Quelques Jour a Birmingham

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 individual in the world of art in Rome, and I deny him the pleasure of perfoming 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

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?

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

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?

(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!

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!

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!