Ahmad @ Large

STUFF!!

2013-10-09T13:34:00.001-05:00

We are obsessed with STUFF!

I've been wrestling with how to write this post without coming across all preachy, but there is no other way to do it. As a society, we place so much emphasis and importance on the accumulation of material things, and surrounding ourselves with stuff. Some of us want to make sure the people around us know we have stuff, and lots of it. Some others place so much importance on the stuff they accumulate, so much so that their self-worth is dependent on it.

When I was in 2^nd or 3^rd grade, my parents gave me a meager allowance every week to cover any snack purchases I wanted to buy at school. I remember being disheartened that my allowance was so much less than my friends’, who had double, triple, or even quadruple the amount I got. My parents thought the amount was perfectly reasonable. After all, what would a 2^nd or 3^rd grader need with more money? I had a packed lunch, and I was going to school, not shopping at the mall.

Growing up, I went to private schools. In Egypt if you want any semblance of a decent education, and your parents could afford it, you had to go to a private school. Public schools were for people that lived several stories below the poverty line, and had no other alternatives. My family did not come from money. My mother and father both worked hard for a living, and were the product of fathers (their mothers did not work) who also worked hard for a living. My father eventually started his own business, and financed it all from his hard earned income. We lived in a two bedroom apartment, and I shared a bedroom with my sister until I was 13 years old. They worked hard, and invested in my, and my sister’s education. My parents never bought a lot of stuff. We had good furniture, working cars, and nice clothes. We lived within our means.

After I graduated high school, I was privileged enough to attend a private American university. I lived with my parents (the majority of Egyptians do that until they get married…and some even afterwards), and I drove my mother’s old car (1985 model Peugeot). The school I attended was full of rich kids, and we often referred to it as Cairo 90210. It was easy to feel inferior, or like I did not belong because I did not have designer jeans, or the latest fashions from Europe or the States, and I did not drive a BMW. I remember catching a ride with a friend one day, and he was babbling on about “not being proud of his car”. It was a latest model something or other, with leather seats, and a working A/C. His mother was on staff at the university, so he did not pay any tuition, and for the most part he was a mediocre student. I wanted to punch him in the face!!

My father did not (and probably still does not) believe in credit. He never owned a credit card, and always paid everything in cash. If he did not have the cash, that means he could not afford something, and therefore did not buy it. He paid for our house in cash, bought his car in cash, and paid for my education in cash. I still remember him sending me to school every semester with a bag full of cash to pay my tuition.

When I moved to the United States, I had the fortune of having a loving adopted/surrogate family that took me in, and help me in establishing my life here. They are/were good people, and firmly believe, as do I, in pulling one’s self up by one’s bootstraps, and working hard to get ahead in life. My first job in the States (a year out of college with a B.A. in political science from the top American university in Egypt) was as the night shift clerk at a White Hen Pantry (now 7-11). I made $7 an hour, and spent my nights mopping the floors, and stocking the fridge. I eventually learned to slice deli meat, and progressed to $7.50 an hour. I financed my first car (a 1995 Mercury Sable), and eventually found jobs further away than walking distance.

I've lived here now for 12 years, and my biggest debt is my mortgage and my student loans from graduate school. I acquiesced to getting a credit card in 2006 so I can establish revolving credit in order to qualify for a mortgage, and have never charged anything that I could not pay off in a couple of months at most. I make a conscious choice on a daily basis to live within my means, and set goals for myself to save in order to afford the things that I currently cannot.

I know I sound like a goodie-two-shoes, and I know I have been very lucky in my life. But, It is because of my history that I fail to understand people that live beyond their means, and borrow, beg, and yes even steal (or defraud and embezzle) in order to accumulate mountains of stuff for the soul purpose of impressing the people around them. There is a culture of consumerism in this country that makes people go crazy over accumulating material things for no other reason but to gain some kind of fictitious status in their community, or a misguided belief that more stuff equals higher self-worth.

My partner is currently going through a Chapter 13 bankruptcy following the dissolution of his previous marriage. As with any divorce, both parties must agree to the division of their property. Unfortunately for my partner, the “property” from this divorce ended up being nothing but debt. His share was a mortgage that was under water due to the declining value of the house, and numerous other debts that were solely in his ex-husband’s name as a result of borrowing from a retirement plan, or paying for their lavish over the top wedding. In going through the divorce, and a couple of years later through the bankruptcy, I got a first had glimpse at the extent of the funny money that was going around to finance a lavish lifestyle that was nothing but smoke and mirrors. Borrow from A, to buy B; then sell B to buy C; rent out A, to pay for living in D; and then sell C, to buy E; and while we’re at it, let’s borrow from any family member that would give us money so we can go on trips, buy boats, or cars, or clothes or what-have-you.

Did any of this stuff make them happier? Obviously not! Did any of this stuff matter to their life together? I would say it was probably one of the reasons their relationship collapsed. In the end, there were days when my partner literally did not have two pennies to rub together, and there were days when he could not even afford to buy himself lunch. A decade of accumulating stuff, and just buying things resulted in enormous debt that could likely force him to pay half of his income for the next 5 years to pay off. Debt that was accumulated by his ex-husband, but is now his cross to bear.

My partner is so much happier without all this stuff that he did not need. Ask him what he enjoys, and he will tell you a good book, listening to vinyl records, opera, watching movies, and eating popcorn. He is at his happiest and most joyful when he is frolicking in the ocean, chasing waves, and bathing in the sun. And I am at my happiest when I’m watching him laughing joyously while swimming in the ocean, and cuddling him in our bed before we both fall asleep in each other’s arms.

We don’t need stuff! All this clutter and endless desire for things and money has made people forget what is important in life. When you are on your deathbed and taking your last breath of air, you won’t have your stuff or money with you. No!! You will have nothing but your memories flashing in the final seconds before you cross over. Do you want these to be memories of time spent buying things, or pretending to be wealthy, or showing off your material wealth (real or fake) to the people around you? Or do you want these last fleeting memories to be of love, joy, and happiness surrounded by people who truly love you?

I know what I would choose!

What's Love Got To Do With It Anyway?!!

2013-05-01T16:21:00.001-05:00

“Never marry someone you wouldn’t want to be divorced from!”

I read that in a meme on Facebook a few weeks ago, and I couldn’t agree with it more. As the issue of same sex marriage stays front and center in the national dialogue, I can’t help but reflect on the dysfunctional, and ultimate dissolution of a marriage of a very close person in my life. We all fall in and out of love for various reasons, and no two people are the same. However, I would like to think that even when we fall out of love, or decide to end a relationship, we keep an eye on the reason we fell in love, or chose to be in a relationship with that person in the first place.

My partner had a very dysfunctional marriage before he and I met. I will not delve into details, mainly because I was not part of his life until the last few months of his marriage. The reason their marriage failed is their own. However, how they chose to honor, or dishonor the life they spent together was, and still is, very public, and heartbreaking. Reading communications by my partner’s ex in the early stages of their separation where he called him names, wished he (and I) "get AIDS and die", and attempted to drive a wedge between him and his own mother not only makes me incredibly angry, but also makes me incredibly sad.

I've always thought of myself as the practical one; the pragmatist; the rock; the wall against which my partner can lean; and for all intents and purposes, I am (if I may say so myself). However, when I heard of the lies, and vile words my ex's partner used to describe my partner while out in the bars amongst people who are still common friends, acquaintances, and family, I felt an unexpected, and overwhelming sense of sadness and anger. How can someone claim to have loved a person, turn around and show such evil and remorseless aggression towards him?

I am not, of course, a neutral party or observer in this case. However, I only have my own experiences of my own breakup from my then boyfriend of nine years to compare this to. He did not want to break up, but I did. He loved me, and I loved him. However, I decided that I wanted more in my partner than he was willing and able to offer. We were also in an open relationship, and I was in a stage of my life where I craved a monogamous sexual and emotional partnership. We shared and owned a condo, shared furniture, and three dogs. Yes, the breakup was painful, and yes, we both spent long nights crying, depressed, and mourning the end of our relationship. However, because we respected, loved one another, and wanted to honor the life we had together, we worked together on an amicable breakup, while still living with each other. We still live together, he in his own bedroom, and me and my partner in ours. The three of us share chores, watch TV together sometimes, love our three dogs, and playfully pick on each other sometimes—although my partner and I probably pick on my ex a lot more about his endless stream of hookups coming in and out of his bedroom.

My point is, because there was love there, we made the break up work. I look at my partner’s ex, and I can tell there is no love there, and I honestly doubt that there ever was...well, at least not for my partner! While I can't claim to know the ex that well (or at all really), and I can't speak to how he was three, five, or ten years ago, I know from my interactions with him that he loves himself, and manipulates others around him to serve his own best interest, especially monetarily. He lies, cheats, and defames others around him so he can con himself into social circles he doesn’t belong to.

From the day my partner left him, and to this day, he continues to spread lies about us, defame us in public to friends and acquaintances, and attempts to poison my partner's parents against us. He has spent the last two years financially mooching off my partner in what I believe was an unjust divorce settlement that preyed on my partner's honest nature, and sense of guilt for asking to end the marriage. There were days when my partner literally did not have two pennies to rub together because he had enormous debt from the divorce, while his ex traveled to Vegas and Mexico for vacation; all the while asking my partner for more and more money. When my partner finally decided to take positive steps to rebuild his finances responsibly, his ex relaunched into vile, venomous attacks that speak only to his deceitful and connivingly evil nature.

Anyway, I digress! Yes, divorces can be ugly, and not everyone is as lucky as I was with my breakup. However, if the relationship/marriage was honest, and built on mutual love and respect, then the separation/divorce should also be grounded in the sincere desire to move on amicably and respectfully.

As the Supreme Court considers arguments against DOMA, and eventually overturns it (at least that's the hope); and as thousands of same-sex couples rush to tie the knot; I hope they take a pause and reflect on their partners, their relationships, and why they want to get married? Is it because of love? Or is it for show and to make a flashy social or political statement?

Whichever it is, I hope their partnership lasts a lifetime. But, if it does not, then I hope they can sincerely and respectfully separate, while wishing each other the best. That, and that they each have great divorce lawyers!

Superheroes and the Fall from Grace

2013-03-17T21:06:00.000-05:00

Superheroes do not exist!

Most of us grew up either reading comic books about superheros like Superman, Spider-Man, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, or Batman. When these comic books were adapted into movies, we gathered in throngs to watch our superheroes, our saviors, immortalized on the silver screen. We idolized the actors that portrayed our childhood heroes, and were angered when they did not act like their screen alter egos.

In the leather community, we seem to be in love with the idea of superheroes. Over the years, we have devised contests to pick the sexiest among us, and elevate them to superhero levels. Each year around the country, leatherfolk gather to pick the one man to "represent the community" for a year. Each community picks their superhero based on physique, leather image, and charisma. We watch in awe as these men parade on stage in a bar, and ogle as they model their "superhero" outfits. Some do better than others, and we cheer, idolize, and worship them. Once picked, we sash them, parade them around, give them money to travel around the country, and fantasize about them. We make them our superheroes.

Once a year, we flock to a gathering of superheroes where one supreme superhero is chosen to represent us all for one year. There is a lot of pomp, romp, and circumstance surrounding this annual pilgrimage. As with the smaller contests, this supreme hero is chosen based on physique, leather image, and charisma. Contestants prepare for this event from the moment they are chosen by their individual communities. They work hard to perfect their bodies, and strive to come up with the right combination of reasons of why they want the coveted title. It can't be too idealistic, or the skeptics won't buy it; but it also can't be too realistic, or else the idealists won't believe it. Each contestant picks a topic near and dear to them to be their flagship cause. Same-sex marriage, HIV stigma, brotherhood, kink, leather history, world peas (no, that's not a typo!)

At the end of it all, a winner is selected! Our supreme superhero is chosen, and we celebrate by dancing, and fucking. Then we proceed to tear them all down.

As much as we are obsessed with elevating people to superhero status; we are just as obsessed, if not even more so, by chopping down the pedestal on which we elevated these men, and dragging them down the street for a public execution. OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!

