity" as the panacea for all modern ills is ridiculous.
This is not a defense of holding grudges or nursing anger, but when these states of mind and these emotions arise, its perfectly human to experience them and to express them.
What every bitch in town misunderstood, as usual, is to take what I write seriously.
I don't.
And while there is always an element of truth, something always floats on the surface, its not an accurate, precise reflection of the so-called reality.
Any "drama", by definition holds an element of exaggeration, its fictitious, we impersonate a character and speak in its voice.
But if the audience take it for the truth, then it only shows how good the drama is! lol
Personally I would pick a drama any day of the week, than any of those the so-called "positive attitudes" every vicious queen has been preaching about.
At least I don't have the emotional range of a tea spoon or the mind of one.

A Woman of No Importance?

2009-04-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

“The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.”

I wish one particular sad queen would take this to heart and appreciate being talked about.
But then I digress, lets start from the very beginning.

So another party looming on the horizon, like a natural catastrophe, another one of the season's highlights, and who but Kiki Jr. is my winning ticket, this time more of free pass, to the party.
Its a roof top party (very 90s), all the vicious queens are there, and there is a hint of excitement lurking somewhere.
We even wanted to go shopping for the perfect gown for the spring ball.

But flowers may bloom, and burst with scent and color, but queens are vicious, filled with hatred and vile.
Just a day before the party Kiki Jr. calls me, distressed, explaining that I was declared, yet again, as a persona non grata.

The particular sad queen, who was organizing the party, told Kiki Jr. in anguished tones that she would feel incredibly uncomfortable if I show up, given my readily attempts to antagonize my fellow queens and my unseemly behavior and overtly effeminate mannerisms.
My first reaction was, Suck my dick you little spineless bitch!
If you have something to say, come say it to my face!

But then I thought, if that particular sad queen was terrified I might diss her, her choice of clothes and music, in the event I actually manage to go to the party, then I will just diss the bitch anyways.
See, sweetheart, you can't win.
Blame it on cyberspace, or in this case Google.

So, lets start, who made you mistress of us, you little twat?
I have been crashing parties for the past ten years, why is yours any different?
What, you will have bouncers at the door?
As if its actually "your" party!

Its not my problem, you think brown is in, or that ghetto style is a new discovery.
And its not my fault that your idea of being witty and clever is rolling your Rs and reciting brand names.
If you have bone to pick with me, then go ahead!
If you can't match it, then run along sweetheart and go back to your pitiful attempt at putting together an interesting track list, instead of playing the same song 10 times consecutively, thinking nobody will notice.

If you think gay speak is vulgar, then you haven't heard the less of it yet.
I'll show you vulgar!

Linguists, sociologists, psychologists, are still trying to figure it out till the very moment these lines are being written.
And you just dismiss it as vulgar!
Do you have any idea how complex the process of doing it is? Especially in an extremely difficult language as Arabic?
You don't.
And that is just ignorant.
If a bloody group of Standford professors can not explain it or give its due value, then the hell you can't.
It takes tremendous balls (something you don't have unfortunately), a significant amount of creativity (you could use some of that yourself) and so much character(something completely absent in your case).
Now I might not be the best one to represent Gay Speak, but I am definitely a very proud advocate of it.
This twisting of language, and social and culture norms only reflects talent and creativity.
It can not just be dismissed as vulgar from some lame ass socialista!
I think Gossip Girl just went that way!

I hate to be the one breaking the news, but this is not the upper East Side, and we are long way from New York, so wake up and smell the Nile girlfriend.

You shove your uptight, boring party, up your sorry ass for all I care.
And surprise surprise I will diss you anyways.
Party or not.

And honey, brown is definitely not your color!

The Princess of Egypt

2009-04-05T15:30:00.000-07:00

So we established the fact that Egyptian men do not take instant liking to my character or what I stand for.
I come across as arrogant, standoffish, aloof, mean, cold, overbearing and unnecessarily critical.
While I don't go all doe-eyed and coquettish over a guy just because he shows interest (I might gush, but with all the wrong guys), a girl speaks her mind and she is forever condemned because of it!

And it sucked, and I cried and then I had a drink and became all philosophical about it.

A colonial child or not, or the victim of a sentimental, bourgeoisie upbringing or what not, there seems to be a missing link between me and the average joes in Cairo.
And many stories ensued from that point onwards.
Whether because it was an inflated ego or a condescending mental attitude, all the stories, did not exactly have a happy ending to it.
And I have the blog to prove it.

So in a desperate attempt to redefine my image and prove to myself and all the vicious queens out there, that I am not a self-hating Egyptian or stuck up bitch, I insisted that I will try the 'yes method'.
Similar to the 'Yes Man' and 'The Year of Yes', the eccentric morbid tried to turn her Karma around by being more open to whatever chances or opportunity that might come her way.
And so one of Kiki Sr.'s friends spotted me in the trashy party and asked Kiki if she can hook us up, I said 'Yes'!
There he was, your average Egyptian joe, the same age group, good traditional middle class family, lots of fun, salt of the earth as they say.
He even had a job!
What more could a girl ask for?!
And he was not versatile.
I should be practically thrilled by this opportunity.
And I was! And I got all dressed up in muted grays and somber blacks, my hair up, all prepped and dandy and off I go with my average joe!
My joe was sweet and cute and there was just enough level of sexual attention to keep my interest piqued.
But old habits die hard, and the elitist notions of class, race, culture and whatever else in between, are usually much more difficult to let go than we think.
And while I am no princess of Egypt, I am one stuck up bitch who has no problem admitting it!

