Gay Arab Guy

5 Kissing Styles Philematologists Hate!

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 06:08:00 +0000

Hi. I'm Wilmaryad. A philematologist.

I kiss for a living. And live for kissing.

Philematology studies chemicals kissing releases. Mainly arousing, trust-building, stress-reducing: Oxytocin.

While your dance moves preview your lovemaking acumen, your kissing style hints at your romantic potential.

If you fail to impress on a first date (shyness, your ex dining at the next table, ...), how well you kiss can save the night!

Professional secret bids me from kissing and telling.

But what the hell? I'm feeling con pro today. ;-)

Let's reverse-psychology it ...

Let's describe what good kissing isn't.

5. Donald Trump

Fancy a millionaire with lips tighter than a chicken's rear?

This kisser's lips won't unzip! Talk of kissing a wall.

Unless your mouth is a stinky dumpster, open sesame!

Pecks are for preschoolers, boo.

Loosen up!

4. Toothpick

Ever seen a lizard's tongue whip an insect?

With this kisser, you shouldn't worry something's stuck between your teeth. His tongue offers free and thorough flossing and tartar removal.

Perfect after dinner, eh?

3. Car Wash

Forget Neutrogena face wash products!

This kisser takes "sucking face" literally. His mouth opens so widely, his lips and saliva cover your nose, mustache and chin.

Worse if he licks your inner ear, too.

No names ... Sofiane.

2. Sterilized Tongue

Breath fresheners smell good.

And they leave bad aftertaste!

This kisser means well, but I refuse to kiss Vicodin.

I was vacuuming a guy's tonsils when my taste buds clammed up.

"Have you had onions today?" I asked.

"No! I sucked on mint strips all day for you!" He quivered.

1. The Kissophobe

He is the world's absolute finest kisser.

And he hates it!

His lips are likely to make you swoon.

Then, he suddenly stops to say the unfathomable.

"I can't! Kissing grosses me out ... but it's not you, all right?"

He was a Virgo. We can't blame him.

Despite kissing a few frogs, I admit having kissed more princes.

My personal record? 7 hours non-stop.

What's yours?

About the author: Wilmaryad is a jobless philematologist. His last Kiss Kiss was in 1999.

Love a Dick for His Dick?

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 01:17:00 +0000

He's insensitive, shallow ... and fucking charming!

A horny gigolo, he'd jump a paraplegic if a paraplegic moved.

You chew bricks when he chews your nether ... lands!

His aloofness cocks you, leaves and never calls.

In other words, ...

He's a certified, state-licensed, practicing dick.

You know he's bad for you. You must stop his misuse.

Yet, he has a gift.

A gift so lethal to your oral fixation.

A gift he gets away with everything thanks to.

Of his gift he's aware - never reluctant to share.

His dick — His 3rd Reich leg — His mushroom & eggs burrito — His milkshake fountain — Your damnation!

You may blush reading this. But let's face it:

Who doesn't like dick?

For dick-loving Ballsackians & Ovarians, dick's better than cookies-n-ice cream. It's a science we study hard. An emotion we crave feeling within.

Dick is the pop sickle that cools you off on Arabian summer noons. The hot chocolate marshmallow cup that warms you up on Alaskan winter nights.

It's the chew toy that soothes when you're teething. Aww!

No dentist will rebuke you for indulging in dick, as dick is the only cavity-fighting candy stick. And thanks to pubic hair, you get free dental floss.

Say Ahh. Wow, what healthy gums!

No cardiologist will ask you to go slow on heart-invigorating dick, either.

But expect doc to warn about cholesterol if you fancy uncut dick. That fat roll of a foreskin is a cheesecake factory in itself! Lemonade after is good.

Dick virtues aside, ...

Is it virtuous to love a dick for his source of virtue?

Beautiful genitalia appreciation is said to result from a shaky upbringing. Maybe?!? But I'm also endowed with an eye for design and archi-texture.

Sometimes, a marvelous penis is attached to the worst jerk. And I confess: I did fall for a douche because of the breathtaking equipment he 'came' with.

It's wrong to fall for only one part of someone. An anatomy part at that. But because one cannot come without the other, you put up with a lot of nonsense for that treasure's sake. You get obsessive-possessive. O misery!

Now, why don't dicks take cues from their dicks and win us over?

Dicks, I'll formally address you in the hopes of getting you to imitate the qualities of the 8-carat pendant hanging from the meeting of your thighs.