It starts with the ones that did not win. They failed! They were fake superheros, they lied to us about how great they are. They failed us all, and they deserve to suffer our snark, and belittlement. "You didn't work out hard enough", "you were too fat", "your speech was terrible", "you were too young", "you were too sure of yourself"...etc.

For the one that won, the punishment for winning is even worse. He is now our supreme leader! He is divine, and will fly down and rescue us from despair. We wait, and wait, and wait for him to live up to our unrealistic expectations; and when he does not fly down from the sky with the Superman theme announcing his arrival, we collectively turn on him. It's a carnal scene; one which we relish and enjoy greatly.

We build our heroes up just so we can tear them down!

The majority survive this scathing ritual, and come out the other side stronger men, more confident of themselves, and stronger leaders. Others survive, but retreat back to their regular lives and harbor resentment for how they were treated by the very people that used to worship them.

There are also those who get so drunk on their superhero image that they never give up seeking adoration from the people around them. If they do not win one title, then they will compete for another. If they do not win that one, then they will compete for another, and another, and another, until the superhero becomes a super joke. Our "community" seems full of this particular kind of fallen superhero, and we see them everyday, either in person, or on Facebook. We pay them lip service to their face, or on their Facebook walls, then turn around and stab them in the back, laugh at them, and tear them down.

We create superheroes so we can watch them fail!

Through all the blame and finger pointing, we never seem to realize that the failure of these men to live up to our unrealistically high expectations is due to us. We elevate these men to statuses that they are incapable of living up to. We expect too much from the nymphomaniac who wants nothing else but to get laid. Why on earth would we be surprised when he doesn't do a single community service or fundraiser? We choose a large man as our superhero, but blame him when he doesn't shed a hundred pounds in five months and be competition ready. We select an older man as our superhero, but crack jokes when he gets a face lift once he realizes he will be competing against twenty or thirty-somethings for the ultimate superhero title.

We prey on people who are starving for acceptance and a community in which to belong; we embrace them, idolize them, project our own hopes, fantasies and dreams on them, and act surprised when they fail.

In a couple of months, the annual leather pilgrimage will take place. We will all gather to cheer, jeer, elevate, and tear down sixty or so men. As we do so, we should all try to remember that no matter how perfect their bodies or smiles may be...or how intelligent they may be....they are human beings, and they are flawed. They each have their own reason for coveting our affection, and seeking our approval. Some are incredible men, and some are narcissistic bastards and deserve to fall off the stage and break their faces. They come from all walks of life, and from all corners of the planet. They may accomplish many great things in their year; or they may accomplish nothing. We will love them, hate them, adore them, and despise them. At the end of the day we must remember that they are just like everybody else. They are not superheroes!

June

2012-06-21T15:44:00.001-05:00

Over the past few years, the month of June has asserted itself as a month of milestones and achievements for me. It is the month I was pulled out of my mother’s vagina (yes, this crass description is tribute to the ignorance of the Michigan legislature), the month I moved to the United States to start a new life, and the month I became a United States citizen. This year it has also become the month I have been doing a lot of less than desirable and uninvited reflection about my life, my direction and goals, and becoming much more accustomed and comfortable in my new found larger-than-life-dominant-opinionated-and-loving it personality.

To begin with, I list my birth as an achievement because it almost never happened at all. My parents always planned on only having two children. My mother was a civil engineer, and gallivanted about construction sites during both her pregnancies, leading to a miscarriage of her second child. Her pregnancy with me followed a year later. I noted that I was pulled out of my mother’s vagina, because I was a week late, the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, suffocating and preventing me from breaking free of my mother’s womb. It also happened to be the hottest day on record in Cairo in 1979, the air-conditioning at the hospital broke down, and family members had to bring their spare fans to the hospital to help my mother cope with the sweltering heat, and this alien baby that just did not want to get the hell out of her body. The doctor had to stick his hand up in there, cut the cord, and pull me out. I was blue, and barely breathing, but alive, and kicking. My mother tells me that the nurses congratulated her because I was apparently the only boy born in that hospital that day. All the women in labor were on their second or third pregnancies hoping for a boy. My mother’s response? “Boy, girl, who cares, as long as it is out of there!” I love my mother.

So, every 23^rd day of June, I celebrate that fateful day, and the events that have constituted my life from then on. As luck would have it, June also became the month of another milestone in my life, 21 years after that fateful day. Flash back to May 2001, four months before the world as we knew it changed, I was living in Cairo, minding my gay self, trying to find direction after graduating college. I mean, what the hell do you do with a degree in political science living in Egypt for Christ’s sake? Well, that month also happened to be the month the police cracked down on us gay Egyptians, stormed a nightclub aptly named the “Queen Boat”—yes, the irony of that name has never escaped me, and arrested 50 plus patrons. They put them in jail, interrogated them, beat them up, tortured them, forced them to “confess” on tape whether they were tops or bottoms, and subjected them to “forensic” exams to see if they were “used”. These exams were based on discredited methods from 18^th century France that basically said if a man has a funnel shaped anus, that is an indication that he has been habitually anally penetrated. OK, how many of you went to look in the mirror at your anus? Come on…fess up!!

Jokes aside, these men’s lives were destroyed, their families disowned them, their names were published in the papers, and they were left to rot in jail. Some of them were my friends; and some of the ones that were helping them on the outside were also my friends. It became clear that it was dangerous for me to continue living in Egypt, as an out gay man at least, but I had no choice. Fate had other plans for me in the form of a loving family that hosted me back in 1996 in Chicago. I was telling my host mother, from here on out referred to as Mom, the events that transpired in Egypt, in the hopes she can impart any advice. What came in the mail three days later was a plane ticket to Chicago, and an opportunity that I could not pass by. So, June 11^th, 2001, I moved to the United States, and I have not been back to Cairo ever since.

Nine years passed, and I went from a tourist, to an asylum seeker, to a permanent resident, and finally, on June 17^th, 2010, to a man dressed in a suit, in a Federal courthouse, with my right hand raised, pledging an oath of loyalty to the United States, and allegiance to its flag. In the packed courtroom were 140 others taking the same oath, their families, and friends. With me were my Dad (my American father, and the man I owe my life and a huge debt of gratitude), my then partner Matthew, my then boy philip, and several of my coworkers who came to support me. Unfortunately, Mom was not with us as she had lost her battle with pancreatic cancer four year earlier. It was an incredibly momentous occasion for me, and probably the proudest day of my life. The saying goes that one cannot choose their family, but I did. The implication also is that you cannot choose where you are from, but I pretty much chose the location, culture, and language where I wanted to live as well. It was an accomplishment in the sense that I rolled with my life’s punches, played the cards that were dealt me, and accomplished something with it. I can now say that I have lived one third of my life in the United States of America. I guess that makes me two parts Egyptian, and one part American. That, my friends, is one hell of a cocktail, if I say so myself.

So, where am I going with this anthology of momentous occasion in my 33 years of life? As I said earlier, June this year has brought with it a slew of uninvited moments of self reflection. As I look at myself in the mirror and notice the abundance of white hairs making their presence known in patches on my beard, my mustache and my temples, I begin to reflect at my journey, and the person that I have become. I came here a frightened little mouse, with nothing but my suitcase and the kindness of others to sustain me. I still did not know who I am, and what I wanted to do with my life. Until that point, I had lived a pretty sheltered life, with well off parents (who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, and worked hard to get to a comfortable place in life), a great education in the best schools in Egypt, and a lifestyle that, while not lavish, was still better than 90% of the country. I was a mama’s boy, and I had no direction. Now, toughened by working hard; from mopping floors and stocking coolers, to a white collar job in international education, to student loans and mortgage debt, and building a life for myself, I am more comfortable in my own skin.

I have evolved into a dominant gay man, who has very strong opinions, and holds people to very high standards. In my efforts over the past several years to carve out a place for myself, I became friends with, and kept the company of many men that I did not particularly like, all in the hopes of achieving a sense of belonging. This year, I asserted myself and listened to that voice I have muffled and ignored for many years. I got tired of pretending, and exhausted from keeping the company of people that I thought very little of, and even loathed. My therapist, who I have seen on and off for the past ten years has marveled at this change; this evolution if you will. When he first met me, I was in an abusive relationship with a deadbeat alcoholic because I just wanted to feel loved. A few years later, I was in a relationship with a man that I loved dearly, but who cheated on me, and had his own demons that try as I might, I could not chase them away. And a year ago, when I went back to his couch, I was a man getting more comfortable with his own dominance, in a relationship with a man that brought out my self confidence, while allowing me to nurture and love him in return.

It’s not all fun and games of course, and I am by no means the ugly caterpillar that turned into a Monarch butterfly. I have had to cut ties with people, and I have had to assert myself, express my opinions and views even if that made me uncomfortable; and in the height of my Egyptian-ness, I have marked my territory, and stared men down with my best Achmed the Dead Terrorist impressions. Throughout this journey, the people that mattered, and my true friends have stood by me, shown their love and imparted their welcome advice. I am still growing, evolving, and discovering who I am as a person, as a man, and as a member of this community and society. But, I am more comfortable now than I have ever been, and I am grateful to all those who stood by me throughout my continuing journey.

June is a month of milestones and accomplishments. As I celebrate my 33^rd birthday, and coincidentally gay pride in Chicago, I know I will be looking forward to many more Junes, and many more accomplishments to come.

The Dash for the Sash

2012-06-04T15:53:00.000-05:00

As the mother of all leather contests wrapped up, and contestants headed back to their respective communities, I found myself contemplating the purpose behind these annual contests, and the rituals they spawned in our community. In his speech marking the opening ceremony for International Mr. Leather 2011 last year, I recall Chuck Renslow saying that this annual festival is not about choosing the best looking body, or the most handsome face, but it is about who is the most suitable ambassador for us as a community. In his opening remarks for IML 2012, Renslow stated, “What we do tonight right here in this room will be history by morning. The very fact that you are here in this room tonight is an amazing story. It is your story. I want to encourage you... each of you...to begin recording your personal history and the history of those around you.”

One of these statements talks about the winner of IML as an ambassador to the community at large, and the other places emphasis on the individual. The two of course go hand in hand, and speak of the tremendous impact one person can have on their individual family, local community, or even their international impact. However, these statements also make me ponder the reasons one would run for a title, and compete in such a contest. Does one run for the sake of their community, their state, or country? Or does one run for their own personal reasons? Or is it both?

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a, then acquaintance, as he was contemplating running for a leather title. When I asked him why he wanted the title, he recounted service to the community, elevating the status of the state in the larger community, and spouted off all these community service projects and events he would like to start. While I admired his—what I can only describe as nationalistic zeal—for his state and community, I remember looking him straight in the eye and saying, “fuck the community, why do YOU want the title?”

My question was not because I don’t believe in the importance of community service, and using one’s awarded title to make a difference in the community; because I do. And, as we have seen from the repertoire of community service projects this and past years’ contestants have, community service is a highly important aspect of any contestant’s resume. But, I do believe that running for a title is a very personal decision, and one has to have a solid foundation of personal reasons for seeking a title in order to be a strong and effective titleholder.

A couple of years ago I decided to run for a title, way before I was ready to I think. In discussing it with several friends and acquaintances, I was struck by one person in particular. I have since come to call that person Cartman. As I went through my spiel about running for the title, Cartman kept throwing me curveballs in order to dissuade me. I spouted off community service reasons, competing at IML, and other similar justifications. After listening, and interjecting liberally, Cartman finally yelled, “IT’S A BAR TITLE”. That comment alone jolted me out of this fantasy about winning that leather title. It is a bar title, and it is just a piece of leather with letters on it, that on their own do not mean a damn thing. It is the person that makes the sash. It is the person that makes the title.

Running for a title is an intimately personal decision. It takes courage, motivation, ego, pride, humility, and a whole other basket of contradictory emotions to want to run and win a leather (or any) title. Otherwise, why the hell would anyone want to subject themselves to a furor of scrutiny, judgment, hazing, and hundreds upon hundreds of people saying “this is what you should/shouldn’t do”?

