Yes it is possible to run out of things to say. Especially if the underlined dynamic remained the same. It is not that I stopped seeing guys or talking to guys but there was nothing that I wanted to say that I have not said before and nothing I wanted to say that I have not said before and would only sound much more darker and despairing than I care to like or remember. This year and a half spent among straight men was as uneventful as anyone can imagine. In many instances it was oppressive and frightfully dull and in others it reaffirmed that the mortal fear of heternormativity or patriarchy is real and completely justified. I did invest a lot in cultivating those friendships with straight guys, but unsurprisingly they are as fickle and disloyal as the next queen. Learnt my lesson and moved on. And even the very few queens left that I know, I found intolerably too self-obsessed, with no charm and too narcissistic without the pretensions of depth. And just as the comfort of being surrounded by straight men wore off and eventually there is only so much a single gay man can do with a litter of single straight men before they all decide to get married and get sucked into the capitalist machine of marriage and 'family', I ran out of things to say or do and slowly I found no place amongst the straights and just as I entered that group with little or no fuss, I left without much ado. But I left to where?
I was 33, I didn't transform into a muscle Mary, didn't discover the fountain of youth and didn't go gluten-free (I like my grain-based protein, thank you very much). As a matter of fact, if it is even possible I became less willing to address the health perils of my emotional eating. To the extent I was willing to stop seeing friends who discouraged me or made me feel conflicted about why and how I ate the way I ate. Food was not only a comfort but also an activity around which I could organize other activities, socialize and have a seemingly exciting relationship with a terribly oppressive, unforgiving city. But this post is not about my failing metabolism or me transitioning into a MILF (we had our good moments with that one) but what happens when you don't transform into a gym bunny in your 30s or shed the Kummerspeck? Well, nothing happens.
You still remain 33, living with your family, sneaking in guys for quick shags (that sometimes are not quick shags but setups that end up with you beaten black and blue), and have mini-dramas when someone can string two sentences without referring to your genitals or theirs but is too insecure to want a relationship. This was my life now. I was slowly wasting away in Cairo (the time to leave is long gone), subject to the whims of virtual hookups and realizing, just like the immortal Cher sung once, in the end 'we all sleep alone'.
And in between moments of dark, dark despair and despair that is not so dark, I give in to peer pressure and decided to go to one of the few parties/gatherings that were still being held in Cairo. I know, it is completely absurd that anyone can be having parties in one of the worst moments for the community. Not since 2001 have been there that many crackdowns and that many arrests, and that many media exposes for 'the gays'. But somehow, even when the currency is not worth shit, and booze is hard to come by and expats are long gone from the city, some bitches manage to organize and throw a party here and there. Three cheers for the absolute resilience and complete lack of any context sensitivity. And I decided what the hell, might as well go back and revisit that, not in the same way, Waugh was revisiting Edwardian England (the 2000s were fun but in no way classy or elegant) but out of sheer curiosity as to how younger bitches will receive that full-figured, bundle of joy. So a quick a recap while I was away from the scene, the younger bitches graduated college, discovered that being an adult sucks dick (not in a good way *mmhmm*) and were replaced by a group of hipsters with terrible shoes and dirty fingernails. Thankfully the hipsters realized that you cannot wear a full length boots in 40C climate and most of them left the country (Yay!) and so we are back to the younger bitches and former-younger bitches taking over in a way, with a few remnants of the hipsters here and there.
And on a Thursday night, while Mubarak roamed the streets of Cairo a free man and thousands of other young men languished in prisons he built, I was making my way to the borders of West Cairo, just before it turns into something not so fashionable. And although this was the second party after a month almost, I was still as uncertain as ever, because this time the party had a unflattering dose of muscle marys. And you never want to be around those. Not only are those bitches serious chem queens, but they are just profoundly unpleasant to be around. And I was uncomfortable and disinterested, not only in the muscle lingo but in the many colourful ways drugs were going to be procured and consumed. I am all for decriminalizing drugs as the next girl, but at the same time I do believe that even when they are decriminalized and the stigma surrounding their possession and consumption is removed, there is something inherently problematic about them becoming a lifestyle choice/activity. Almost as bad as my emotional eating, the only difference that my emotional eating doesn't necessitate any particular muscle to fat ratio. And it does not alter brain chemistry the same way drugs do, even if some bitches claim otherwise.
Anyway, back to the party, muscle marys galore, it was as if I stepped back in time ten years ago.
And a mix of those former-younger bitches, now harassed by life, disgruntled by the notion of adulthood and some even wearing too much concealer (honey you are still a bit young for this Mommy Dearest look). I felt overdressed, out of place and very unsexy. The presence of some familiar faces did not make this any better, but guzzling Vodka like the desperate queen as I am, did. As my face start to get slowly numb (Vodka does that, I hate that shit), I let loose and started to look around, I even attempted to dance (not very successfully though). What a despicable mess: has-been muscle marys, has been young twinks, and current muscle marys doing drugs. I was definitely out of my depth. But then not only does alcohol intoxication interfere with one's own sense of inhibition but it also capacity of long-term planing and thinking through consequences. I wanted to leave but I was filled with childish curiosity, I wanted to see those bitches talk about the drudgery of work under capitalism, their hubris in claiming their jobs as some kind of achievement (although I didn't see much of that), I wanted to see bitches pretend that they don't know me (even thought they fucked my date), I wanted to flirt with the bitches I thought were too ridiculous a few years ago and I wanted to stare at one of the lovey-dovey couples, square in the face, with a little smirk, and say:'oh I am not envious, I think you two deserve each other'.
And I don't. And I was reminded why I elected to step away from all that and I was reminded why I didn't like the straights either. Because I don't like people. And no amount of Vodka or peer pressure will change that. The end.