So, lend me your ~~jewels~~ ears.

Be happy to see us like your wobblehead.

Regularly check on us like your cuckoo clock.

We'll even tolerate your seasickness aftermath, O thick seamen.

Why call a jerk a dick when dick is deliciousness?

Jerks with gorgeous dicks, you're nothing without your tools!

While we'll succumb to tasting your one-eyed monster, both monster and succumbing will grow old. And our oral fixation will shift to finger fixation.

Ever heard of Bling Bang theory?

Ask a jeweler.

Now, who would want to marry a dick besides a pussy?

Seriously.

Song: Inertia Creeps. By: Massive Attack.

About the author: Wilmaryad is a curator at a dick museum.
Share your phallus fascination with him in the comments section.

Teachers Sexually Abusing Children

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 17:40:00 +0000

I was kicked out of kindergarten at four. Logically, mom directly sent me to school.

My insouciant friends were still playing, while I was uprooted from home, every morning, to grasp content two years older than my chrono-cognitive abilities.

School was a chore. Until that '93 middle school freshman year.

Ongoing laughter secured year-end academic achievement rewards. Some classmate and I wanted to decorate our classroom for the festivities.

Glitter all over, all giggles, we thought we had school all to ourselves.

Wrong!

A classroom away, a teacher was tidying up his desk. My ebb and flow to grab decorations had caught his attention. He ordered me to enter.

To my surprise, he said he had unfinished business with me. A grudge I needed to pay for. Laughing the news off, I argued not knowing him.

His face hardening, he exclaimed "This is no laughing matter!"

He slammed his books and sat on a table, thighs spread. He, then, ordered me to get closer. My gulps amplified, I stopped an inch from his knees. Discontent, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer.

A button flew off.

"What am I to make of you, handsome?", he whispered, his eyes salivating, while contemplating the skin the missing button revealed.

Insistent I owed him, he instructed I get on my knees and crawl.

I refused.

His voluptuous thighs almost touching my zipper, combined with the probability of him molesting me, was unbearable. I burst into tears.

Hearing me cry, my classmates ran in.

He feigned innocence, pretexting he was just teasing me. The girls escorted me out, shocked such a popular teacher was a pedophile.

Petrified, I decided to skip attending the day after's ceremony.

Guess who became my Arabic teacher for the two years that followed?

Exactly.

To indulge his vice, he divided us into boys-only and girls-only groups. Each week, one group attended a "make up session" to help us with ambiguous lessons. He and his shadiness were the only ambiguity.

He brought a sexual jokes encyclopedia he'd delight in telling. To the euphoria of my fellow boy classmates. I cared for no such content, especially from him, attracting criticism from the boys.

"Oh, relax!" they'd say.

Seated across from him, subjected to his hungry-wolf stare, made his class seem an eternity. My grades were as desolate. Justifiably.

A pity a pedophile sabotaged the inception of rekindling my relationship with school. Why like school when it employs pedophiles?

I was 11 when I asked that question.

Song of abused childhood: Luka, by Suzanne Vega.

True Blood Sexiest Hunk is ...

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 14:13:00 +0000

Twilight fans ...

Admit True Blood has got you beat!

HBO's better-than-the-Sopranos series is the sexiest thing on TV.

Sexy plot and sexy cast.

Courtesy of Six Feet Under's mastermind, Alan Ball.

Today, you'll pick the sexiest True Blood hunk from 10 contenders.

So, honk a hunk loud'n'clear! (Photos enlarge when clicked)

Stephen Moyer aka Bill Compton

- Tenebrous eyes
- Ice-cap-melting smile
- Sucks like no other vampire
- Impressive lower back moves
- Genuinely loves Sookie

Kevin Alejandro aka Jesus

- Aqua eyes
- Luscious lips
- Latin swagger
- Nurturing and patient
- A gentleman with Lafayette

Ryan Kwanten aka Jason Stackhouse

- Insatiable sex on a stick!
- Unassuming boyish looks
- Quirky trouble magnet
- Endearing candor
- Protective of loved ones

Mehcad Brooks aka Eggs

- A body made of steel
- Generous lips
- Determined Gaze
- Had junk reduced on Calvin Klein ads
- Truly loved Tara

Nelsan Ellis aka Lafayette Reynolds

- Puts the F in Fierce!
- Gay. Out. Proud.
- Unique dressing style
- Fought against the odds
- A pro in the kitchen