Seen on the Scene

2009-03-20T08:28:00.000-07:00

Before we know it was Thursday again, and after a mundane existence of a 9 to 5 routine every single day of the week, any change was welcome, or rather anticipated.
And then between a glory long passed its prime and a group of francophile fairies trying to revive it, there at the old colonial part of downtown, a renovated bar became the next hot gay spot in the past 5 years (which is like 100 years in gay years).
Thanks to the efforts and discipline of those fairies, this fancy bar became a hot spot and for months now the entire gay scene was spotted either going there or going out of there.
I dismissed the whole notion as ridiculous.
I despise the wistful nostalgia to a past long gone and holding to its decaying vestiges. Colonialization came and went, and it was consistently fought and removed, and soon withered away. Deal with it!
But holding on with dear life and trying to recreate a whole setting that is no longer there is deeply disturbing.
I think no one really overcame their colonialization. Everyone internalized it and keeps projecting it in different prisms.
Colonialization or not, I was coaxed by Kiki to actually go and check out the place. She insisted that if we didn't like it, we can always get trashed somewhere else.
I grudgingly agreed.
I was secretly very curious to see that new "it place" and where all the queens are convening!
And in a very classic spot, with a very neo-classical interior, reminscent of Jacobian Building and with the same exacting trepdation that the police will raid the place any moment, we went in.
The place was packed with queens.
I haven't seen so many gay people in the same place since the party of the season, the entire scene can be seen right there!
It was a surreal moment.
The place, the history, the people, me and Kiki and our friends.
All of it.
I was slightly taken back, a little intimedated too as well. I am not used to witnessing all these people being present in a "public domain".
It was a contestation of space, I have not experienced in Cairo before, and the only time I did experience it was in Berlin, in the Christopher Strasse parade.
But Berlin is a gay heaven, and haven, both at the same time.
And I never felt so safe in my life, like I felt in Berlin.
Cairo is a whole different matter.
So witnessing that in Cairo, was a whole different experience.
After enough booze anything is interesting and fun, and I had my share of poison and was ready to sink in the scene.
It felt like being in a virtual reality game, suddenly cyber-identities materialized and took shape and form, depth and dimension before my very eyes.
There was the elusive Cancerian, the psychotic Capricorn, the old Leo friend, the twisted Scorpio, all of cyberspace was transferred to the downtown space!
And I still felt awkward, and it still felt eerie.
I was dreading the fact that this steamy joint might get busted soon.
Who knows, some vicious queen might go report it, just to spite everyone!
Kiki wasn't thrilled with the scene, I was getting weary of all the memories and the people I wish I could smash their skulls with an axe.
So off we go!
Just about the time, when the party was "kicking in".
My awkwardness aside and the psychotic gentlemen who populate the scene, we must applaud the efforts of all those queens out there who made this reality possible, way to go girls!

My Sunni Boyfriend?

2009-03-16T13:29:00.000-07:00

How bad could it be? Would it be very much like "sleeping with the enemy"?
It was very much a butt joke between me and the evil diva at some point in time.
That the perfect boyfriend would be a Sunni boyfriend, kind, sweet, moral, fair, and a natural misogynist with a latent homoeroticism that would put the Greeks to shame.
And we always fantasized about the possibility of courting a "Sunni dude" (to be perfectly honest the mere mention of the term gave me chills up and down my spine, in a good way!)

The segregated world of the "Sunni dude" and the hegemony of a certain moral order, (don't cuss, don't swear, be honest, be kind, be helpful,...etc) regardless of the intentionality or the purpose of such a moral order is infinitely appealing for those of us who have been consistently harassed by the male sex (be it heterosexual or not).
Now I have my own story with "Sunni dudes" that maybe one day I will write about, but for now, I am wondering about the possibility of ending up with a Sunni.

It might come as a shock (not really) but it is much easier dating a Sunni dude than dating someone on Manjam or Gadydar!
You don't have to explain to your parents that your boyfriend is staying over, or that you are "praying together" or that you are out late attending "religious instruction sessions".
People won't raise their eyebrows if you boys drive together late at night or even walk around hand in hand.
Its all part of the much applauded "brotherly affection".
Your Sunni boyfriend, will never cheat on you, never hit you (unless you clearly violate a religious directive), and he will never be versatile (part of the misogyny).

While your very relationship will be in clear violation of religion, while it lasts, it can be a very rewarding experience.

I am not fetishizing a stereotype or propagating a crude understanding of a complex phenomenon like Kiki Jr. does, I am pointing out to the superficial perception of a particular social group.
I am taking things at their face value, what appearance tells us and what "everyone" sees or likes to see.

Yes, "Sunni dudes" are usually much better-mannered, at least spoken wise, than your average Joe.
And they make very loyal "friends".
And you two can work on your "salvation" together!

In a situation like ours, what options do we have?

The married, the divorced, the socially incompatible and the versatile.
Each dragging around enough baggage to smother any desperate queen.
And I should know!

Those who are suitable, of the right age, socially compatible (working class fantasies only works in cheesy erotic stories) and have a job, are usually married.
Those who are suitable, of the right age, socially compatible (working class fantasies only exist in Victorian novels) and have a job are divorced or separated and have no interest in pursuing yet another relationship.
And Those who are suitable, of the right age, socially compatible (working class fantasies are so passe!) and have a job and are not married or divorced, think they are so good to be true, and that every bitch out there will be lucky enough to worship the quick sand they walk on.
And the versatile ones don't even merit a mention.

That is what most of us are left with.
And of course 19 years old who are 'Top Only'.

Now someone look me in the eye and tell me that at this particular point, the "Sunni boyfriend" oxymoron does not sound so strange or foreign anymore.
Aside from the screaming homoeroticism, and from a complete pragmatic point of view, it is a very attractive possibility.

My own moral and ideological prejudice aside, I can't help but consider it, nay, at some very disturbed, uncritical level, desire it.

Who in their minds would refuse being treated as an equal by another physically mature male?
If the few eligible men on Manjam, or Gaydar or the scanty Gayromeo, think they are doing us all a favor by their mere existence, its no wonder we should get creative and do something about it!

There is some food (rather some very desperate food) for thought, "how bad is the idea of the Sunni boyfriend?"

Same Shit, Differenty Party

2009-03-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

So to add to my sense of rejection and being completely unpopular with the Cairo Queen Society, Kiki disclosed the information that there is a drag party that she is "exclusively" invited to, at the the new Suburban Scene. Not only that, its a drag party, with a very VIP guest list.
Not only was I not invited and completely unwelcome by the vicious queens, but to spite and antagonize me further, Kiki instead I go pick the drag outfit with her and to go shopping (or rather publicly out myself) for accessories and shoes.

Stunned and mortified by such complete lack of any kind of decency I complied with Kiki with the hope that I would crash the party.
And started thinking about my first drag outfit.
My dreams were soon crushed when Kiki confirmed that I am not "welcome" and will not go with her to the party.
Good luck finding those shoes bitch!