It also takes honesty, clarity of vision, and most importantly, the ability of a person to cut through their own bullshit. Why did I run for a title a couple of years ago? In all honesty, I can say it was for validation. I was turning thirty, on the verge of becoming a US citizen, struggling to convince myself that I have found my place in the world, and wanting desperately to believe that I mattered. I wanted people to see me, and listen to me, want me, lust after me, and validate me. I said then that I wanted to use my experience as a gay asylee from Egypt to show others like me that was OK to be gay, into leather, and be out of the closet to your community, and family. I said I wanted to be a spokesperson and a role model for that cause. While this was true, the most important of all reasons…the deeply and intimately personal reason, was that I needed to be validated. I wanted this proverbial community to pat me on the back, hoist me over its shoulders, and hold my hands as I smashed through my insecurities, and validate my choices.

And you know something, that’s fine. Whatever one’s reasons for running are fine, because it is not I, or the next guy, or the bar owner, or the guy down the street that are up there on that stage. But own it! If you are running for a title because you want to have sex, and using the title is your ticket to getting laid, then own it. If you are fat, and want to run to validate your size, then own it. If you are insecure, and want the title to validate your life, and your decisions, your looks, or otherwise, then own it. If you want the title for visibility to promote a community service project, or draw attention to a cause, then own it. You don’t have to own it publicly, or acknowledge it on stage. But, you do (if you want to be a strong contestant), have to own it privately, to yourself, looking yourself in the mirror.

As we enjoy the lull between the end of IML and the fall contest season; and as current title holders continue their community work, or whatever it is they plan on doing with the rest of their year; I invite people to think of why they ran, or plan to run for a title. Cut the crap, scale your walls, and chisel away at the protective wall you built around your pride, and your insecurities. Because, at the end of the day, it is you naked (well, almost naked) on a stage in front of hundreds of people, being judged on who you are.

Reflections on International Mr. Leather (Den Daddies, Leather, and Sashes, Oh My!)

2012-05-31T12:31:00.001-05:00

The annual Hajj to the Leather Mecca has concluded, and everyone is in their post weekend afterglow, or hangover, depending on how the weekend went. I spent the International Mr. Leather XXXIV with my partner-boy michael working as part of an amazing team of Contestant Handlers. We spent it in the company of amazing, talented, motivated, funny, and exceptional group of people; not just title holders, but other Handlers, IML staff, and volunteers.

IML XXXVI held great meaning for me, and I am not immune to the after party nostalgia and reflection that plagues everybody after such a momentous weekend. Contestants, Handlers, and people that experience this weekend always say that IML changes lives. The assumption is that the change generally impacts those select few that competed, and are part of a fellowship/brotherhood of titleholders. For me, however, I can say that IML changed my life in a way that I never saw coming, and helped cement the notion I have that the people you meet, and the events one goes through in life have a reason, and a purpose; even if that reason or purpose is revealed years down the road.

Nine years ago I met my now ex-partner. We met online when he lived in another town, and several months later, after he moved to Chicago, we moved in together, and had what I thought was the relationship to last the rest of my life. As our lives progressed, and we learned more about our past, and people we know, I discovered that he knew, this hunky black man who works for this scary leather event called International Mr. Leather. That hunky black man called himself Den Daddy, and the black and white picture I saw showed him wearing black leather pants, a harness, six pack abs, and a mean look on his face that was both menacing and titillating.

A couple of year after first hearing about this Den Daddy, I met, and had a fling with a local title holder who was getting ready to compete at IML. Through him, I met by pure chance this menacing Den Daddy. He was not what I expected at all. He was friendly, inviting, and exuded an aura of familiarity and comfort. We chatted, and laughed at the connection we had. We remained casual acquaintances, and went about our daily lives, only crossing paths here and there. It wasn’t until three years later that our paths crossed again when a friend of mine who works with him said he had tickets to IML, and I got a chance to go with her.

IML XXXI was the first time I set foot in a leather event of that scale, visited the leather market, and socialized with leathermen from all walks of life and all corners of the world. To say that I was hooked would be a gross understatement. I was mesmerized, and I wanted to learn more about this world that felt both alien, and deliciously familiar. It was during that weekend that I also had the honor and privilege to witness Den Daddy receive a Pantheon of Leather award, and feel the tremendous pull of this leather world and community.

A year later I found myself competing for the Mr. Chicago Leather title. While I lost, I think the person that won was much more eloquent than I was during his speech, and had many more years than I did in the local leather scene. It was a great experience competing for that title, but the universe had other ideas for me. Through Den Daddy I found out about volunteering at IML, and getting involved in the community through other channels. So, IML XXXII saw me volunteering at the vendor market, and contest security. It was then that I met Mama (Sandy Reinhardt), and other amazing people that form the cornerstones of this vibrant, diverse, and interesting community. I wanted more, and I dug in deeper. I wasn’t a fly by night volunteer, who was in it to get laid. I was on a journey to find my place in the world, and this was my Yellow Brick Road (yes, I made a Wizard of Oz reference, although “yellow” here does not signify a fetish-HAHA!).

My friendship with Den Daddy continued, and I grew to think of him as a mentor, and a confidant. Through a twist of fate, I was invited to be a Contestant Handler at IML XXXIII. To say the experience was exhilarating would be an understatement. I was both honored, and terrified of the responsibility. I was part of a group of amazing men who’s sole responsibility is to prep and assist a group of 53 contestants in their bid for the International Mr. Leather 2011 title. Being on that team brought out of me my nurturing, caring, and commanding nature. I learned more about myself in those three days than I thought possible. It would not be a complete stretch to say that I grew in those three days as a person, and I left that hotel much more confident than I have ever felt.

Then another unexpected thing happened. There was one contestant, number 17, who came up to me asking for help in fixing a miniscule scratch on his leather jockstrap right before the Pecs & Personality portion of the competition. After trying to reassure him in every way I can that no one will even see it on stage, I directed him to the bootblack who touched it up with a sharpie. He was so focused on the contest, and performing well on stage. He needed to let loose, and relax. So, while he was standing there with nothing but a jockstrap, I came up behind him, and bit him gently on the back, over his tattoo on the lower right side. “Don’t bite me, I have to go on stage” were his famous words before filing out with the other contestants.

That guy went on to place 6^th, and we all went our separate ways after the contest ended. A couple of weeks later, we connected again on Facebook, and I went to visit him a month and a half later. That man today is my partner/boy, and the true love of my life. I feel a connection with him that I have never felt with anyone before. It is safe to say that he is my lover, soul mate, and friend. To say that the last year for both of us was life changing would only slightly begin to describe it. After nine years, I ended my relationship with my then partner. And even though we are best friends, and still live together, my life has forever changed. The same goes for my boy, and the changes, trials, and tribulations that he went through over the past year.

Between IML XXXIII and IML XXXIV, we both traveled to different states, and he judged several contests, helping choose the titleholders that would compete in Chicago in May 2012. As fate would have it, he passed his sash on to his roommate to compete this year as well. So, we both used our experience, and our perspective to help choose, mentor, and nurture a new class of contestants to represent our larger community at IML.

The story does not end there of course. In another act of awesomeness, Den Daddy invited both of us to join the IML XXXIV Contestant Handler team. It was an incredible experience for both of us, and brought our journey together full circle. In that handling room, as we rushed around helping our brothers, I took the time to give him a commemorative bite, in the same spot on his back, in the same spot in the room where he was standing a year ago.

IML changes lives. I know it changed my life in ways that I never expected. One does not have to be a contestant to experience the change that this contest, and the sense of love, and community it bestows on those in attendance. Yes, there are people in that mammoth hotel that go there just for the partying and the sex, and have no idea about the rich history and ritual that takes place a few floors away. The sex, the dancing, the market, that is not IML for me. To me, that weekend is exactly how I described it in my opening sentence: a Hajj, a pilgrimage, a sacred ritual and a calling. IML changed my life; and while I still struggle with my sense of belonging in the world, I know I am a part of this community.

Reflections on Finding Love, True Friendship, and People Who Don’t Matter!!

2012-01-11T15:49:00.001-06:00

Last weekend my boyfriend and I had a wonderful dinner with a dear friend. This was the second time I met her, and she has quickly made her way into my heart, and I think I made my way into hers. She was already a dear friend to my boyfriend, and knew him when he was married. It was a great dinner, and we talked about everything under the sun, including religion (which we remarked shouldn’t be discussed in polite conversation). At the end of the dinner, our dear friend remarked that seeing my boyfriend and I together, and how in love we are, brings her great joy. She has seen such a difference in my boyfriend, and she knows he is happy. She was happy for him…happy for us, and wanted to have dinner again soon. It was a wonderful validation (not that we needed one) to what had been an otherwise arduous public introduction of our relationship.

The next day I met my boyfriend’s parents for the first time. Even though we had been dating for almost five months, he only mentioned me to them the weekend before. They were receptive and eager to meet me. Like any good Egyptian, I insisted that I could not go to dinner empty handed, and proceeded to search for a gift that would best represent me to his parents, and make a good first impression. After searching high and low, and cursing Barnes & Noble for not having the book I wanted (Egypt: A View From Above), I settled on putting together a basket of Middle Eastern desserts for them. I even baked a dessert (and almost burned the thing). The dinner went well, and we had a great time discussing everything from fishing, their house, shooting a raccoon five times and it still didn’t die, the Republican primaries, and my boyfriend when he had hair. A great time was had by all, and we went home relaxed and feeling the love and support of our friends and family.

Dinner with our friend, and my boyfriend’s family led me to reflect on our relationship, and both the positive and negative receptions we have experienced since we publicly announced our love to one another. It seems that everyone we knew, and did not know had an opinion on the subject. Our close friends, and those who knew each of us, either individually, or as a couple mostly expressed their support and love. Some were curious and wanted to know the circumstances behind our breakups from our previous relationships, but also made sure they expressed their support. Some others were not as supportive, and through Facebook chose to de-friend either one of us without so much as an explanation or a goodbye. What was also more baffling to both of us was that those we knew casually, or barely knew at all, seemed to have very strong opinions about us, our relationship, and proceeded to judge us publicly, and privately, but not to our face. There was plenty of mudslinging, slander, and rumors, and hearsay floating around, all very toxic, and quite disheartening.

A close friend and confidant of mine once told me that other people’s opinions about me are none of my business. In other words, I should not dwell too much on what others think of me as long as I am comfortable and happy with myself. That is good advice, but also very hard to follow. In a world of Facebook, and in a community where your boyfriend is a public figure, it is very difficult to ignore people’s opinions. What is important, however, is not to let people’s opinions, either negative or positive, influence your actions and being true to yourself. I try to remind myself of this as much as possible. In going through my breakup, and in watching my boyfriend go through his, I often questioned if I was a good person, and if all the negative things people were saying about me were true. If so many people are repeating it, then it must be true, right?! I don’t think they are true, and ultimately, I can look at myself in the mirror and be proud of who I am, and confident in my actions and motivations. I do not know what motivates people who don’t know me that well to formulate and disseminate opinions about whom I love, and choose to be in a relationship with, especially when these same individuals are not so puritanical themselves.

My boyfriend and I are very active in the leather and kink community in the Midwest, and around the country. It is not a conventional community, and it celebrates all forms of love, and preaches acceptance, tolerance, and inclusion. It is a wonderful community of brotherhood, fellowship, and support. Being part of this community has given me confidence, strength of character, and also helped shape who I am today. So, when we experience vicious personal attacks, backroom gossip, and alienation from people in this community, it is both sad and disheartening. The people that know us and love us have been nothing but supportive, and continue encourage our love to blossom. Those who do not know us, and for some reason thrive on backstabbing and slandering us, will eventually fade into oblivion and become irrelevant. This community is big enough for all of us to exist in, thrive, and spread love and joy to those deserving individuals around us. There is plenty of room for the lovers, and the haters, and we are both volunteering in our community for the greater good, and to spread love.