Marshall Allman aka Tommy

- Sam Merlotte's brother
- A survivor
- Rebellious
- Hornier than thou
- Fought like a dog for his family

Joe Manganiello aka Alcide Herveaux

- Piercing eyes
- Perfect physique
- Looks cuddly as hell!
- Loyal in love
- Forgiving of erratic love

Sam Trammell aka Sam Merlotte

- Bedroom gaze
- Yummy scruff and chest
- Makes love on billiard tables
- Redeemed his tumultuous past

Jim Parrack aka Hoyt

- Sensitive and humble
- Loyal and romantic
- Puppy dog eyes

Alexander Skarsgard aka Eric Northman

- Playful and charismatic
- A dangerous Vampire
- A Viking bad boy
- Rough in the hay
- Ready to sacrifice himself for Sookie

G-Spot on a Man Stands for His Gut

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 23:26:00 +0000

Problems finding your G-spot?

Forget all theories about its location. And look at your man.

He rubs his when you give him a ~~boner~~ bone!

They say a man's G-spot is in his rectum. And to arouse him, slide a finger up. This stimulates his prostate wall and will curl his toes. Unless he thinks it gay.

Wait, you're a gal reading this?

If you're squeamish about anal, reach his heart through his stomach.

Everything stands erect when a man gets happy (pants).

The same goes for his gut. Men are that simple.

The difference between men and women is subtle. Women's sexual organ is their brain. Tantalizing foreplay, reassuring gestures, smooth talk and the woman squirts your bedroom into an aquarium.

Men have two heads but one brain. And they can't use both heads.

Truth is, a man rarely makes a woman climax.

No, women aren't hard to please. Men are just more easily satisfiable. Steak, a romp in the hay, and a snoring serenade is guaranteed. That applies to me, too. Except, unlike my Chinese pals, I don't eat pussy.

My life's changed since I embraced the size of my G-spot.

Nobody needs look for. It rests on my lap when seated. It's so big, my face and feet don't touch the bed. It's handy as the pillow skips a shower by my dinner-flavored goo. And the bed avoids velociraptor toenail scratches.

Size queens, if you saw my G-spot, you'd gag!

Like women's G-spot is believed to be bean-shaped, so is my gut — only vertical. In the mirror, I see a slim figure, with most of the gut "out of frame".

Even without Redbull, my G-spot has wings!

I asked my cousin to open the door, she mistook my love handle for the doorknob. She saw me shirtless, navel down to pubis, she thinks me a girl.

Truth is, more muffins penetrate my esophagus than trains enter tunnels. I so spoil my hairy G-spot with spicy treats that it is often drenched in such heat! Mom puts a bowl under me and uses the gathered sweat as vinegar.

Some salads we have!

But, I'm considering reducing my orgasms to a reasonable 4/day: breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner. Exercise looks good. But work out alone?

So, I'm looking for an e-workout partner. No one fancy. Just a guy who is gay, athletic, nutrition savvy, patient, with a charming smile and single.

Yes. That's code for "I'm looking for an Apollo of a boyfriend".

You heard me.

Recommend applicants and help me choose one?

The Chanel Feminism Brand

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 23:01:00 +0000

Today is Coco Chanel's 127th birthday. Of course, she's still alive. Get over it.

Details of Chanel's early life are ambiguous. Mademoiselle has a fertile imagination and reworked her story as often as she reworked her creations.

In a family life's absence, a child invents one. Chanel was no different. For once.

Her story wasn't the only thing the rebellious designer had reworked.

By wearing men and their clothing, Chanel reworked feminism. The gold-fingered status quo hating designer was unapologetic about being kept by wealthy men.

Here's how originality and sugar daddies caused her rise and fall.

Coco, the gigolo

A father figure's absence seems Chanel's source of reworked feminism.

Chanel's feminism was "reworked" because, through her masculinized clothes, Coco emulated the attitude of a man. She, certainly, had sex like one.

This is when Chanel earned the label of "maneater."

She didn't want to prove a man's presence in a woman's life unnecessary. Quite the contrary. She wanted men in her life. As romantic entertainment only. If marriage ensued, fine. If not, a sea of boy-toys awaited.

Then, Coco got trapped by her stereotypical grasp of men's nature.