To mitigate the severity of my dismay and disaffection of the way I was treated by vicious queens (aka her bitchy friends) Kiki said there is yet another party at another part of Suburbia.
While the one I went to was towards the northeast of Cairo, this was more to the southeast of Cairo.
The place where all the Iraqi refugees ran to!
Aside from the racist jokes, the party was a highlight and every queen in town secured a ride (it is 40 miles off Cairo after all) and managed to show up.

And like I always say, I have been to many parties than I care or like to remember, but I have yet to see this much trash in my life.
From the floor to the ceiling, from the very entrance, all the way to the coat room inside, trash everywhere.
In all age groups.
Its like walking in a public bathhouse in Downtown, Kiki said.
The music was appalling, the audience were even more nauseating and even Kiki could not get her "party buzz" going for her.
After some desperate attempts to flirt with a sleazebag, Kiki gave up and said "Lets go".
I could not agree more.
It was a surreal nightmare.
18 year olds with bizarre hairdos, 50 year olds with dodgy attitudes, it was just wrong.

So we ended up leaving!

After ruining my plans to go to Buddha Bar (the hottest place town for queens right now) for over four times, Kiki saw the moment opportune enough that we go.
And go we did.
The location and the view was more than anything anyone can ask for.
Panoramic, encompassing an almost 360 degrees view of the Nile, it was just breathtaking.
But I kept wondering about the giant Buddha statue in the middle.
How close or far was this setting to anything the Buddha said or did?
How absurd it all seemed.

We walk in, with some expectations, and lo and behold, if it isn't Kiki's vicious queens, sitting right there!
The very ones who flatly said that I am not welcome to their party and that no I can't go along with Kiki.
Kiki playing the role of the social butterfly, everyone is in love with, moved in with remarkable grace and a lot of slurpiness to be seated at the same table where her "friends" are.

Of course I loathed the entire scene.
My buzz was gone.
I could not reflect or think about the place or where I am.
Or even let go and enjoy.

The place was just packed with lame ass queens.
Who were being out in many odd and creative ways.
And I had a presentiment that Buddha Bar would soon place two big bouncers at the door and a couples only policy.

I conditioned myself, to let go of my natural awkwardness and persistent morbidity and just enjoy.
There is nothing alcohol can't fix, in the right amounts.
So, Gin!
Or rather Strawberry Martini.
But even my dreams of drinking myself into enjoying this "little party" was ruined.
The waiters obviously displeased with the amount and outrageouness of the queens were very reluctant to serve me or Kiki.
After screaming at a various number of waiters Kiki decided that we should go.
Again!

Relieved and a little miffed, I decided to tag along.
I had to make peace with the fact that vicious queens don't like me!

Ex===>Exed Out===>Exile?

2009-03-07T03:50:00.000-08:00

That post has been removed pertaining to copyrights and censorship issues.

By the river Nile, I stood and danced..

2009-02-26T17:12:00.000-08:00

In attempt of an entente, or a "cease-fire", Kiki Jr. coaxed me into going to the hottest party in town, and one of the highlights of the season.
She told me, "all of Cairo will be there", little did I know that this prophetic statement will be all but true.
As usual, I had no idea who the host was, and as my bourgeois upbringing made me feel a little self-conscious, Kiki Jr. reassured me that she personally knew the host and that he personally invited her. I conceded and decided a little distraction is due.

I am a frightful night owl, who enjoys staying in my tree, but why not go out every now and then and take a feel, have a glimpse of the so-called "scene".
As usual the place was by the Nile, in one of those ex-colonial resident buildings, renovated, updated, sexed-up, just overlooking the Nile. A gorgeous view and a spacious place enough to host an entire gay club along with the dark rooms.
Much to my good fortune, the host was kind and warm, sincere and with such a cheerful temperament, it was hard not to like him on the spot.
For he gave us the chance to create a space within a space, and in that miniature of "our world" we acted out all our desires, fantasies, fears, anger, all of it, it was all reenacted in that miniature of a space.
There you have it, "a party".
One would think that gay people host the best parties, because they have the best music.
Wrong.
Thats what happens when you leave the job to a bunch of queens.
The tracks are lined up wrong, there is no sense of what goes when and why and the random choice of music almost killed my buzz twice.
And after enough Vodka and a little Rum, I decided that the night, the view of the Nile, with its sliver sheen, and the music will do it for me.
I will dance, I will celebrate my own Self and the joy I get from the music.
And the impulse of responding to a rhythm overtook any inhibitions (with help of the booze of course) and self-consciousness and decided to "hit the floor".
But I was not alone on the dance floor.
Ghosts from the past, present and future kept making apparitions here and there.
Suddenly, violently taking me back when I was 15, a ghost I have long forgotten, locked somewhere deep and threw the key along with my adolescent memories.
There he was, very much the same, the ever elusive Cancerian, vague, distant and completely oblivious to the little history that lies somewhere at the back of my head.

(This part was also removed pertaining to violent censorship and patronizing moralism)
And then there is the (this part was removed pertaining to copyright and censorship issues).

Then the ghost of the future, the thirty something sex pot, who would shag anything with two butt cheeks.
A favorite of Kiki Jr, and someone she has been singing his praises among other things.
But I couldn't see it.
He was crude, superficial and downright annoying.
There was something perverse about the way he looked at you and touched you.
Big penis or not, this is one ghost I have no intention of dealing with.

And I looked around, the stuck-ups, the wanna bees, the thirty something years old who still think they are in their twenties, the gym rats, and I realized in the entire place there were only two or three people I genuinely liked.
Maybe I am not made for parties. Maybe I am not a party girl, as I once thought.
Or liked to believe.

Yet, I was there, and so was the music, and at particular moment, I stopped listening to my head, or to the people, I just thought of the Night, the Nile and the music, and for a fleetest moment, I let go and just moved.
Was the "choreography" right or not, I didn't really care. And it didn't matter.
It was a very basic response.
And the scene didn't matter, the stuck-ups didn't matter, the ghosts were all far away.
There was the moment, the exuberance of the dance and music.