I am who I am as an individual! As a couple, we are who we are as well. I am a good person, and so is my boyfriend. We are a strong, loving couple, who love and support one another. I am not less compassionate and humane as I have been described by some. I continue to live with my ex boyfriend who is my best friend, and one of my staunchest supporters and allies. I consider myself lucky to be surrounded by so many amazing people who love and support me. My chosen family, my leather family, and my true friends who bless me every day with their love and presence in my life continue to remind me of how incredibly fortunate I am. The Egyptian kid who came here with nothing is a good man, and will continue to be a good man. I am truly blessed to have found true love, and will continue to honor and celebrate it. Love deeply, laugh loudly, and continue to be proud of who you are…I know I definitely am!!

Leap of F****

2011-12-10T09:49:00.001-06:00

I woke up today in a pretty reflective mood. To be honest, I am sick and tired of all this reflection, and just want to turn my brain off and just be. However, I am a pretty brooding and contemplative person, and I can’t possibly deny myself that. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself after all. So, I write with the hopes of organizing these thoughts in my head, and trying to make sense of it all.

I can’t help but contemplate where I came from, and where I am going. I think of ten or fifteen years ago, and trace my progress all the way to sitting here writing this post. I took some pretty drastic leaps to get to where I am today. For a person who does not believe in a higher power, I think I took some pretty dramatic leaps of faith. Actually, I don’t think I had anything but hope, and the desire to accomplish something, or get myself to a certain place to guide me through the past fifteen years of my life. It’s brilliant that any of my grand plans worked, even though they didn’t go off without a hitch like I wanted them to.

In 1995, I was attending a private high school called Thebes (yes, it’s a pretty cliché name) on the outskirts of Cairo. It was built against rolling sand dunes, with no air conditioning, and nowhere to go if a student wanted to skip class and bum around. It was either class, or the blazoning hot sun, and the autocratic teachers that despised being there just like the students did.

It was a typical day just like any other. As I was leaving class for recess, I noticed a flier on the wall about going to the United States. I had never traveled out of Egypt before, and my only knowledge of the U.S. was gained through watching movies and the ever popular soap operas that played on TV. I grew up watching Falcon Crest, Knots Landing, and I am ashamed to admit, the Bold and the Beautiful too. The flier was for a program by the American Field Service (AFS), and advertized living with an American host family for an academic year while attending high school. Intrigued, and pretty excited about the possibility, I took the flier home and showed it to my father. As he always does in his doubtful and condescending way, my father told me to apply and see what happens.

I passed the English test, as well as the interview, and called my father on his promise to seriously consider sending me on the program. I found out that he didn’t think I really had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting accepted, and now had to eat his words. He met with the program administrators, and before we both knew it, he shelled out the $6000 program fee, and the idea became a reality. If I think about it, I must have been crazy or desperate at the time. Or, it could have been just one more step in the journey to find my place in life, and belong somewhere. I had never left Egypt, never traveled without my family except on a fieldtrip with school to Luxor in southern Egypt, and I didn’t even have a passport.

The closer the program start date approached, the more I got nervous. I had no idea where I was placed in the US, or who my host family was. At the beginning of August the program called to ask if I was OK being placed with a divorced man with no children. Faced with an imminent start date, I said yes, and made the journey to Chicago with nothing but hope to guide me. It was a pretty drastic leap of faith.

The divorced guy turned out to me a complete asshole, and I did not last in his home for more than two weeks. My room was his office, and I slept on the sleeper sofa. He thought Egyptians slept on the floor in tents in the desert, and expected me to clean after his blind cat that pooped all over his condo. I was upset, and I was scared that leaving his home would mean I had to go back to Egypt in a proverbial flight of shame. But that did not happen! I complained to my program counselor, and expressed my disappointment and anger at my placement with a person I did not think should be hosting me, or anyone else for that matter.

A few days later I was moved to the home of a family that had hosted ten students before me. It was a temporary placement until the program found me a permanent home. As it turned out, I stayed in that home for the duration of the program. The elder couple sitting in the kitchen with a way-too-large table piled high with books would become my Mom and Dad for the next 15 years…well past the end date of my program. They were the best thing that had ever happened to me, and they would continue to influence me for the second half of my life.

Fast forward to 2001, when once again I had to take a leap of faith that would change my life forever. I had just graduated collage with a BA in Political Science, and feeling around in the dark trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. At the same time, the police took it upon themselves to crack down on gays in Egypt, and prosecute them like murderers and terrorists. Friends and other acquaintances were arrested, thrown in jail, their names and addresses published in the papers, their lives destroyed, and their families disowned them. Gay men in Egypt lived day to day, looking over their shoulders, and wondering if they were going to be next. Teenage gay men chatting online were baited by undercover policemen, and arrested. Lives were destroyed, and families were decimated.

I remember calling my Mom and Dad on the phone to tell them what was happening in Cairo. I had come out to them three years earlier and they were more supportive than my biological family was (my father sent me to reparative therapy). A few days later, I received a FedEx envelope containing a plane ticket to Chicago. It was an invitation to take a leap of faith; to take a gamble and see what the future may hold. I sold some of my belongings, packed my suitcase, and came to Chicago with $500 in my pocket, and no plan. But, I had an incredible, loving, and supportive family that watched out over me, and guided me in my new path. I ended up seeking political asylum, and never returning to Egypt again.

Eleven years later, I am sitting here, reflecting on taking drastic leaps of faith that, while were not easy, I believe changed my life for the better. The truth is, we take leaps of faith every day, some larger than others. We have no way of knowing if the leaps we take will change our lives for the better, or bring us closer to happiness. Yet, we take these leaps, and live in the hopes that being true to our selves….going with our guts…or, if you will, a belief in a higher power, be it Jesus, Allah, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or Shiva will guide us and help us through. Faith is not a four letter word, yet sometimes we treat it as such. I can’t help but think that if I had not taken a leap of faith 15 years ago, I would have been dead by my own hands, or those of the police in Egypt. I can’t help but think that had I not taken a leap of faith, the amazing family I met in 1995 would have never come into my life, and I would have been much poorer for it. They influenced my life in ways that I could never have fathomed.

As I sit at yet another canyon in my life, I have nothing but faith guiding me. Faith in the idea that if I am true and honest with myself, then I am on the right path…wherever it pay lead!!

On Loss and Belonging!!

2011-12-07T11:16:00.001-06:00

I’ve been thinking about the concept of “belonging” for some time now. It is a thought that comes to mind several times a year actually, but this time it has visited me for longer than usual, and is overstaying it’s welcome like a an enormous, and gluttonous relative, staying on my couch, consuming my food.

I have always struggled to belong, whether it was to a community, to a family, or to a group of friends. The thought of belonging recently visited me as I made my weekly treks back and forth, to and from Chicago to visit my boyfriend. This has been the routine for the past several months, and while I have become accustomed to my semi-gypsy lifestyle, and living out of a suitcase for the weekend, it has been compounded by the feelings of loss—of the familiar warm of the 9 year relationship that just ended, and the increased feeling of loss of family; my natural family, my American family that has struggled to keep it’s cohesion after Mom died (at least from where I am standing), and the loss of my “in-laws” whom I considered my family for the past 9 years even though we only saw each other over the holidays, and exchanged gifts that ended up in their garage, re-gifted, or in the bottom of my closet.

Two weeks ago, while sleeping on the bus on the way to Iowa for my weekly trek, I received a call from my mother. It has been a while since we talked (I believe it must have been a month or so), and my mother started the conversation playfully admonishing me for not calling her. She wasn’t completely being playful of course. One thing my mother is really good at is covering passive aggression with humor. Sometimes she just downright drops the passivity, and just uses humor and laughter to cover her aggression and disappointment. At 62 years old, I can understand her disappointment in the fact that I do not call her often. It is bad enough that I have been disappointing her for the past I-don’t-know however many years since I had the capacity to disappoint. But I just had to up n’go 11 odd years ago, and never return.

We talked about all that is happening in Egypt, and the upcoming elections. She had been on my case about getting the newly issued government ID card, and I have been blowing her off for the past several years. She asked me what I thought of what was going on, and I expressed my views, but also said I had no intention of voting. The government had recently allowed Egyptians living abroad to vote in local elections—the first such action to ever take place. So, Egyptians abroad have all been gung-ho about voting, except me. I then said something I had never vocalized ever before; I told my mother, it is not my fight. Even as I type these words right now, tears are welling up in my eyes. It is how I feel, and I am incredibly sad about it.

Growing up in Egypt, I had often fantasized about this moment in Egyptian history. A vivid

memory I have is of sitting in a car, heading east on Cairo’s 6^th of October Bridge, passing by the Cairo Museum of Antiquities, and having this random thought or fantasy about overthrowing Mubarak, and leading the country through the path to democracy. I couldn’t have been more than 12 at the time. After living a year in the United States when I was 16, and returning to Cairo for college, I even fantasized about toppling the Mubarak regime, and adopting a U.S. style constitution that would allow Egyptians the same freedoms and liberties afforded to my now adopted country.

It is now not my fight, and it makes me sad. I have lived in Chicago now for close to 11 years. I haven’t been back to Egypt since. I saw my family only once since leaving, and that was 6 years ago, in Paris for five days. It was one of the most bizarre and stressful five days I have experienced with my family, and it ruined my Parisian experience (I still need a Paris do-over!). After living an open life in Chicago for five years, I spent five days back in the closet, and I hated every moment of it. I loved seeing my mother, sister, my then one year old nephew, and it was good to see my father. But I longed to go back home…to Chicago, where I can be myself again, with my American family, and my boyfriend of two years.

A lot has happened since that week in Paris. Yet, it seems that a lot of things have not changed. My mother asked me what was new in my life, and I could not tell her. When I talked to my mother on the phone, I often think of Anne Bancroft in Torch Song Trilogy. The scene in the cemetery after Arnold buried his partner. She yells, “you cheated me out of your life, then blame me for not being there!” That is how I often define my relationship with my mother. What is new in my life? How about, I am on a bus, heading to see my boyfriend, who I have been seeing for the past few months, and I love him so much it hurts. I have recently ended my relationship with my boyfriend of 9 years; the man I own property with, and have loved and taken care of, and thought I would grow old and decrepit with. How about, I need a hug Mama, and I feel lost, and I don’t know what to do, and I could really use some solid motherly advice, and to hear you say everything is going to be OK? How about, telling me I am doing the right thing…or challenge me to think about my actions?

But that is neither here nor there, and I just solider on. I feel like a complete stranger sometimes; and recently, a lot of the time, even though I have made this place my home. Over the past four years, my then boyfriend and I bought a beautiful two bedroom condo together, and have spent our time, money, and energy making it into a stylish and welcoming home. I look around now, and despite the warm and welcoming Douglas-Fir adorned with warm Christmas lights, and natural ornaments that we made together, it feels like a shell of its old glory. We still live together, and have separate bedrooms now. The mere act of separating rooms, while necessary, is a constant reminder of the failure of what was supposed to be a lifetime together. I spent almost 9 of the 11 years living here defining myself as part of this relationship. It was by no means a perfect partnership, and we, like everyone else, have had our ups and our down. We have had our issues, and we have struggled with infidelities, insecurities, love, and pain. At the end of the day, he was my family, and my home. His family was also my family, and as we wade through the breakup, I can’t help but mourn the loss of my place in that family. I haven’t seen them in two years or so, but their presence in the background of my life was…reassuring! They relied on me, and still do it seems, to give them the skinny on what is happening in my ex’s life, since he is terrible at communicating with them. He is terrible at communicating, period. As we live together, I feel like I have to struggle with this lack of communication, since, as he put it, he doesn’t have the obligation to work on his communication now that we are not in a relationship any more. In a way, I feel like I am living in wake...that I am constantly in visitation mode of the open casket that is our dead relationship; and I am administering CPR to a corpse.

