Déjà vu
Seen before, tried before, thought before… and now its not as interesting as it once was!!
Now déjà vu, gives the feeling of beautiful recollection, or something witnessed before and by some mysterious force brought into our view again. It has some auspicious feel to it. But not for this post.
The “déjà vu”, I had was something rather seen once and now is perceived in a completely new light.
Long ago, one fair summer day, in a modernly decorated flat, in Zamalek where we celebrated the birthday of a Taurean friend who came from the lands beyond the cold northern sea, in this little island in the middle of the Nile, I met him.
A devout, sworn francophone, with the social awareness and the political conviction of one, he was smart, funny, very cute. And he spoke fluent English. A feat most francophones spend their entire lives trying to achieve with little or no success. Something he did so effortlessly.
I was in love!
Here is someone who understood the French sensibility and could communicate it in an Anglo-Saxon tongue.
I confided in Kiki (I can’t remember very well, but I think it was the vicious Kiki) that I like him, a lot!
Kiki was like he is way out of your league and that he does not like younger guys and that he is a notorious, toxic gay bachelor. Or was seeing other people. My 21 years old hopes were crushed right then and there.
Well, it won’t be the first time the perfect combination of everything I love and want in a man, in one particular man comes tied with a clear dislike of the combination of everything that I am.
I just eyed him the entire night, shamelessly fantasized about him, then that was the end of it.
Years later or more, as I was browsing the ever expanding online constellation of gay profiles, I found this cute, stocky, hazy picture of a masculine figure, what promised to be a masculine figure.
Mmmmm, I thought, this might be interesting, so I messaged my stocky, potentially great date.
He responded. Equally interested. Exchange of emails followed, with a few lines on the MSN and there was an exchange of numbers.
Before I know it that same day some time after midnight, as usual, I was calling him.
And volia, a date.
In the crazy, hostile, diverse Cairo. For Cairo after midnight, is a different city. Its like Sin City, without the leather outfits.
Till that very moment I didn’t realize he was that very same francophone gentleman, I was taken by long time ago.
So we agreed to meet in this infamous street, more of a boulevard, where the Gulfies and locals alike come to pick up hookers after midnight. Where Kiki also comes to cruise those same Gulfies. If that is an indicator of anything. We agreed to go somewhere else less shady.
When I saw him again I instantly remembered how young I was, and how much older he looks now.
I reminded him of our former encounter and he was pleasantly surprised by how good my memory is.
If only he knew.
His idea of a less shady place was even a more shady street café down the street where I live. Somewhere I wouldn't be caught dead in.
I conceded out of courtesy to my date. The entire time was a long discussion of film aesthetics and film theory.
As usual ever the extraordinary conversationalist, he was “impressed” by how well informed I was about the subject, how well articulated my thoughts are.
But in the heart of me I know whenever aesthetics comes in, its never a good sign.
Men always get fascinated and completely intimidated at the same time. And they tell you the most wonderful things. You are this and that, you’re unique and special, how come someone so young can know so much, and blah blah blah
But you are so much work. I want something easier to deal with. I can’t deal with that.
My favorite, however, "was oh too bad I met you now, I already have a boyfriend".
However, while they are there, they might as well enjoy this exquisite conversation.
My francophone gentleman was nice enough to tell me that he found me cute and attractive and that if had a place of his own he would definitely love to shag.
Now what do you make of a successful almost forty years old man who does not have a place of his own?
It always freaks me out.
I wanted to have a place of my own ever since I was five. The only reason I didn’t move out was my parents and my sisters. In his defense this might be it, but after some point even if you have to live with your parents you would want to have an independent place of your own. A room of one’s own, in the gay sense of it.
Anyways, he promised one day, when his is “free”, he would give me a call, a “bootie call”, that is.
I never heard from him since!
Not that I care, I don’t anymore.
The cute francophone I liked years ago is no longer there. This was another gentleman, who is almost forty with no room of his own.
This was a deal breaker.