While a player puts away his player ways and settles down for a family, Chanel went all the way in her gigolo imitation, seeking noncommittal admiration.

It's no surprise she married no man. And she had had the opportunity.

Chanel and sugar daddies

Chanel's dating resume is full of sugar and daddies.

While a purist feminist refuses to be kept by a man, Chanel's rise to prominence was, partly, thanks to financial contributions courtesy of her wealthy lovers.

First, there was Etienne Balsan. Textile heir whose live-in mistress she'd become. Balsan showed Chanel the bourgeois lifestyle. Once his lack of commitment exasperated her. She left him and took over his Paris apartment.

Then, came Balsan's friend, Arthur Edward 'Boy' Capel.

Capel was a British businessman with no parents. Like Chanel, he climbed up the social ladder to erase all trace of his past, so shameful by that time's norms.

No wonder she referred to him as "my father, my brother, my family."

Unlike Balsan, Capel encouraged Chanel's artistic ambition. So much so, he volunteered to finance her now-renowned maison de couture, 31 rue Cambon.

But he had to marry a British heiress to ensure his social ascension.

Coco was no heiress but became Capel's mistress for the nine ensuing years, until he died in a car accident — The first of many Chanel's lovers to die so.

I have reason to believe the second C in Chanel's interlaced C's logo had, ever since, stood for Capel — He was her one and only true love, after all.

Generous maneater or greedy homewrecker?

In 1920, at the apogee of her glory, she helped fallen Russian composer, Igor Stravinsky, his sick wife and children, by welcoming them into her house.

A torrid affair followed.

Astonishingly, despite maneating, Chanel was never a homewrecker.

It was as if she was trying to teach her lovers' wives how to keep their husbands. By showing them what these men liked in her: her elegant rebellion.

Her rebellion may be why she had an affair with a Nazi-German officer, thanks to whom she could make the Ritz Hotel her lieu de residence for 30 years.

The Duke of Westminster vowed to leave his wife if Coco gave him an heir.

Chanel declined, famously saying:

"There have been many Duchesses of Westminster. There's only one Chanel."

Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen. Eh, Coco?

Infertility or figure preservation?

Chanel can easily be thought to have desired having children.

Wrong!

Interviews hint that she was either barren or her body wasn't for bearing kids.

For one, she was obsessed with lion statues, a French folklore fecundity symbol. Second, Chanel despised ugly thighs in mini skirts, explaining:

If [women] had an idea of the academy of the body, they'd know that when we have ugly knees, we also have ugly hips ... we're too large [at the hips] ... we're built to bear children.

So infertility or superficiality?

Whether she truly was a maneater, a homewrecker, or an orphan girl with blind ambition, Chanel remains a funny character. In her independence. In her defiance of social norms. In her rebellious spirit. In her candor and sensitivity.

No wonder she still fascinates to this day.

Let's sing along to "GLAM" and wish granny Coco a Happy Birthday!

Breakup: One-Year Anniversary Lessons

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 14:56:00 +0000

Making pizza. Via Instant Messenger. He 9/11-ed me!

Sex and the City introduced Post-it breakups. But Instant Messenger breakups?

It had to happen to me to believe it.

He met someone and fell in love. Over the weekend. He asked that I cross my fingers for he and his new beau. Before severing ties with me, then and there.

Losing all my bets on him, I quit my job, put school on hold and hid at home.

A year later, still denied closure, my recovery lingers. Luckily, the breakup has taught me lessons. Compiled below are my 007 dating faux pas.

Please avoid them.

1. Ignoring red flags

Nobody's perfect. But we all have deal breakers.

If you spot and overlook many red flags, red will be the color of your tears.

I noticed the guy was brooding, argumentative, resentful and moody. Used to a brother like that, I walked on eggshells and used humor to diffuse tensions.

He also was often drunk. Granted, alcohol unveils people's hidden desires, but it blurs reality. So, don't believe a guy with a bloated liver's declaration of love!

Like alcohol, loneliness casts a veil upon your objectivity. My guy was away from home. I suspected his homesickness lured him into believing he loved me.

Worse, he often mentioned contemplating suicide. I tried to downplay the seriousness of the situation by making him laugh. He took that for indifference. I realized my presence was unlikely to dissuade him; yet, I kept a lid on it.

I had put up with all the above because the guy seemed sincere. Self-sacrificing me wanted to help. I should have aborted this interaction in its cradle.