As I prepare to purchase my weekend bus ticket, I can’t help but think that I am living in purgatory on so many levels. I leave the home that I have built, to go be with my boyfriend, who also has left the home he has built, and is living in a home he doesn’t particularly like. I leave that at the end of the weekend, to go back to the home I have here, and to my job, which despite being good at it, is not that interesting; and I spend the days counting down to being back on the bus. The highlight of it all is being with my boyfriend. I feel home with him, despite our recent struggles, and the obstacles we have to overcome to be together. But, I then have to leave him at the end of the weekend, and come back to the home that is a shadow of what it used to be.

There are a lot of muddled thoughts in this post. I talk about Egypt, family, and boyfriends. I am conscious of the fact that I haven’t fully developed each thought completely. It is overwhelming to think of it all; but these thoughts rush through my mind on a daily basis. I struggle with the feelings of belonging and of loss…I lost a big part of me when I came to the realization that the struggles in Egypt are not mine anymore. I struggle with the feelings of belonging and loss when I wake up in the morning at home, faced with the relationship that I ended. I struggle with the feelings of belonging and loss when I get on the bus at the end of the weekend. I long to end this tenure in purgatory, and to find my path home where I belong.

The Epic Tale of Prince Für Bubble

2011-11-29T20:52:00.001-06:00

Our prince had a funny name; one that gained him notoriety, and in some instances caused him great anguish and ridicule. Price Heinz Für Bubble was born to King Für Bubble , and a peasant, simple woman after a secret love affair his father had during his legendary conquests in the Southlands. At first, the King tried to keep the Prince a secret and hide him away from public. No one knew of the Prince’s existence, and he never bonded with his mother or his father. Unfortunately, that also meant that he had no friends, and as he grew older, he found that he was unable to interact with the people around him. In fact, the young monarch preferred long strolls by himself in the woods, and being surrounded by nature.

As he grew older in years, King Für Bubble was anxious for a son to take on his name and his kingdom. All his wives had failed to bear him any children. It became apparent to the King that he must acknowledge his son, and only heir, Prince Heinz Für Bubble. In one fell swoop, Prince Heinz was plucked from obscurity, taken away from his isolation in the country, and brought to the King’s court, as his only son and future King. In an elaborate ceremony, Prince Heinz was paraded down the streets, dressed in the finest silks, and surrounded by servants and guards. He was escorted to the palace, where he walked to his father’s throne, kissed his father’s ring, and kneeled in front of him. King Für Bubble looked at his son whom he had not seen since he was an infant, and felt nothing. Unfortunately, he did not have a choice, and time was not on his side. He was stuck with Prince Heinz, the heir to his throne and the keeper of his legacy. King Für Bubble stood up, and announced to his court, “I present to you, my heir, your future King, Heinz Für Bubble”.

Now, being an outsider, and not fully of royal blood, Prince Heinz did not have an easy transition into royal life. Despite being the heir to the throne, Prince Heinz was teased, and constantly reminded of his peasant mother. He was called names, and was constantly referred to as Prince Hiney, a cross between Heinz, and Highness. It was bad enough having a name like Für Bubble, but now he was Prince Hiney Für Bubble.

Of course this was a magical, and quite unusual kingdom. There were people, but also magical creatures, and they all lived side by side in relative harmony. It was not unusual for humans and magic-folk to marry and live together. Since this was obviously an inclusive society, gay and straight people and magic-folk were also welcomed and accepted. In general this inclusivity allowed everyone to live in harmony with one another. This also meant that as ruler, King Für Bubble had to include magic folk in his court. The easiest and most traditional way to do this was to marry a magic creature from the kingdom. This was very unfortunate news for Prince Hiney and his future as King. One of the first things his father insisted on was that his son choose a mate.

In the first few weeks in the palace, it became apparent to everyone that Prince Hiney Für Bubble was gay. This was not an issue for most people, but it brought King Für Bubble great sorrow, and caused him distress. The worst part of it all was that the gay magic creature population was not that large. So, Prince Hiney’s choices were quite limited. Worst still was that his father took it upon himself to choose Prince Hiney’s mate. It was a purely political decision, and designed to keep the peace in the kingdom, and the magic folk happy. After some consideration, King Für Bubble decided that his son would marry the King’s long trusted advisor and confidant, a satyr named Agamemnon.

The courtship between Prince Hiney Für Bubble and Agamemnon was unusual. As Prince Hiney grew up without a father figure, it was easy for Agamemnon to take on that role, as well as the role of his future husband. Agamemnon was the father, advisor, and controller of decisions. The wedding was lavish, elaborate, and celebrated for days by people, satyrs and other magic folks all over the kingdom. It was a fairytale wedding fit for a fairytale kingdom.

Throughout it all Prince Hiney Für Bubble was happy, but also melancholy. He always felt like an outsider, and he longed to walk back in the forest, barefoot and free. He missed the sound of birds singing, the gentle breeze on his cheeks, and the rustling of the leaves in the woods. Following the wedding, he took the opportunity that Agamemnon was away with King Für Bubble and went back to his old home, a cottage on the edge of the forest.

At sunrise, Prince Hiney Für Bubble left the cottage, and entered the forest to enjoy a long walk. He walked a few feet, closed his eyes, felt the breeze brush against his body and took a long, and deep breath. Intoxicated from the refreshing country air, Prince Hiney staggered, and started to fall back. He was overwhelmed and started to cry. Grasping for something to brace his fall, Prince Hiney reached behind him, and yanked at the first object his hands reached. He heard a loud growl, and he immediately jumped with fear and alarm.

Prince Hiney looked around with alarm at the source of the growl. His eyes immediately fell on a creature that can only be described as a serpent. He had a long curved neck, a thick body, and skin that was smooth, golden, and glistening in the early morning light. The serpent, despite his intimidating size, had a kind face. He was not growling anymore, but was staring intently at Prince Für Bubble with kind, piercing eyes.

The connection between them was instant and undeniable. Prince Für Bubble was drawn to the serpent, walked up to him, and caressed his neck. He looked him in the eye, and asked his name. The serpent said he did not have one, and told Prince Für Bubble that he is welcome to choose one for him. After thinking long and hard about a name, and since the serpent reminded the prince of the magical and illusive Loch Ness Monster, he decided to call the serpent Nessy.

Prince Für Bubble and Nessy walked in the forest and talked for hours. The prince recounted his story to Nessy, and his burden as future king. Nessy listened and comforted the prince, and empathized with his plight. Prince Für Bubble also confided in Nessy about his feelings about Agamemnon. While he respected him, he really did not love him, and did not want to be married to him. He felt trapped and did not know what he can do. Nessy listened intently, and reminded Prince Für Bubble that he is the future king, and the master of his own destiny. As a ruler, he is responsible for his people and for their wellbeing. But, how can he rule his people if he cannot control his own destiny.

Nessy was a wise and magical creature. He had traveled from a far away land where people did not take kindly to magical creatures and his kin were slaughtered. He had escaped with the help of kind and loving people in Prince Für Bubble’s kingdom and lived a reclusive life in the forest. He knew firsthand what it feels like to not have control of one’s life, and the sacrifices that one must make in order to move a few steps closer to happiness. As a magical creature he had the ability to share part of himself with others. Nessy took Prince Für Bubble’s hands, and placed them on his body. With all his might, Nessy transferred part of his will, strength, and his spirit to Prince Für Bubble. It was all Nessy could do help the prince in his quest to find happiness.

It was dark when they finally stopped talking. They were both tired, but they did not want to leave each other’s side. Prince Für Bubble climbed on top of Nessy and he rode him all night long until they reached the cottage, just as the sun was rising. It was the dawn of a new day, and Prince Für Bubble knew that he must return to the palace and face Agamemnon. He must take control and take his place as future king and ruler of his Kingdom. He was going to take Nessy back with him. They were forever connected, and their bonds would never be broken. Their future was strong, and bright, and they were going to rule it together.

This is the epic tale of a prince and his loving relationship with a mysterious and magical creature. It is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all imaginary, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

On Finding God!!

2011-11-25T21:37:00.001-06:00

I am not a religious man, that much has been a constant fact in my life for the past fifteen years. Until I found God…

When I wake up and look at you lying next to me, I know I have found God.

When I gaze into your beautiful green eyes in the morning, I know I have found God.

When you reach over and touch my face, and run your fingers across my chest, I know I have found God.

I look at your body; your perfectly sculpted muscles, the fur covering your chest, your muscular legs, and your muscular back, and I know I have found God.

I listen to you speak, and say “good morning baby”, and I know I am the luckiest man in the world to wake up next to you. It is a gift from God!

I look back at where my life has been before I met you, and I know that it was all a journey designed by God to find you. I think of this child in his school uniform, sitting in a hot classroom on the edge of the pyramids, feeling lost, like he does not belong, and I know my life was destined to be different.

I think of my summer vacations watching American movies on TV, and practicing my English, while the rest of the neighborhood kids rode their bicycles outside, and I know that it was all practice for a greater purpose.

I remember my journey here as a teenager, away from my family, on my first foray into independence; and I know that it was the first step in the quest to find you.

I recall the struggles I faced as a young adult, finding my way in the world, learning to speak my mind, and discovering my inner voice. It was all part of a greater plan…a grand design!

It was through the depth of the darkness of my toughest hours, when I resigned to end my life, that I heard your voice…a hint from God to stay strong, and continue on my journey.

I’ve been living my life, the “American Dream” for the past ten years, getting swept away in this arduous existence, and forgetting my purpose. God had forgotten about me, it seemed. Or, perhaps He was just testing me to see if I was strong enough, and worthy enough for you.

I questioned my existence several times in the past years. My parents always said that I should strive to make a difference in the world; that I was special, and should not settle for an ordinary life. They believed that a person’s life is measured by his accomplishments and the impact he makes in the world. I questioned my worth, and my purpose in the wake of these beliefs, and struggled to hold on to the knowledge that God had a higher purpose for me.

I almost gave up over and over, and over again. Yet, every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew that I was being sustained by a higher power for a reason. I had no idea what that reason was, or how long my journey was going to be.

Until I finally met you…

I look at you and I know that God exists, and that my whole life has been a journey. I was set on a path that began at birth to find you. This adventure called life was nothing but a road map leading to this moment in time when our souls unite.

You have reignited my belief in God. Your physical beauty is a testament to the existence of a higher power. Your magnificent soul is proof that the creator exists, and is a part of you. When you sing, your voice pulls at my heart strings, and I believe with all my being in the divine.

When I look at you, I am filled with incredible joy. When I gaze into your eyes, I am filled with astounding beauty. When you hold me in your arms, my soul is filled with love.

Indeed, you do exist, and I am lucky to have you in my life.

I worship you!!

Aunty Mood!

2011-11-23T15:52:00.004-06:00

My Aunty Mood visited me this weekend. It was a very unexpected, and I have to say quite an unpleasant visit as well. Aunty Mood does not visit me often, and when she does, it is always an exercise in patience, and a challenge to control my temper. Since we don’t see each other often, when Aunty Mood visits we always have to rehash things from her last visit, and I have to recount everything that took place since I last saw her.

Aunty Mood has a very strong presence in my family. She is revered by both sides, yet no one wants to claim her. As a matter of fact, I am not entirely sure if she’s from my father or mother’s side of the family. Sometimes, during one of Aunty Mood’s unexpected visits, I look at her and I could swear that she is from my mother’s side of the family. On these visits you could tell her temper is just lurking beneath the surface, and she looks at you like she is about to slit your throat, or suck your blood. She reminds me a lot of my mother when she is angry, or that one time my grandmother beat me with her flip flops all over my body and head because I did something extremely stupid; I was eight years old. But, I digress! Other times, Aunty Mood visits and I can see my father in her. It is as if they are twins, or are cut from the same cloth. In times like these, Aunty Mood is cool, calm, and collected. She stares at you with steel blue cold eyes. Her words are calculated, logical, and sting like frost bite in a blizzard. I dread these visits because you know Aunty Mood aims below the belt, and she knows exactly how to get you…and she gets you real good!!