But there are things that even Grey Goose Vodka can't fix.
And the exhilaration of the moment can only last for so long..
And while the Nile, was calm and placid, dark and unfathomable, and the music raged on, and smoke and clamor filled the space all around, I walked out.
I was grateful to this experience, to have had this access to this space, with everything in it, and everything that it represents, and before my morbidity sits in and colors everything blue and gray, I decided to go with just the right balance of bemusement and regret.

Fighting for the Cause = Promiscuity Squared?

2009-02-20T13:09:00.000-08:00

Kiki Jr. has been nagging me lately to sit for an interview by a francophone masters student who is doing research on homosexuality and law enforcement in Egypt. When I expressed my dislike of the girl and her person Kiki Jr. reprimanded me that I should do "it" for a noble cause, that is I should it for "my people", that I should say "my story" and "speak" and allow an alternative narrative, so people can see "us" for who we are as individuals with struggles and personal ordeals of our own.
And for a minute, I sympathized.
I thought to myself, 'yes, I should do it', the subaltern should "speak" even if we acknowledge the impossibility of the act of "speaking".
But then I looked around, I observe the two Kikis, the Evil Diva, Fat Ray, and a whole bunch of people who are supposed to be "my people", the cause I am fighting for, what have they done for the cause?
What has any of the two Kikis done for the cause?
Kiki Jr. with her pitiful attempt at confessional writing, that does not rise above masturbatory autowriting and crude understanding of religion and ethics.
What kind of sexual morality are "my people" calling for?
What kind of sexual ethics are they setting by example that alleviates human dignity, actualizes our subjectivity and ascertain our rights to equal and fair share of freedom and just treatment?
Is my fighting for the cause directly translates into "my people" multiplying their chance of sexual partners and sexual fulfillment with complete lack of any kind moral and ethical responsibility?
Is my activism, the so-called advocacy for gay rights reduced to fulfilling Kiki Jr.'s right to act out her ridiculous fetishes and dark sexual fantasies?
Does it always come done to gay people's right to sleep with the biggest number of people without any moral or ethical consequence?
If the answer is yes, then I will be God-damned before I "fight for the cause".
What cause?
When will "my people" grow up and realize that in real life freedom of sexuality is not freedom from responsibility.
At the risk of sounding like a born-again-Christian, I must say out, loud and clear, sexual freedom does not entail complete lack of awareness of how and why you choose the partners you sexually engage with.
Actions have consequences.
Always did, always will.
People will and must bear the consequences of their choices, sooner or later (the AIDS epidemic being later, I don't think we need another tragedy of this sort to create a better moral and sexual order).
Being a cradle robber is not something to be celebrated, sleeping with a priest is not a fetish that we should applaud, and wanting to have sex with members of the working class is not "tres orignale ya didi".
There is nothing original or lauded about these pathetic and disturbing choices.
I am beyond appalled and devastated that I am left to deal with this.
Sleeping with three people at a dinner party, right where everyone is watching is not being liberal, sleeping with someone you just met and who you don't know and have no idea what are his sexual preferences is not "being free", and sleeping with anything that has a penis is not "your way of fighting homophobia".
If anything, these choices and scenarios only reinforce homophobia.
And it reflects how callow is our understanding of our moral agency and subjectivity.
If we want to be treated as truly emancipated moral subjects who are aware of their immediate environment and what kind of choices and decisions they make and how it affects them and those around them, then a new sexual morality is imperative.
Kiki Jr. accuses me of being an insincere friend, I am not insincere, I am horrified half the time by the choices people I care about make and that I have to support them while I know for fact that not only are they wrong on moral and metaphysical level, but on a very pragmatic level, they are potentially destructive.
I will never celebrate promiscuity.
Or support it in any way.
No matter what evolutionary biologists claim, or anthropologists say promiscuity is not a human condition conducive of happiness and positive well-being.
I don't wish to fight for the rights for those who think their sexuality should dictate every single aspect of their lives and that in turn absolves them from any moral and ethical responsibility.
Yes, gay people are a minority, but that does not at all mean that they acquired a special status at being sexually amoral, because they are gay.
That is absurd and preposterous.
I am not a Stepford fag, and I am not saying lets all get married and have kids, I am not sure if I ever will get married and I am scared to death of having children, but I am calling for a minimum level of human decency that ensure the dignity and humanity of the individual, gay or not.
A man is not readily reduced to a penis and a pair of testicles.
And a totality of a gay person does not directly translate into using his penis and testicles.
If we presume this humanity, we assume an individual with a thinking Self, and a moral agency.
How far removed are "my people" from that.
Very far removed.
Kiki darling, we are on two very different pages, I don't think I want to read yours.
"Pansexuality" is not transcending labels, and you have a lot to learn about transcending and labels to begin with.
And the cause everyone is speaking about is not multiplying your chances of having sex, and responsibility is not just using a condom.
There has to be something else to fight for.
At least I hope there is!!

Long Distance, the Wrong Distance?

2009-02-04T10:34:00.001-08:00

Not that Ontology in Cyberspace was not examined enough the past decade, but one must put one's own two pennies worth in this "new" and uncharted field.
That the very notions of what defines space were completely chattered by cyberspace, is no secret. If I speak of collapsing limnalities and bringing together irreconcilables then social networking in cyberspace is a remarkable example and proof of how the very concept of space is compromised once and for all.
Who in the past decade, who had access to this space, did not experiment with the so-called "long-distance" relationships?
We even have a Hollywood movie to prove it, 'You've Got Mail'.
We were all seduced by the ease of cyberspace and how physical and actual distance and the workings of Time were all manipulated to our benefit. To our interests, whims, and desires.
What a beautiful seduction that was.
We disregarded any "practical", pragmatic if you please, consideration and went along with the incredible sense of possibility.
It was possible to talk to John, Mark and Stephen. It was the order of the day to chat with someone from Malaysia, Russia or India.
While access to the Internet remains problematic in parts of the world still, only the affluent have the resources and know how, the achievement is nevertheless extraordinary.
And I played with the possibility, dabbled with the opportune randomness, experimented too.