Now, don't cross a guy out just because he briefly picked his nose.

2. TLI (Too Little Information)

Do you live in a third-world country and plan on dating a foreigner? Explain that Internet cuts can last a week (or more) in your part of the world. Or he'll take irregular contact for avoidance. I'm speaking from experience.

Three months into our interaction, my country experienced an Internet problem. As it was being gradually fixed, more sites were becoming accessible.

My first reaction was to look for him on the site on which we met, to reassure him my Internet would be restored soon. He chose to mistrust, accusing me of cruising the Internet for hookups.

Nothing I could do or say was to convince him of otherwise.

3. Building castles on sand

Both birds must want to build a love nest. If one bird disappears in a dreamland to make plans by itself for both birds, the other will feel neglected and fly away.

My fault? Waiting for my Internet back, I devoted my nighttime to dreaming about our happily ever after once we meet. I uttered his name in my sleep. I clang to a pillow to simulate his embrace. My mornings were blushing smiles.

Once my Internet back, the cold shoulder awaited. I should have gotten the hint.

So, keep the other bird in-the-know about your dreams/plans before it's too late.

4. Showing your blog to potential boyfriends

A personal blog is nothing but the psyche's vomit.

Its content can be sarcastic and may unintentionally hurt. That's why keep it hidden from a potential boyfriend. Especially a paranoid one.

If he finds it on his own, it'll be a sure-fire test of his character.

I've had the wits to link to my blog on the site I met the guy at. Oddly, he said he had visited it prior to our meeting by Googling something.

Cursed with intense cerebral activity, I must share what's moving and shaking my life. But, the guy had become an active visitor of my blog, generously leaving insightful and cutesy comments. This limited my urge for self expression.

Three months dissuading the guy were fruitless. But, when my heart warmed up to the idea of romance again, he backtracked calling rushing 'irrational'.

In a moment of anger, I snapped in a reply to one of his blog comments. He threw a tantrum and never wanted to deal with me again ever since.

Do I regret letting anger take over me? Yes.

5. No friendship to fall back on

Friendship is a healthy point to start from and regress to.

A relationship with no prior friendship is like cordless bungee jumping.

If romantic compatibility lacks, you may lose both friend and boyfriend.

6. Falling for One Type of Guys

If your guy exclusively likes hairy and stocky guys, don't get cancer!

Chemotherapy emaciates and causes hair loss. He wouldn't like it.

I, for one, don't feel good about fitting a physical preference. It reduces to ashes any unique personality trait I, God forbid, might possess.

There are six billion people on this planet! Variety's good, you know?

7. Failing to learn

Making mistakes in love is not the end of the world. So, learn to learn from the opportunities at trial and error that life throws your way.

Without trial and error, all your knowledge about love will be passive. And passive learning has been proven to be beneficial only in the short run.

Learn to fish or wait to be fed fish?

The guy you dumped will get over you by dumping another. You'll get over the guy who dumped you by dumping another. And so on.

It's the learning from each guy that matters.

And one day, you'll meet prince charming. And both of you will have learned from your mistakes. And both will remember not to repeat them.

Just remember to invite me to the wedding, all right?

Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley

Son Confesses Sexual Abuse to Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 05:32:00 +0000

The other night. On the bathroom seat. I confessed sexual abuse to mother.

Frowning face ablaze with indignation, she inquired "Why didn't you tell me?"

Aside from complaining to her, as a child, from a male babysitter's lewd conduct, this was the first time I'd mentioned names and places.

The list included a few neighbors, two cousins and my half-brothers.

I was expecting the inclusion of her two sons in my hall of shame to get a more livid reaction out of her, but incest seemed to matter little.

On the spot, I blamed it on the surprise effect.

I, now, think she blindly accepts anything her sons do — except me. She did curse the hell out of the culprits after all, minus her sons.

Many emotions attended the party on mom's face.

Stupor at hearing names of married neighbors she took for saints. Disgust at how they lured kids. Heart wrench neighbors my age had experienced abuse, too.

Sadness for her own child's body and soul was a no-show.

Pleading guilty for the charge of absenteeism could have been palpable if mom were strong enough to admit faulting and try to repair the carcass.

But mother has never been strong.

All that rage, yelling and steely facade were tailor made to intimidate me.

If my child cited my absence as cause of his molestation, I'd grab his hand to tearfully kiss, and ask for an ounce of forgiveness from his violated heart.

