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!

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag!

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

"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

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

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?

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!