What would it be like to actually have a "long-distance" relationship in a precarious, contingent, uncertain space as cyberspace.
If the Apocalypse is based on the idea that time and space will accelerate and converge to unprecedented degrees, then millenarians must be thrilled with cyberspace.
But how can one resist?
There it is, in front of our very eyes, a layer of existence, if its not the "usual" one, present, verbal and sometimes, if you are lucky with a good webcam, visual as well.
There it is all figured out.
It could have not been more perfect.
The perfect illusion.

And in our context, such hostile and adverse context where men (yes, I fucking used the term "men") are scarce and chances of meeting anyone of interest are scanty, "the illusion" becomes necessary.
Nay, imperative.

And if the eccentric morbid queen could get men lined up at her door, from all over Western Europe, India, and the Americas, and her passport won't, then cyberspace seems the only way out.
Even Beirut had its share!
Despite my general aversion to the pretentious Lebanese bunch.

And we, I, allow ourselves, mentally make the choice, psychologically, intellectually, make the choice to "allow", "permit" ourselves to succumb, acquiesce to the dictates of this illusion.
Suddenly we are amore, enamorados, we are in love!
Our passport does not matter, our country of origin does not matter, our education does not matter, true equality, in the sense of equal access to all!
Take that EU!
But before we celebrate this faux-egalitarianism, what kind of ending does one get of this scenario?
We wake up in the morning, "chat" while we are working, go back home, "chat" while we are eating, "chat" till we have to go to bed, and rinse and repeat.
Some had the happy ending, Mark, Stephen or John took the first plane to Cairo whisked, Mahmoud, Karim or Fathy off their feet and flew them back to London, Paris or Berlin.
Perfect scenario.
Even Sex and the City can not measure up to that.
But Manjam, or Gaydar are not Amnesty International, and if some Mark and Mahmoud managed to make it work, there are thousands of Johns and Karims who couldn't.
And there are eccentric morbid queens who are just as bitter about it.
When will long distance stop being the wrong distance?

Urban Number and What Not!

2009-01-24T03:43:00.000-08:00

I could not feel more vindicated and secretly snicker at all those bitches who kept saying, I am excluding the mainstream and shunting everyone to the sides, by saying that are three eligible "individuals" in the gay community here (if we could call it as such) for 1000 desperate "other individuals".
The fact that the economy of exchange in the gay scene is quite incestuous is self-evident and needs no elaboration or corroboration from me or anyone.
So when Kiki Jr. discussed with me her last post (The number you've dialled is not in service, ANYMORE!) I was shocked and relieved that my assumption was true.
There are very few interesting people out there.
And even those two or three "individuals" are not psychosis free.
"Other aspects of the Author" as Kiki Jr. pretentiously likes to call it, will include my own side of the story.

Long time ago, when Iraq was still a sovereign country and the Oscars were less political, and gaydar was not such a desolate virtual space, I came across a particular gentleman who I thought was mighty interesting.
Some reference to New York and Eastside sophistication and I decided I should give it a try.
I can't recall if it was me or him who initiated contact, but back then I was still studying Persian (man framoush kardam!) and some reference to that made him very "eager" to get to know me.
So the usual routine ensued, and we exchanged emails, and the next thing you know we are "chatting"!
And the same exact lines Kiki Jr. swooned all over were said to me.
The very same lines that sent Kiki Jr. all over the roof.
The kissing bit, the whole New York shenanigan, all of it.
And just about when we were moving to the "interesting bit", my favorite books, my favorites movies, what kind of music I enjoy listening to, hell broke loose.
My favorite singer of all time is Nina Simone.
A individual I identify with on many levels.
I never imagined that such reference will incur the unbridled wrath of my New York gentleman.
Just the mere mention of poor Nina (may she rest in peace!) got me and her the most unkind of censure.
All of sudden a severe postcolonial attack was fired. I was a "culturally dispossessed" (a term I borrowed, personalized and integrated into my everyday lexicon! lol) subject, who was "divorced from my roots", and a cause for the systematic deterioration for Egyptian culture and heritage.
Where the hell did this come from, I have no idea.

I have never in my life encountered such hostile, hysterical attack on my cultural sympathies, affiliations or sensibilities.
Never.

And I have chatted with so many people, I care to remember or count.
After his vitriolic attack on my person, history and preference, my New York gentleman "blocked" me.
For I was not worthy of his time or attention.
I have irrecoverably shamed my culture and people, the only thing left for me to do, if I were to redeem myself, was take my own life in a public square by disemboweling myself. Japanese style.
And to be honest, I was a little surprised by the reaction.. !
Nina Simone is hardly a "westernized" icon.
The woman was a crazy vagabond till the very last days of her life. She was always on the search for the right balance between her "blackness" and the "whiteness" she wanted to be, and could not.
I personally could not think of a safer choice for an artist to admire.
And while I dismissed my "urban" gentleman as psychotic and hysterical, I always wanted to tell him to his face "you are so full of shit and ignorant".
But among the many crazy and fucked up stories I encounter everyday, this was sent to the dustbin of my mind and I never thought of it again.
Till Kiki Jr. brought it to my attention!
While her story is definitely less intellectual and more rife with cheesy sexual innuendos, the same hysterical, crazy lines apply.

And while I should gloat that someone finally rejected the "fabulous, gorgeous, irresistible" Kiki Jr., my mind was somewhere else.
My mind was mulling over the "gay scene", the scarcity, the incestuous mode of exchange, the criteria by which we think that someone is "interesting".
Spviak (I love this woman) accused as a Westernized subject, once said, I speak the master's tongue so I can speak. So I can be seen.
And making peace with "westernization" is a never-ending story.
Its a lifetime's work.
I'll leave that to another blog.. !
But the "scene", the "men" (oops I should not say that, because it had become so political lately to use any "tags") or rather the "individuals" (neutral enough?) and the "scarcity" is something I can't help but think of.
Kiki Jr. is popular with the "men" (oops I did it again, I used a "tag"), she is young (youth is the equivalent of female fertility for gay people), tall, endless legs and fits the whole Middle Eastern stereotype.
A very politically correct configuration.
And she is popular with the kind of "individuals" that fit my profile.
Individual in the age group of 25 to 35, who always want someone younger, a little frivolous and hip.
Kiki Jr. as Candice Bergen was saying in Sex and the City, is "fishing in my pool".
As if it was not hard enough for us to fish in the pool, a 19 years old bitch is competing!
Get the fuck out of my pool, bitch!
But even Kiki Jr. was shunned.
Even the celebrity wannabee, who had her five minutes of fame on Facebook, was not safe from being dissed by a potentially "interesting" "individual".
Even Kiki Jr. got the "message"!