It is not all fire and brimstone though! Sometimes Aunty Mood is in a playful state of mind. She will drop by and just joke around. I am always fascinated by how she can still makes jabs at me (the same jabs that if she were in a foul mood would sting), but can make them fun and playful at the same time when she is in a good mood. These comments are not hurtful, but they still ring loud and clear. It is times like these when Aunty Mood reminds me of an old drag queen. You know she can cut you down where you stand with one strike of her stuck on nails; yet she does not. She scratches the surface, just enough to leave a mark, but leaves you unharmed. Her jokes are funny, but they still leave you reflecting about the truth behind them. You laugh, but you also wonder what would have happened if Aunty Mood was not feeling so playful that day. You breathe deeply, wipe the sweat from your brow, and mutter to yourself, “oh, it’s just my Aunty Mood. What can you do?!”

This last visit, however, I could not really tell what state of mind Aunty Mood was in. When she first dropped by, unannounced I might add, I scrambled to prepare for her. She was all smiles, and very pleasant that I almost wondered if she was drunk or high, or something. I couldn’t really gauge if I should sit with her, or duck for cover. It became clear that she was planning on staying for a couple of days, and that I would have to work my weekend plans around her. This was not so bad at first as it seemed she was in a playful and fun mood. And when Aunty Mood is playful, you better play along and hope for the best! Her attitude was mild, and her jokes were surprisingly funny. Even her jabs were not too jabby, and her taunts were not too taunty. I was thanking the gods that my Aunty Mood was fun to be around...the first time this has happened in a long time!

The situation quickly changed the next day, and Aunty Mood, after a pleasant morning, turned into a raging dragon intent on turning everyone in its path into a flaming marshmallow. She smiled, but it was a razor sharp upturn of her lips that sent ice cold chills down your back. She laughed, but the edge was so jagged and shrill that it stung your very soul, and left you longing for death. When she gazed at you with her penetrating eyes, you saw your life flash in front of you, and you saw your desolate future crumble in front of you. All this was still tolerable, and not a completely foreign occurrence…but, then she finally erupted!!

When Aunty Mood erupts, she makes that volcano in Iceland with the name no one can spell, or pronounce look like a fine spring day. Aunty Mood’s ash cloud not only covers your body, but it penetrates your soul and turns it into a desolate and hollow void in the center of your being. When Aunty Mood shouts, your entire past, present, and future tremble, and you long for the protection of your mother’s womb, or the comfort of your future coffin. No sound proof box can contain the shrill of her voice, and her shattering words that engulf everything in its path. Luckily, her eruption didn’t last very long this time around. It was fifteen minutes of excruciating duck-and-cover. I was in both shock, and in awe of the might of Aunty Mood’s wrath. In the end, I was glad my life was spared, and the hurricane passed, leaving sunny skies in its wake.

Aunty Mood finally left, and my world returned to normal. I felt like celebrating, but in the back of my mind I did not want to rejoice too much so as not to tempt her into coming back. In reflecting back at the weekend, I will have to admit that I do love my Aunty Mood…sometimes! She keeps life interesting, and she reminds me of how truly lucky and blessed I am that I do not see her that often. It is visits like these by Aunty Mood that remind me of how beautiful the world is, and that life is simply as complicated as we choose to make it. I do not know how Aunty Mood came to be who she is today. I really don’t want to know either. I am just glad that she doesn’t grace me with her presence often.

Until next time, Aunty Mood!!

Insecures Anonymous

2011-11-18T14:19:00.078-06:00

Names, characters, places, and incidents are all imaginary, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Ahmad: Hello, my name is Ahmad, and this is my first meeting!

In unison: Hello Ahmad, welcome.

Moderator: Welcome Ahmad to your first meeting. We generally go around the room, and allow each one to talk about themselves, and why they believe they are so insecure, and how they compensate or cope with it. Since you are new, we can have you go last. The rules are simple; be honest, be respectful, do not interrupt…but passive aggressive eye rolling, or body posture is allowed. I mean, we’re not perfect, and the least we can do is judge each other silently. Again, welcome, and we are pleased to have you!

So, let’s begin! Who would like to go first?

Josh: I’ll go, first. Hello, my name is Josh, and I am an insecure…or am I? I don’t know, sometimes I think I am fine, and it’s people around me who just have to deal with how great I am. But other times I just get so lonely, and so upset that no one is giving me attention and I just…you know…I, I…I…what am I trying to say?! I guess, I just can’t help but put myself out there in order to cover up my vulnerabilities and feelings of insecurities. So, I travel a lot, right? Awesome…I mean, I love it! I love being able to just hook up with guys everywhere I go. I have friends all over the country, and I know I can fuck any of them any time I travel. It’s awesome really. I guess if I have to be completely honest, I would say that’s how I deal with my insecurities. I need to sleep with as many guys as possible in order to feel validated, and make sure that people really like me. I have so many great friends…they’re more than friends, really; they are more like my family. But I feel like if I don’t fuck them, that our relationship is not that important. I guess I know it’s wrong, but that’s just how I deal with it, I guess.

Moderator: Alright then! Thank you Josh. Everyone, please just keep your feedback to yourself for now. I noticed several eye rolls as Josh was talking; but remember, we are all insecure, and show it in different ways. Who wants to go next?

Greg: Alright, I guess I will try to follow horn dog over here! My name is Greg, and I am an insecure. I am insecure because the world does not recognize how smart I am. I have been mistreated and unappreciated in my work, and I just don’t think they value the caliber of work that I do for them. I like things in order, and I like people to do things the way I want, in the order I want them. I make lists all the time for things I want done, and I call or email it to people. I find that I keep things in check better that way. I’ve lost relationships that way, but it is ultimately not my fault. I think if people appreciated me more, they would realize that what I am doing is best, and they should just try and show some appreciation for what truly a great person I am. But, unfortunately, we don’t live in a perfect world, so I deal with my insecurities, and people’s ineptitude by drinking. I think drinking helps me loosen up. I look forward to it all day actually. It helps me relax, and really express myself the way I want to. I look forward to that drink all day long. I want to go to the bar, and order my first drink ,and just relish the taste. I immediately feel my body calm down, and my tongue loosen up. I like telling people around me how I really feel about them. Perhaps it is easier for them to hear it when I am drunk. I don’t know…half the time I don’t really remember what I said the night before; but I still feel better that I said it. But, who cares, right? As long as it makes me feel better. That’s how I deal with my life!!

Moderator: Thank you, Greg. That was fascinating. I think we got some good eye rolls going there too. Who wants to go next?

Andrew: I’ll go. Hello y’all…my name is Andrew, but everyone can just call me Andy, and I am an insecure. I have a pretty good life! I actually love my life. I have a big house, fancy cars, and a loving partner. Both of us are very lucky to have amazing friends and family around us. I love him, and our life together. But, I still can’t shake the urge to be validated by other people. I guess that’s where my insecurity comes in. I’m a Facebook addict, and I can’t help but post pictures and updates about myself several times a day. People just lap it up. They love my pictures and my posts. I feel like people adore us…heck, they probably envy us, and just want to be us, or part of my family. I have a big heart, and I would open up my home to everyone to enjoy me and my husband. I feel like posting pictures of myself all day is the least I could do. I love seeing my body in the mirror, and I love posting the pictures for people to enjoy. I mean, why would I deprive people of this? Okay, okay…I know I sound full of myself. I guess if I have to drop the bullshit, I would have to admit that I am afraid of not being noticed. I am afraid of just being a regular person like everybody else. I look in the mirror and I don’t see what people see in me. I know they see a body, but do they really see ME? But I guess if they only see a body, it’s better than not seeing anything at all, right? I don’t want to grow old and just wither away. I want people to notice me. I want people to cut through my walls…the façade that I put up, and really get to know me. Perhaps the pictures and posts that I put online are my invitation to people to notice me and lean closer and try to get to know me. I am a sex object, I get that. I am fine with that. I guess I perpetuate that…but who wants to know Andy?! I guess my photo addiction is how I deal with my insecurities.

Moderator: Thank you, Andy!! You really topped the lot here with all the eye rolls going back and forth. I would suggest you and Josh touch base after the meeting. It may do both of you some good…or, on second thought, better not. Don’t do that!! Who’s next? Todd, want to go?

Todd: I’d really rather not…but sure! Hello, my name is Todd, and I am an insecure. I am usually very quiet, and I hate talking to people. I am here because my boyfriend…well, I guess my ex-boyfriend suggested that it may do me some good to get a bit of support for my insecurity issues. It may help me put myself out there more and meet people. I meet people fine online, but generally just to have sex. I guess I identify with Josh here a little bit. Sex makes me feel good, and makes me feel special and wanted by others. I don’t have many friends, and I generally don’t like large crowds or talking to people. I don’t have to talk during sex. I can just smoke some pot, and go at it. They can leave, or cuddle for a bit, then leave, no questions asked, and no drama. I guess I use sex to cover my discomfort with myself and my past. I am a loner…I prefer the company of my pets than people. I like to sit in the sun with my dogs, reading a book, texting, or chatting with people online. I don’t like the way I look. I think I am too skinny, and my ass is too small. I actually hate people seeing me naked. I like having sex in the dark, or when the light is really dim. That is the only way I can be comfortable. I love the bathhouse because the light is dim, and you don’t actually have to talk to anyone. Just get in, get off, go home. What else should I say? Let’s see….I love my job, I guess. I like to travel, and I like watching movies. I guess I don’t see a problem with how I am. That’s just how it is! I don’t like to talk to people, and I plug that hole in my life with having sex. It makes me feel good and validates my life. So, I guess sex is how I deal with my insecurities. It blocks me from connecting with people. It keeps me safe inside my head.

Moderator: Thank you Todd for sharing your thoughts. Les, I see you’re practically sitting on your hands and biting your tongue. Maybe you want to go next?

Les: Oh sure…finally!! Hello, my name is Les, and I am an insecure. I am extroverted and I like to talk and mingle with people over drinks, hooking up, or talking about my life, and my art work. As you may have heard, I am a graphic artist. I am really good actually, and my work has been used by several organizations. I love telling people about the great work that I produce. I mean, it makes me feel good for me to be contributing to all these causes that I care so much about. I love it when I get to talk on stage about the amazing work I do to help these causes. It makes me feel so fulfilled. But, I guess, deep down I am so insecure about myself, and want to be validated. If I am going to be honest, I think I deal with my insecurities by bashing other people. While I don’t do it maliciously, I do find it is easier to just criticize how people do things, or what they say, than to quietly reflect, or to look at my own life. I don’t want to think about the issues I have in my life. I am almost forty years old, but I feel like my life hasn’t been very fulfilling. I am resentful about a lot of things, but I hate to just sit there and talk about them, or analyze them. It’s just so much easier to talk shit about other people. I mean, look at all of you here. Jesus fucking Christ, you all are just yappy and bitching about sex. I have sex all the time. In fact, I love to take pictures of myself having sex with guys, and showing them to my friends. If they don’t like it, fuck ‘em…I probably already did. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not so perfect…but I think I’m pretty close. My insecurity is just part of me being the artist and great designer that I am. I don’t see much of a problem with it though. Aren’t we all insecure? If you are so insecure and upset about me talking shit about you, then stay home!

Moderator: Wow, well, thank you for that Les. That was, well, very insightful. So, Ahmad, do you want to go next?

Ahmad: Oh, alright, sure. Thank you everyone for speaking and sharing your feelings. It makes me feel better actually hearing everyone’s thoughts. Oh, I guess, I should start by saying, hello, I am Ahmad, and I am an insecure. Wow, it does make me feel better admitting it in public like this. I guess I would describe myself as an extrovert. I love being around people, and I love listening to people talk, and share their thoughts and feelings. I am insecure I guess, because I usually prefer that people talk about themselves than for me to talk about myself. Growing up I aspired to be like my older, and only sister, and to prove myself worthy of my parents’ love and affection. My father is a very driven man, and instilled in me the idea that my life has to mean something, and that I must contribute something to others. So, I guess I am always struggling with the feeling that I am not good enough. I am never satisfied with my accomplishments, and never happy with my work. I can always do better! I think I identify a little bit with each and every one of you. I went through my sexual rampage too. Actually, I think Josh and I met before. I’ve seen you play out in the bar, I think! I used sex to make myself feel better, valued, and desired. I also post pictures of myself on Facebook…but in spurts I guess. But then again, I don’t have a body like yours, Andy!! I like to write, and may be even think I am a creative person, but I don’t think I am that good. I hate what I write, and generally cannot take a compliment. I don’t know!! I guess the older I get, the more comfortable I feel about who I am becoming as a person…but I am still unsure about that level of comfort. I am insecure about my worthiness of love, and of affection. I want to be better, but I am afraid to piss people off in the process of bettering myself. I think I deal with it by putting barriers around myself and making it difficult for people to know me. I protect myself from being hurt by other people, or being vulnerable with others. I am afraid to disappoint those around me, and therefore put up barriers that prevent them from knowing who I truly am. That is how I deal with my insecurities.

