Masculinitis Vulgaris

There are endless permutations and combinations for how identities are configured. The variables and elements that constitute identity are numerous at best and there is no one predictable way in which one can guess or presume how and why they are configured the way they are.
Over-stating the scarcity of eligible gentlemen on the dating scene in Cairo is an inexhaustible and favorite topic for both gay and straight people.
I will spare myself and the reader going through this again.
And only heaven knows how long has it been since a gentleman graced the screen of this blog (too long, actually) there was however a gentleman, yet it was such an insignificant event, it did not merit a passing mention even.

After I laid a forbidden dream to rest, and mourned the loss of a particular gentleman, a beloved gentleman. I allowed myself to venture and try to go on a date. While in mourning.

Never a good idea.

Literally inflated with emotion, to such an extent, I felt like a balloon. I felt my insides were stretched to their limits. Still, my gentleman (I would rather call him ‘Noble Savage’, in the insulting, colonialist sense) offered incessantly to take me out on date, dine and wine.
Now it is not that I did not see how crass or callous my Noble Savage was, I just did not realize that vulgarity could come this far.
I have yet to see this configuration of class, education and social standing, produce such vulgarity and coarseness.
There was a Déjà vu however. The Noble Savage was (for he is in the past. He no longer exists) a Taurus. And the famous earthy masculinity seem to have gone a little extreme this time.
Hedonist and blunt seemed to be the theme. Nothing was subtle or remotely esoteric.
As I always say, people mask the severity (reality?) of their desires and intentions by filtering it through another language. Another system of thought.
Arabic is a very powerful field of signification. It has ridiculous range of meaning. Severe, grandiose and almost physical. I personally would not like to hear a ‘sex-me-up’ talk in Arabic. I would feel like a common-class prostitute. But in the name of discovery and experimentation I did.
An entire conversation of two solid hours of colloquial Arabic. On how exactly this Noble Savage will show me colors and make me sing…

And in my mourning. Lamenting magnificently a terrible loss.

And when the noble savage drove by the very abode, the very locus of my loss, I unleashed my fangs and claws and decided to put this “earthy masculinity” in its right place.
While he went on and on about the wonders of his “technique” and “style” and how his penis could do wonders I never dreamed they existed, I decided to give him a piece of my mind.

I asked him just as bluntly, “just a quick question, how big is that monster of yours?”

This is where the date ends.
Gone is all the boasting and the macho, grotesque appearance of masculinity. No “real man” will tell you size does not matter. While singing the praise of his sexual prowess, the Noble Savage forgot the power of French Deconstruction.
I believe Helene Cixous would have been terribly proud of this linguistic detour.

Bitch, if you have a small penis don’t go all P. Diddy on me!