Its Hard Out here for a Bottom

2009-01-18T14:18:00.000-08:00

Like any queen with good taste, I was horrified with the choice of members of the Academy when they decided to award, in the category of best Original Song for a Motion Picture, 'Its hard out here for a pimp', for the film 'Crash'.
Who in their mind would not give Dolly Parton an Oscar for 'Travelin' Thru' for the film, 'Transamerica'?

But if Hip Hop is the poetry of the street and the voice of the oppressed maybe we can twist things a little bit and appropriate this medium, personalize it and make it "our" own.
And in the wake of 'homohop', why not say, 'its hard out here for a bottom'?
One would be surprised by the parallels.
Queens go out in gangs, and inter-gang "violence" is rife. The term 'vicious queen' did not come out of nothing. Every queen is constantly at the threat of being dissed, insulted or publicly humiliated by other queens. Or worse, vicious queens would do anything to break a happy couple.
Queen are naturally a vulnerable group, and just like pimps, the government and the police can't get enough of harassing them.
Gay men might be an oppressed minority, but its the queens that are always attacked.
In our context if you're a "top" then the world is yours, you pick and choose and even if you're confronted with your "perverse acts" people will dismiss your sexuality as "confusion" at worst or "excessive virility" at best.
And no sorry "us".
Not only did Judith Butler ruin our last chance in the comfort of a stereotype or a category, its now too "limited" to think in those terms, 'top', 'bottom', 'queen', 'fairy',...etc
Call me old fashioned but Jean Genet does it for me. And this is a true intersection of high and low art.
A fairy is a fairy, category or not.
And while I have been harassed and cheated and deeply disappointed in my 'sisters' and follow queens for as long as I remember, the terms still holds.
One is aware of the ever increasing diversity and complexity of humans and everything that involves them.
Their behavior, their genes, their sexuality and even the very diseases that ails them.
Yet I think of the terms, 'bottom' or 'queen' as paradigms or strategies of being.
I am not arguing for an essentialist, prescribed set of expectations and mannerisms every queen must uphold and internalize or else she risks the chance of being marginalized. But we are defined and perceived by a continuous set of values and behaviors that we inherited and evolved over time. Like what Spivak says a strategic essentialism that a group of people adopt, overriding their own internal differences for the sake of some immediate "common goal".
What is our common goal?
What do the "sisters" want?
Aside from the prince charming, the sugar daddy and the stud muffin, the social networks that sisters form are crucial to their survival and well-being in a very unforgiving environment.
The camaraderie f the degenerates.
I always tell Kiki there are exactly 3 eligible men in the entire gay community, and 1000 queens fighting over them.
Hardly a condition that fosters 'sisterly affection'!!

Kiki Jr. Busted?

2009-01-16T11:04:00.000-08:00

Kiki Jr. has long been a fan of the show Gossip Girl. In honor of this fascination this post is written in a style very similar to mean, teenage girls! kisses!

Spotted, Kiki Jr. busted?
Instigating the wrath and jealousy of almost everybody in the community, it was little time before Kiki Jr had it coming.
Citing everything from ill-wishes to actual voodoo dolls, there is not one queen who wouldn't wish Kiki Jr. get what she deserves.
And barely making it out of a nasty hang over, news is out that Kiki Jr. came out to her parents!!
What the %$#@&?!
While I would hate nothing more than to reveal intimate familial details, story has it, that Kiki Jr.'s older sister outed her to her mom!
Kiki Jr.'s sister has been long having her doubts, and kept a close watch on Kiki Jr.'s day to day activities, including her notorious chats!
Tired and fed up with Kiki's attitude, she soon ceased the first opportunity and outed her to her mom!
For shame!
I am not the one to judge, but who likes a snitch?!
And after storming in on New Year's Eve both, mother and sister, confronted Kiki with the truth.
Kiki you are a big homo, explain yourself!
The poor gal!
Assailed by questions and accusations, and then threatened to be exposed to her father, one would think Kiki was horrified.
But no, Kiki is a mean ass bitch and it would take more than some matriarchal terrorism to put her down!
Undeterred and unphased Kiki insisted that she is innocent, she is experimenting and she is not wrong.
Before she knew it, she was scheduled for psychiatric evaluation and eventually "therapy" with one of our renowned psychiatrists.
(If you want to know more, check Kiki Jr.'s blog at Confessions of whatever whatever)
Kiki made the best out of her situation and milked every opportunity she could get her hands on to get either sympathy, attention or support. Or all of the above.
And attention she did get!
Kiki actually outed herself on facebook!!
How far would the young generation go to be a wannabe celebrity?
And if one would capitalize on their personal misfortunes and horrors to reach a public audience could we really say that Kiki Jr. "is busted"?
I don't think so.
Already manipulating her psychiatrist, it seems that Kiki will get her way around this one too.
And the question remains, when will Kiki Jr. ever be truly busted?
We will wait and see, till then you know you love me xoxo

Will You Marry Me?