Moderator: Thank you, Ahmad! Thank you all for sharing your thoughts as well. I invite you to continue this dialogue amongst yourselves, and to invite your friends who may feel insecure to join us and share their stories too.

Not So Perfect Love Story...and It Doesn't Have to Be!!

2011-11-17T20:45:00.004-06:00

I stood in the doorway looking at him, angry, naked, throwing pillows and bedding against the wall, and yelling, "what do you want from me asshole?! I went through all this shit and you dare get self righteous with me? Mother Fucker!!"

I walked in the room, blurry eyed from the tears welling up in my eyes, slowly stepping forward with trembling legs, and sat on the side of the bed. He said, now on his knees, on the floor and punching the wall, "my life was supposed to get better, and it has just gotten worse. When is it supposed to get better?!"

He turned and looked at me, and I said, "I don't know! All I know is that I love you, and I can't imagine my life without you. I don't want to lose you!" He looked at me with tears in his eyes, and said "I love you so much, I love you so much...I only know that I love you. That’s all I know!"

We sat there crying and embracing, rocking back and forth. I held him, and felt him pressing against my body, as I closed my eyes and my mind raced back to when we first met, and I played it all back in my mind.

...how did we get here?

You know that feeling when you first meet someone, get swept off your feet and fall madly in love? Neither did I; and I never thought I would experience that kind of love. I mean, we’ve all seen it in a movie, or read it in a book, but how many of us can say we have truly experienced it? The kind of stupid, ridiculous love that Stephanie Meyer writes about, that exists between exotic pale sparkly vampires, and brooding dumbass teenagers is supposed to be the stuff of fiction. The kind of love that makes it seem like nothing else matters in the world. After all, love is a chemical reaction and is not supposed to defy logic and make grown men act like complete buffoons.

When I first met him, I was volunteering in a leather contest, and he was one of many contestants vying for a title. In all honesty, neither of us noticed each other, and I didn’t even interact with him until the second day. We talked when he asked me if I had a blue sharpie to cover a scuff on his blue leather jock. I spent a good amount of time convincing him that no one would even notice it on stage. However, in what I know is his true style now, I noticed him talking to the bootblack a few minutes later and trying to buff out the scuff anyway. He was attractive, but disconnected, flirtatious, yet guarded. There was an invisible fortress surrounding him, and I was too busy and distracted to try to scale it, or explore why it was there in the first place.

The contest ended, and I went about my life and work. However, in the world of social media, I decided to reach out to all the contestants that gave me their cards. I friended many on Facebook, and also sent him a note telling him it was a pleasure helping him during the contest. I forgot all about him, and never gave it a second thought, until out of the blue he sent me a message back, and we started chatting, and flirting online. It was the same old online flirting that most gay, and particularly leather men do. But with him, the conversation took a turn, and we started discussing our lives and relationships. We would chat for hours, and eventually progressed to talking on the phone. Where was this going? What was this all about? It was the beginning of a friendship I thought. He was a nice guy, and he needed someone to talk to, confide in, to be his friend, and to listen to him. We decided that I would go visit him, and we would play and just have fun. I would meet his husband, and just enjoy a weekend with them.

The moment I laid eyes on him I felt an instant connection, and a desire to hold him, and tell him that everything is going to be okay. There was sadness in his beautiful eyes that was very poignant, and captivating. The invisible fortress was there, but I could reach right through it, and I could feel his soul struggling, and his heart heavy with anger and fear.

I also met his husband! A short, stocky man, with beady eyes and not an ounce of sincerity or authenticity about him. We went out to dinner, and then to the local bar where both men proceeded to argue and threaten each other with violence. There was so much anger and hatred surrounding them that all I wanted was to walk away and go back home. Yet, I looked at him and I could not move; my legs were frozen, and all I wanted to do was to shelter him, and give him as much strength as I could muster so he can fight back, speak up, and be the person that I know he hungered and starved to be for so many years. The night ended soon after, and we went to their home to bed.

I call it the Day the Earth Stood Still. Yes, I know it is not a very creative name, and it evokes images of aliens taking over the world. But, it is also the day that he emancipated himself, and took the reins of his own life. I remember the afternoon as vividly as if it just happened a few hours ago. We were standing in the bathroom, and I could sense his energy shift. I could sense that something was wrong, but I could not decipher what it was. Later that night he told me that at that moment he was looking around and had an epiphany. At that point in time he realized that his marriage was over and that he did not want to be in the place he called home. It was no longer his home, and he had to move on.

He made this revelation a few hours after he decided to leave his husband, and I helped him. We were laying on a hard bed, in a dated and crummy hotel room, with blinking florescent lighting, and kitsch art on the walls. We were laying there contemplating the events that happened that day, and holding each other. Thinking about that night brings tears to my eyes, and makes my heart beat faster. I remember telling him “you are beautiful, you are beautiful, you are beautiful” and making him repeat it over, and over, and over again. We slept holding each other, exhausted, and wondering what the next day will bring.

I left the next day after I made sure he had a place to stay, and friends to support him. I left, but I could not stay away. I drove back the following day…460 miles roundtrip to have dinner with him and see him again. I knew then that I loved him, and that my life would never be the same again!

This happened exactly four months ago, today. Both his world, and mine has changed. He is divorced now, and I have recently broken up with my boyfriend of almost 9 years. We do not know what the future will bring; but despite all the struggles, and all the turmoil, all I know is that I love him more than I have ever loved anyone…and that he loves me with the same intensity.

"My life was supposed to get better, and it has just gotten worse. When is it supposed to get better?!"

It has gotten better...my life is so much richer since I have met him. I used to think that love alone was not enough, but I have been proven wrong. It is not a perfect love story, but it is my love story. He is the man I love, and the only one I see. He is my perfect love story!!

Egyptians Are African Too!!

2010-12-30T12:47:00.006-06:00

I came across this article today entitled: We Are Not All Africans, Black People Are! (http://www.thoughtleader.co.za/sentletsediakanyo/2010/12/28/we-are-not-all-africans-black-people-are/) which both enraged me, and dumbfounded me at the same time. I am used to reading and hearing racist remarks from White people about Africans. It is very rare that I encounter racism, or reverse racism from “African” people.

To sum up this guy’s idiotic rants; he is basically making the argument that only black people are African. North Africans are by no means African since they are the product of colonialism and slavery. In a few sentences he managed to dismiss an entire history of North Africans, including Egyptians, as a people rightfully belonging to the African continent, and entitled by birth to the title “African”.

What do I care, right? Egyptians after all are Arabs, right? WRONG!! Despite populist propaganda dating back to the 1950s, the majority of Egyptians do not particularly identify as “Arabs”. I know a lot of people will disagree with me on this, and we can spend hours, if not days and weeks, arguing about Egyptian Arab identity. Whatever the argument, one cannot claim that Egyptians are simply-and only Arab. We speak Arabic, and the majority are Muslims, but that hardly rests the case. Egyptians also have 7000 years of heritage and historical ties to the African continent; we have traditions that are not Arab or Muslim in nature in any way shape or form; our colloquial everyday Egyptian-Arabic language structure is more Coptic than it is Arabic; Coptic, is not only just a “Christian” religion, but an Egyptian language and identity, that, whether we recognize it or not in modern day Egypt, we cannot deny that it impacts and influences our culture and traditions.

So, why am I so bothered by this? After all, I don’t live in Egypt, I don’t claim to be Arab, I’m hardly “black”, and I live in the Midwest of the United States of America.

I am bothered because I personally identify as both Egyptian, and African; and I do not think I am the only one. As an immigrant, I can tell you that I have struggled with formulating and holding on to my identity as an individual over the past 10 years. Initially as an asylum seeker, I had to deal with a crisis of identity, as I was seeking protection from the country and culture with which I identified for two decades of my existence. Later on as a permanent resident in the U.S. I had to carve out a identity for myself as I was neither an Egyptian, nor an American. Now, as I citizen of the United States of America, I am an American, but I also cherish and pride myself on my Egyptian heritage and upbringing, no matter how much I disagree and despise some of the cultural aspects I was brought up in.

I am also bothered by this de-Africanization of the Egyptians in this article, because, as an immigrant, and as a U.S. citizen, I have been forced by the U.S. government to identify as “White” on all official documents, from naturalization certificate, to passport, to social security forms, to the census. Apparently, the “ government defines White people as "people having origins in any of the original people of Europe, the Middle East, or North Africa.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_American). How in the world did people from North Africa came to be lumped up in the same classification as people from Europe, I have no idea. Historically, while having some similarities due to colonialism, North Africans are far removed culturally, and socially from Europeans. I refuse to use skin color as a means of classification since there are white, black, yellow, red North Africans and Europeans. So, “White” hardly fits the bill! So, while I find the terms “White” and “Black” in and of themselves limited and idiotic classifications, I understand that they are necessary evils. However, if we are going to categorize, then we should exercise a little bit more scrutiny.

As I write this, a friend commented to me that the concept at play here is “continental”. I do agree since logic dictates that people from one continent should be referenced as belonging to that geographic location. Ergo, Egyptian is African, Indian=Asian, Lebanese=Asian, Namibian=African, Brazilian=South American, Dutch=European, Mexican=American, and so on and so forth. We cannot dismiss Egyptians from being African because they live up there at the north east tip of the continent and were conquered by the Arabs, British, and the French, and speak Arabic and the majority are Muslims. Egyptians are African, and a large number of them, if we are going to go by the color of their skin, are in fact black. If you examine history also, you will notice that Egypt extended far into “Sub” Saharan Africa, far beyond what its modern borders are today. Heck, just to be facetious (and at the risk of making a racial generalization), if you go by the size of my ass, then I am black too!

Dismissing Egyptians, Algerians, Tunisians, Moroccans, and Libyans as African is like cutting off a huge chunk of the history of human civilization. That said, the larger issue at hand here is our obsession with these moronic classifications in our desperate attempts to carve out our national and human identity in an increasingly globalized world. I cannot begin to address this issue here, but hope to one day. In the meantime, we should give some thought to the idea that we should shed these obsolete and moronic classifications, for a more general terminology. Since we as a people are obsessed with label, I vote for “Human” as the next classification. I know, I know, it is too idealistic, and even naive, but it is the only label that we, as a race, can agree on, for now.

The Company Man

2010-12-28T15:23:00.019-06:00

It is a very rare occurrence that I cry in movies. If and when that happens it almost never happens in public, or I will never admit it. I have no shame in crying during a movie, I just don’t want to go through the trouble of explaining to whomever is sitting next to me why I am crying. So, I was shocked the other day when a movie trailer (not even the actual movie) made me tear up at the movie theater. It came out of nowhere. There I was munching on stale popcorn and waiting for the movie to start when the trailer came on. A few seconds later I was sniffling and quickly wiping a tear from my eye and pretending it did not just happen.

Of course, the sheer horror of crying because of a movie trailer was compounded by the nature of the trailer itself. It was a Ben Affleck, Kevin Costner, Tommy Lee Jones movie for (insert preferred deity here)’s sake! The movie is called The Company Men, and Affleck plays a “corporate hotshot who loses everything after he's fired. Costner plays his brother-in-law, an ordinary guy who installs drywall, and gives his brother a construction job.” (http://moviesblog.mtv.com/) So, far it looks like another annoying Ben Affleck movie that will most probably flop in theaters because he sucks as an actor and is never believable in anything he is involved in. It was the tag line at the end of the trailer that got me though:
“In America, we give our lives to our jobs…it’s time to take them back.”