Now déjà vu, gives the feeling of beautiful recollection, or something witnessed before and by some mysterious force brought into our view again. It has some auspicious feel to it. But not for this post.
The “déjà vu”, I had was something rather seen once and now is perceived in a completely new light.
Long ago, one fair summer day, in a modernly decorated flat, in Zamalek where we celebrated the birthday of a Taurean friend who came from the lands beyond the cold northern sea, in this little island in the middle of the Nile, I met him.
A devout, sworn francophone, with the social awareness and the political conviction of one, he was smart, funny, very cute. And he spoke fluent English. A feat most francophones spend their entire lives trying to achieve with little or no success. Something he did so effortlessly.
I was in love!
Here is someone who understood the French sensibility and could communicate it in an Anglo-Saxon tongue.
I confided in Kiki (I can’t remember very well, but I think it was the vicious Kiki) that I like him, a lot!
Kiki was like he is way out of your league and that he does not like younger guys and that he is a notorious, toxic gay bachelor. Or was seeing other people. My 21 years old hopes were crushed right then and there.
Well, it won’t be the first time the perfect combination of everything I love and want in a man, in one particular man comes tied with a clear dislike of the combination of everything that I am.
I just eyed him the entire night, shamelessly fantasized about him, then that was the end of it.
Years later or more, as I was browsing the ever expanding online constellation of gay profiles, I found this cute, stocky, hazy picture of a masculine figure, what promised to be a masculine figure.
Mmmmm, I thought, this might be interesting, so I messaged my stocky, potentially great date.
He responded. Equally interested. Exchange of emails followed, with a few lines on the MSN and there was an exchange of numbers.
Before I know it that same day some time after midnight, as usual, I was calling him.
And volia, a date.
In the crazy, hostile, diverse Cairo. For Cairo after midnight, is a different city. Its like Sin City, without the leather outfits.
Till that very moment I didn’t realize he was that very same francophone gentleman, I was taken by long time ago.
So we agreed to meet in this infamous street, more of a boulevard, where the Gulfies and locals alike come to pick up hookers after midnight. Where Kiki also comes to cruise those same Gulfies. If that is an indicator of anything. We agreed to go somewhere else less shady.
When I saw him again I instantly remembered how young I was, and how much older he looks now.
I reminded him of our former encounter and he was pleasantly surprised by how good my memory is.
If only he knew.
His idea of a less shady place was even a more shady street café down the street where I live. Somewhere I wouldn't be caught dead in.
I conceded out of courtesy to my date. The entire time was a long discussion of film aesthetics and film theory.
As usual ever the extraordinary conversationalist, he was “impressed” by how well informed I was about the subject, how well articulated my thoughts are.
But in the heart of me I know whenever aesthetics comes in, its never a good sign.
Men always get fascinated and completely intimidated at the same time. And they tell you the most wonderful things. You are this and that, you’re unique and special, how come someone so young can know so much, and blah blah blah
But you are so much work. I want something easier to deal with. I can’t deal with that.
My favorite, however, "was oh too bad I met you now, I already have a boyfriend".
However, while they are there, they might as well enjoy this exquisite conversation.
My francophone gentleman was nice enough to tell me that he found me cute and attractive and that if had a place of his own he would definitely love to shag.
Now what do you make of a successful almost forty years old man who does not have a place of his own?
It always freaks me out.
I wanted to have a place of my own ever since I was five. The only reason I didn’t move out was my parents and my sisters. In his defense this might be it, but after some point even if you have to live with your parents you would want to have an independent place of your own. A room of one’s own, in the gay sense of it.
Anyways, he promised one day, when his is “free”, he would give me a call, a “bootie call”, that is.
I never heard from him since!
Not that I care, I don’t anymore.
The cute francophone I liked years ago is no longer there. This was another gentleman, who is almost forty with no room of his own.
This was a deal breaker.
Comments
that's inspiring !
:)
I'll try not to finish your whole blog today :)
sincerely,
lonely aphlaton