2009-01-13T11:12:00.001-08:00

After a year of abstinence and sworn film celibacy, we, the girls and me, finally had the chance and were in the same room to watch the season's fashion saga, ultimate chick flick fantasy, Sex and the City the movie
We were surprised by how willingly the characters embraced the fairy tale, albeit with setbacks, but Cinderella got her prince and her Manolo's too.
And we were surprised by how easily we accepted or rather secretly wished for it.
Are we getting older?
As my dearest friend once wondered over her facebook status.
We wouldn't have it any other way. The 'last single gal' had to say her 'I dos', whether in church or in city hall and thats a wrap everyone.
Still hung up on the fairy tale I didn't have time to process, before another dear friend surprised me by throwing his engagement party just after New Year's!
A long devout celibate and an anti-marriage advocate, he was soon blissfully engaged to one of my dearest friends.
Gone was all the radicalism and replaced by 'les retouches bourgeoisie', as my dear friend called it.
And just as I was about to get over the fact that I am now alone in my fight against marriage, another friend, more of a toxic bachelor, and notorious for his bizarre sexpades got married to his long term boyfriend!
That was it!
The Universe speak as loud as we can hear, and I think the message was pretty clear.
And all of sudden it hit me, what my sister (my biological sister that is) used to say when we were young, 'I would like to get married one day, I am not really sure to who, or how, but I like the idea of marriage itself.'
I never understood that.
I never related to it. I was too postmodern for my own good.
Too caught up in the gender critiques of social institutions that perpetuated gender roles and oppressed diversity and difference.
If marriage is not about the individual, what the hell was it about?
And then I realized that I too want to get married.
For the very first time, the idea of marriage appealed to me in itself, regardless of who is involved in this arrangement.
My take on marriage was pretty pragmatic. Same-sex couples need a recognized legal arrangement that would guarantee their rights and honor whatever commitments they choose to take.
I saw that marriage, in the traditional white gown sense was a needless conformity for a group of minority social outcasts.
Who gives a shit about a wedding party as long as you have legal and civil rights like heterosexual couples?
Yet Kiki and me, over countless, brief moments of introspection and self-reflection realized that yes it would be nice to have this man, bend on one knee and say, 'will you marry me?'
Not the usual catchphrases we get, 'I never sleep with the same guy twice', 'I love sex and I love sex with different people', 'I am fucking hot and you are fucking lucky to have me', 'I don't do Egyptians', 'I don't do queens', 'No fats, No fems',.....etc and the list goes on.
And there are all kinds of explanations and philosophical rationalizations for these statements.
And sometimes not so philosophical.
The one I hear the most, is 'gay men are naturally promiscuous'.
And that is supposed to excuse everything.
While monogamy is the issue of the hour everywhere now, I don't give two figs about long-term, or how many people one gets involved with.
But once involved I have serious problem honoring this bond. I am pretty old fashioned in this sense. Give your word to someone and don't go back on it. And if you will, then say you will.
And while I would never be seen in white gown walking down the aisle, I would sure as hell not mind being seen striding in a black Karen Millen dress!

A Note of Gratitude

2009-01-13T11:02:00.000-08:00

My dear Suribal,
While I unintentionally provided any amusement or pleasure of any kind, I am the one who is very grateful to your keen interest and kind words.
I know all kinds of people read what I write, but I always hope it would be the sympathetic reader *smile*
And if you took the time to read what I wrote and to very kindly comment, then I will take the time and the space to express my gratitude.
Thank you.
Yours,
E

100 posts, none the wiser

2009-01-07T09:19:00.000-08:00

100 posts, 100 stories, stories about promises, hopes, heartbreaks, betrayals, forgiveness, loss, sisters, sisters lost, sisters regained, lovers lost, lovers found, lovers true, lovers not.
And people.
People coming, people going, people hating, people loving, people living, people leaving.
And me writing.
Keeping a log of all that happened, a virtual memory of all that took place, a friend of mine once said, your little archive will be a treasure trove, in years to come. When memories play tricks on oneself, and one is no longer sure how or why do we remember certain things in certain ways.
Memory is a funny thing.
We isolate time and space in a complete separate dimension and we keep fine tuning whatever it is that took place, once upon a time.
Make it a little lighter, make it a little darker, magnify this, zoom out on that.
And our view, from where we stand, our perception of the people and everything that happened with, around and involving these people drastically changes.
Our eye is at once more forgiving, maybe less loving, sometimes longing.
And I long and I long, like one friend once said.
And while some memories are worth saving from the ravages of Time, as they say, I am amazed by the rate and scope of change enveloping everything around me.
Including this little, cozy, fictional space.
And I am still amazed by the universal, indomitable desire, or rather instinct to relate, to connect.
Whether it ends up in meaningful, proper relationships, or passing, bizarre, awkward sex.
The people and myself mentioned in this blog have all persisted in the ceaseless quest to find this meaningful relatedness. Or substantial or deep or any other adjective that conveys the meaning.
And while it was fraught with all kinds disappointments, setbacks, horrors and loss it never stopped me or them.
I and them have been subjected, due to the context we are situated in, the precarious context we have to work from within to without, to all kinds of challenges.
And its not just reduced to lovers and beloveds, its tenacious and it pervades every kind of human arrangement I can think of.
We, I and them, have not just lost lovers and sex partners, no.
We, I and them, lost friends, family members, jobs, careers, homes, our very own sense of security, of believing that we are allowed the right to peaceful existence like everyone else.
And while navigating the routes of this precarious context, I was embarking on a whole different journey in cyberspace.
Both mired in awkwardness, eccentricity and a strange, pathological morbidity.
I never could truly explain.
I never stopped trying! And unlike what some unforgiving readers like to say, its not extolling the virtues of melancholy and self-defeat.
Or writing a record of personal glory.
But who in their right mind would refuse such an opportunity to share this intimate experience with an anonymous reader?
I am grateful to my anonymous reader, for the very fact his/her reading mitigating the severity of the awkwardness and the harshness of the morbidity.

It has been two years, and they were filled with stories, narratives, of all kinds, and while there are many people, very dear to myself, now long gone, and no longer part of this awkward world, I have these 100 posts to revisit, again and again whenever I miss them.

So the dissing continues..

2009-01-07T08:57:00.000-08:00

"Being pitiless on this one would be too easy, so i'll refrain from any mean comment."
-Quoted from one angry, cowardly hater

While some write and vent, some criticize and hate.

And while negotiating space is a continuous, constant process, never completely resolved, never completely final, this space is intended as an "intellectual backyard".
Passing moral judgment, or writing anonymous, mean comments, posing as the devil's advocate, is not only cowardly, but strips one of any moral authority. And strips one's words of any moral weight.

Not that I believe myself to be accountable to one faceless nemesis, or that I should answer to anyone above and beyond my conscience, I find it amusing the persistent attempts to twist my words and paint whatever I write in dark, negative light.
And picture me as the pathetic, ego-maniac.
It verges the absurd and the hilarious.

I say it again and again (I don't believe in repetition), my dear cowardly, angry reader, this is not meant for you, nor your eyes nor your "discerning" judgment.
In fact I intentionally strip my "imaginary reader" of any identity or moral conviction, so I can write.

The moment I think of one face, of an opinion, the moment I stop.