Yes, I know, it is completely super cheesy, you can almost see the Velveeta dripping off of it, but it definitely rang a bell for me.

Thinking about this tag line made me reflect back on the almost ten year that have passed since I packed up my bags and moved across the pond. I am 31 years old now and eons away from the almost 22 year old that had no plans and no clue what he wants to do with his life when he moved here. All I cared about back then was to safely get away from the campaign of persecution and intolerance the Egyptian government was raging against gay men. Some of my friends were arrested, and lots more had their lives ruined in a senseless crusade of hate. I packed up my bags and moved here on June 11, 2001 (the day Timothy McVeigh was executed). I had no plans, and only $500 to my name. I made this money by selling some of my belongings the month before. If it weren’t for the grace and love of my American family (the family that hosted me when I was an exchange student five years earlier) I would not have been able to be here today.

In American we give our lives to our jobs...

I spent the first two years here changing my residency status and getting a work permit. Nothing beats down a man’s soul than the feeling of a lack of purpose and inability to be productive. I felt like a waste of space during that time of my life. I could not work, and I could not make money. I had the fortune of having a roof over my head and food on the table. I spent my days helping around the house, and dating a guy who had “mistake” written all over him (that’s a story for another day).

My life changed when in 2003 I finally landed my very first job. I was a 23 year old university graduate, with a degree in political science from Egypt’s most prestigious and expensive university. But, 8000 miles away that doesn’t mean diddlysquat. I started my job as a night clerk at a White Hen Pantry about half a mile away from my (host) family’s house in the Chicago suburbs. It was a convenient job because I did not have a car and could just walk to and from work.

I needed the money, and it was a job! There is nothing wrong with any job as long as it is legal and it makes a man feel like he is worth something—anything! I made big bucks back then too. For someone who made nothing for two years, $7 an hour made a big difference. I took over the cash register at 10pm, learned to stock the fridge, mop the floor, clean the slicer, and of course make coffee and stock the donuts. I racked up experience talking to stoned and drunk people at 2 AM, and turning down underage patrons trying to buy booze and cigarettes. But, most of all, I learned to appreciate my life, appreciate the people I worked with, and count my blessings. I even made it up to $7.50 after just a couple of months.

There are so many stories I could recount about my coworkers. There was Annie (or as I called her Snaggle Tooth Annie because she didn’t have a single tooth that wasn’t rotted and pointy like stalactites). Snaggle Tooth Annie was a nice simple woman who was more or less uneducated and had no idea what a mammogram was. She thought I had a crush on her too, which is both funny, and revolting at the same time. There was also Mary who had thin but BIG 80s hair, heavy eyeliner, and mascara that clumped her eyelashes together and made them look like daggers protruding out of her eyeballs. Mary loved hairspray and would hit the hairspray bottles on the shelves to reinforce her bleached out mane when the owner wasn’t around. Good times!

In American we give our lives to our jobs...

Things changed for the better when Matthew came into my life. Meeting him, and falling in love with him, gave me just the boost and motivation I needed. I sent out resumes and hit the temp agencies until I landed a couple of temp positions. I also applied for grad school, bought my first car, and actually started to built some credit. After all, I don’t exist here if I don’t have credit.

It was less than I year later when both Matthew and I moved in together in Chicago. We both said goodbye to the suburbs and living with family, and started on the path of independence and building our careers; he as a teacher, and I as a graduate student at DePaul. We bought our own non-hand-me-down furniture, bought a new (well, newer) car, and carved out a life for ourselves. I went to class, worked part time, and started thinking about the career I wanted to have. I had grand ideas about getting a PhD and teaching, but two years in grad school lessened my resolve of more studying and living on grants and ramen noodles for 10 years.

I got a job in cultural exchange in an international non-profit and started making more money. A year later we actually bought our first place together and life couldn’t be better. I had succeeded in attaining the American Dream. Hard work had paid off and now I was on top of the world. All in all, it was a fairytale come true. Poor immigrant works hard, becomes successful, finds love, buys a house, a dog (3 dogs actually), and lives happily ever after.

Yes, I am incredibly lucky; I could even be the poster child for the American Dream. Around four years ago my boss at the time asked me if I thought the American Dream was dead. It was a discussion we were having during our department retreat while having lunch at Millennium Park. I remember being horrified at the thought. For, there I was proof that one can pull themselves up by their bootstraps and make something of themselves. The American Dream was alive and kicking.

In American we give our lives to our jobs...

It is the end of 2010, I am 31, and just became a United States citizen six month ago. I have truly entered a new chapter in my life, and I am constantly freaked out about it. I have been contemplating so many questions over the past few months and I am nowhere near an answer than I was earlier this year.

When I took that oath of citizenship I swore off allegiance to any foreign sovereignty (or potentate). I basically swore off my past and took on a new identity. Yes, of course, one can never really “swear off” their past since it is part of my history, and my character. But, in a way, I was swearing off the past, and looking towards a brighter, more promising future in a new home that holds endless potential and promises for those strong and resilient enough to work for it. Since then, I have found myself contemplating such existential questions as: who am I really? What have I accomplished so far? Am I on the right path? Have I made the right decisions? My career clock is ticking and I need to find answers right now!!

Over the past year I have seen more gray sprouting all over my head and beard. Other than vanity, I find this very troubling since it serves as a reminder that I am getting older and I need to start figuring this shit out soon. I am struggling to find fulfillment in my life. I have concentrated on nothing over the past 10 years than doing what people expect me to do…get a job, a career, and build that tidy white picket fence around my life for all to admire and covet.

Now, as another year is approaching, I am pondering my accomplishments and second guessing my decisions. I am questioning my career choices and wondering if I have made the right decisions all this time. I have always said that I want a career that would allow me to make a positive difference in the world—this non-profit, international education, cultural exchange, peace, love and all that jazz. But, did I really mean, a career that makes a difference in the world, or a career that makes a difference for me? This whole idea of a career and making something out of myself has been embedded in my head all my life, because this is what we do where I come from. You are born, you go to school, you get excellent grades, you go to more school, you graduate, you get a job in some fancy shmancy something or other, or you take over the family business, get married, pop out boat load of kids, send them to school…etc. Your life is designed for you; it is what you are expected to do, and it is what most people do. There is no plan for gay immigrants turned citizens who don’t want kids, and do not want to follow in their father’s footsteps and take over the family business.

In the absence of a grand design, I have made it up as I go along. I have given the past few years of my life to my job that I don’t know what I would do without it. I don’t have a hobby, I don’t have many friends that are near and dear to me, and I spend eight hours of my day wondering to myself “is this it?”

I don’t want this to be it! But I don’t have a plan “B” either. I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up; and when I grow up, I don’t know if I will like the answer either. But come hell or high water, I better figure it out.

…it’s time to take[my life] back.”

Project Nephew

2010-12-27T16:23:00.002-06:00

Dear People with Children,

I hope you had a great holiday weekend, and that you gave your kids books and note pads for Christmas. Yes, that's right, I am one of those lame book-giving uncles your kids hate. What, you didn't know I was an uncle? Actually, I do have two nephews (one related by blood--Mini-me as I call him; and one by osmosis), and one bratty, hateful, ingrate of a niece (she's definitely by osmosis).

Let me tell you about Mini-me! In 2004, my only sister (related by blood) had her first child. I was ecstatic for her, and slowly began to adjust to the fact that I have become an uncle. I was very excited, but also relieved because, while I love my sister, and by extension, love my nephew, I was 8000 miles away, with no possibility of really influencing this kid's life in any way shape or form.

As fate would have it, I got the opportunity to meet my nephew a year later while in Europe for summer school. My family took the opportunity of my relative close proximity to Egypt to fly to Paris and meet me there. My mother, father, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew all made the trek to Paris to spend a week with me. I not only got to see my family for the first time in five years, but also experience Paris by stroller, which for me was excruciatingly aggravating.

My nephew, for all intents and purposes, was the miniature version of me. He bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to his father. His mannerism was me, his temperament was me, his look, his hair, his laugh, his cry...everything about him was an eerily miniaturized version of myself. I saw right in front of me the genetic interpretation of the old Egyptian proverb, "boys take after their uncles."

Now, I imagine most uncles would actually like that, and take the opportunity to dode over their mini-me's and step into the role of a surrogate parent. I, on the other hand, was terrified of the responsibility, and wanted nothing to do with it. There I was staring smack-dab in the face of my potential redo. He was the remake, the rematch, the do-over, and I wanted nothing to do with him. I spent most of my adulthood trying to erase and restructure all my parent's fuck ups that have been embedded over the past two decades under my skin, behind my eyes, zipping like lightening bolts through my neurons, that I wanted no hand in Project Nephew with all it's potential liabilities and almost certain screw ups. I did not want to be a parent, and I most certainly did not want to be an uncle.

I remember vividly sitting on a bus in Paris with my mother, and looking at my sister holding her son who was cranky and tired from all the site seeing he was still too young to appreciate. My mother, after berating me about my smoking habit, looked at my nephew and asked "don't you want one of your own?" I looked at her with the horror generally reserved for seeing the walking dead getting ready to tear me limb from limb and shook my head. Undeterred, she said, "imagine having your own child to raise, to share your legacy, and your experience." Horrified, I said, "Absolutely not! I have nothing I want to share with a child, and I have no 'legacy' to hand down." I can tell my mother was disappointed, but I don't think what I said registered with her. I can just hear her brain going "does not compute...does not compute..." I had spent the past five years running away from my father's so-called legacy, and refusing to get sucked into his shadow, that I could not imagine inflicting that same kind of fate on someone else.

It could be cultural, or it could just be human, but I seem to evoke feeling of confusion and unease when I tell people I do not want kids. It happened the other day during a work social. I told my coworker that I have no desire to have kids; that the sheer responsibility and self sacrifice needed to have a child is terrifying to me. What I was thinking--and not vocalizing, was that my parents fucked me up enough as it is, I can't bear the responsibility of passing down some of the issues I inherited from them to a hapless child. I don't think I have an ounce of paternal, or maternal instinct in my body. I traded the parental gene for the gay gene back in the zygote stage...good riddance too.

Speaking of genes, a few weeks ago I was talking to my sister and I learned that there is perhaps more truth to that old Egyptian proverb than I feared. Apparently my 6 year old nephew likes to play soccer. However, he likes the sport, not for the sport itself, but for the shoes. He joined a soccer team because he likes the shoes!! I repeat, my nephew joined a sports team because he likes their footwear. If that still didn't register, then consider the fact that he also took up horseback riding because he likes the way the equestrian boots, and the helmet look on him! This is not to mention that he loves costume parties, and going shopping for clothes. So, while I am not exactly stereotyping, I kind of am. I am stereotyping myself and how my six year old nephew is taking after his uncle who is 8000 miles away. I wonder what will happen when he turns 12, 16, 18, 21....would this be my so called legacy?

So, where am I going with this? Short answer is, I am terrified of children. They are filled with so much hope and promise that I am afraid to fuck them up. This is of course aside from the fact that they are vile little creatures that nag, cry, want and want and want, talk back, and feel they are entitled to every ounce of your attention and have the rights to your very soul.

If there is anything in the world I am sure of, it is that I would make an absolutely horrible parent. This feeling is compounded by the fact that my own dogs prefer the company of my partner than they do me. They follow him everywhere like a shadow and run away from me (one of them leaving a trail of pee in her wake) when I call them. I shudder to think what I would do to a human being.

So, consider yourself warned children lovers!! Hide your children when you see me walking down the street. Don't crowd me with your strollers, or shove pictures of your children in my face. Don't send me Christmas cards with your smiling little monsters wearing bright sweaters under the tree; and don't assume that I will eventually "grow" into my paternal-hood.

I wish you the best in your parental endeavours.

Yours Truly,

Uncle Akmuk