Man is the center the universe. Always was the predominant belief, always will be.
Its dressed in different attires, but its the same.
Man is a self-centered, self-serving creature.

You are not, that's your problem.
Not mine, and not my blog's.

As for the moral responsibility of my actions,I take full responsiblity. And I did by going home and nursing my hangover.
Unlike you, I don't do a hit and a run behind a illusive cyber shield.

As for my sisters, if you pay attention at all to everything you read, I doubt you do, since you have a very particularisitc, idionsyncratic reading of whatever I write, I state clearly they are like any family.
And if you know families at all, you would know this social arrangement is fraught with disappointments and let downs.
If your family never did that, then we have a social break through.

Its because I think of my sisters as my family, is that I am able to perceive that they have vices, that they are selfish, and like me have a whole set of priorities, expectations and interests.

And unlike yourself, and your self-righteous, extremely annoying attitude, I am open about the fact that I want my friends to be there for me, I wanted my sisters there, at a vulnerable moment, I am not apologetic. And you can't make me.
Not because I am the center of the universe and not that I would not do the same for them, but for the mere fact, its human.
Thats what humans do, contrary to faceless, anonymous, hateful cowards.
And let me tell you, again and again, you can write and write and I can write back and write back, but I will be God damned before some faceless coward passes on a judgment on what I do or why I do it.
I won't stop writing and you won't stop judging.
And like I said before, hatred is one very twisted form of flattery!
Thank you!
kisses

Chez Lui

2009-01-01T03:42:00.001-08:00

Thrilled that all the girls are back in town for Christmas and what not, the eccentric morbid queen and her friends kept thinking 'what shall we do for New Year's Eve?'
Saved from a potential quagmire, a dear friend kindly invited us for a New Year's Eve dinner with a possibility of a party afterwards.
And the general mood was, 'lets enjoy dinner first, then party hop later!'.
And while families are peculiar phenomenons and a structure that usually necessitate disaster, my sisters and me, are no different.
Incest, sibling rivalry, inferiority complex are few among many ailments that every family is subject to.
Ours too as well.
So in an atmosphere of anticipation and ghosts let loose and past traumas, I got dressed and headed to the other side of midnight, namely Cairo.
Arriving on time, I was received with Champagne, and exquisite hors d'oeuvres!
What more could a girl ask for?!

I didn't!
I just asked for more Champagne.
But all good things come to an end, and one is never truly free from his/her past. And I had one evil diva in mine.
Long friends in our late adolescence, now silent enemies, in many ways than one.
And the diva decided to throw a party.
I flatly refused to go. He might be a diva alright, but this is as far as attitude. The rest is severely lacking.
Charm, grace or good hors d'oeuvres.
And not wanting to upset my other sisters, I decided to give in and go.
Little did we know it will end up like a scene from Victor Victoria! The cult classic, where Julie Andrews cross-dresses like a male, cabaret singer. Hence the name of the post.
The bar where she tried to audition, was a gay bar in Paris, called Chez Lui, famous for frequent riots and rows by queens and non-queens, the police regularly raids the bar and gets everyone arrested all throughout the film.

So, Chez le Diva, we ended up going, in a place he was sharing with another friend, in an area a little conservative to a full blown, "happy" party, and just as we are about to get in the mood and dance, neighbors upset by the noise came at the door, knocking.
Now, a little note about the neighbors, as I understood later on, and read the signs on the doors, many of them either openly belonged to a conservative religious movement or worked in a religious university.
It came as no surprise that they were "displeased" with the sound and the commotion.
Not wanting to go down without a fight le Diva and his friend refused to be put down by such infringement on personal privacy and freedom.
While I salute this liberal gesture, I strongly disapprove.
When outnumbered by religious fanatics, the best thing to do is to smile and say, 'you're right, I am wrong,....' and then continue whatever it is you were doing.
Self-righteous behavior will only get you so far.
And it didn't.
The next thing we know, they reported the entire incident to the cops.
It was official.
The party was over and this was very reminiscent of Chez Lui.
The moment the word was out, all the queens hit the road and everyone ran for dear life.
Its one thing to have angry neighbors knock at your door and its another being dragged to the police station and harassed by abusive police officers.
Me and Kiki staid behind, but only for too long, then we decided the evil Diva has to fend for himself. A mistake we will pay dearly for later.

On to the next party! Another expat, another embassy!
God bless foreign service!
But this time it was a "straight" party. And I could sense the hostility the moment I stepped in.
Although there was a real bar, with a real bartender, the music lacked something and the people were just different.
Before the police busted the other party, I asked the evil Diva, whats the best thing to drink after Champagne, the answer was "Vodka".
Well, be careful who you ask next time.
Wasting no time, and not wanting to lose my buzz, I had one big screwdriver, and headed for the balcony with the stunning view of the Nile.

But still, something was missing, and Kiki Jr. joined me in a heart to heart conversation while I was getting officially intoxicated.
The memory of the evil Diva and the party bust were distant thoughts now and I felt more and more uncomfortable in my surroundings.
Reading my mind, and having a curfew herself, Kiki Jr. joined me in wanting to leave ASAP.
I went I told my sisters I am done for the night and that I wanted to go home, they can stay if they want, but I am heading out.
I secretly wanted them to tag along, I felt it was our first time together to party and it was the New Year's Eve, they wouldn't let their sister go home all by herself and trashed.
But they did.
And I was sent with enough resentment to poison the happiness of cherubs flying in heaven.

Far from heaven, and back to Earth, I was poisoned and I got sicker by the minute.I barely made it home in one piece, and I felt like some trashy chick in a tragic drama series, without the nice hair or the right make up.
And the inevitable happened. And I threw up my heart out.
I finally collapsed in bed cursing my sisters, those selfish, mean bitches, all they care about is their fucking party!
Then comes daylight.
And in daylight, things look mighty different.
It looks like a hangover.
While in Chez Lui Julie Andrew finally summons the courage to tell the man she loves that she is actually a woman, and while he finally decides that he really doesn't care what she is, at the busted party I realized people are really not what we think they are or like to think they are and they perceive just the way we project ourselves. And their biggest fear and ours is that we might turn out to be different in any way.
Like a woman pretending to be a man, pretending to be a woman.