But, much to my dismay, mother has never been a responsible parent.

She cowardly faked amnesia.

But I reminded her, in vivid detail, how she even caught me after the act, once.

Despite many dot-connecting Aha's, no innate motherly instinct to protect the flesh of her flesh transpired. She let out a halfhearted "Wanna see a shrink?" before pouring water for Pontius Pilate to wash his hands of her son's crucifixion.

A virulent fight, triggered by truth seeking to come out, occurred prior.

Mom had sort of gone back to school and her year-end project happened to be about "Abuse in and outside of Schools."

Ironic?

I got her an article from the Internet and was stunned by a chart detailing consequences of child abuse.

Right there, I understood why I unknowingly encompassed those traits!

Swallowing my tears while rereading the chart, mom came in to launch yet another gratuitous and degrading attack.

Right then, I demanded that she no longer belittle me like that.

Blames were exchanged, many accusations denied and a week had passed before I divulged my aversion to her tyranny.

I was in the bathroom that night, but my head wasn't up my ass.

J'ai Faim: Dieting to Win Him Back

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Fri, 14 May 2010 21:46:00 +0000

Summertime is here. Looks get rejuvenated. Bodies sculpted. Through diet and exercise. To slide into hot swimsuits. And cause tsunamis on the beach.

Not this body!

I've been indulging in muffins, donuts and all dessert sorts.

But I'm flirting with the idea of losing weight. I blame French comedy.

J'ai Faim (I'm Hungry) sees Lily, a florist unafraid to take a bite out of life, go through a draconian diet to win her man back.

Aided by diet-obsessed best pal, Lily vows to change for Barnabe!

The lengths vengeful Lily goes to, portrayed by the delicious Catherine Jacob, are as extreme as the makeover she undergoes.

With friends in tow, she ruins the life of Anais, the girl she suspects of stealing her man. It took Lily and Co. repeated midnight prank calls, vandalizing the poor woman's house, and dragging her down the stairs to realize they had the wrong girl all along.

The movie also shows the influence, positive or negative, friends have on our choices, and vice versa.

If Arlette, Lily's best friend, interpreted by the exquisite Michelle Laroque, didn't voice her suspicion that Lily's guy dumped her for his skinny coworker, Anais, lots of damage could have been avoided.

Arlette, eventually, discovers it's her man who wants Anais.

I, for one, have been contemplating avoiding rubbing off on my friends either my jadedness or giddiness; I wouldn't want to risk changing their outlook on or influencing their choices in matters of the heart.

Like Lily, I had considered winning back the last guy I loved, mainly by getting back in touch and shape. But then, I love to eat and am overindulging during my sabbatical.

Must we morph into someone else for "lost love" to come back?

No!

So, I decided to cross out the guy from my head and heart.

After 10 months of waiting.

Tuesday was his birthday. I lost him in July. He lost me on Tuesday.

With Christina Aguilera's You Lost Me, I bid him goodbye.

Terror + Civil War = No Development

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 14:42:00 +0000

Long before 9/11 gave global TV screens seizures, terrorism has been writing many a nation's history books in blood.

When terrorism begets a civil war, you stop living fully.

Fear thwarts personal development to create an entrapping mismatch between your emotional and chronological ages.

I was 8 when terrorism hit my country.

I still hear the ruckus of bomb explosions. I still smell armed collisions; the onion covering my nose amidst tear bombs. My assassinated neighbor agonizing on the floor.

I recall the morning a bomb was found in my school.

Because making it back home was uncertain, matinal kisses goodbye had become a ritual. We lived in daily paranoia, with a 5 P.M. curfew to cheat insignificant death.

Images of slain intellectuals, politicians, artists and journalists. Booms of blown-up police stations, theaters, courts and banks. News of houses broken into. Kidnappings. Wives raped before their husbands saturated our daily life.

We, kids, had to stop being kids.

The country was divided into two camps. Barely mastering our multiplication table, we were asked about our political inclinations. With a semblance of McCarthyism creeping up on our innocent souls, mistrust was inevitable.

Mere partisanship rumor attracted trouble.

Murder was an option.

Forget summer camps. We were told mountains sheltered terrorists. Venturing there became suicidal, with fake army checkpoints scattered on the way.

Entire buses were stopped, emptied and all passengers shot dead because parents refused to deny their kids beach time.

No school expeditions in a country with surreal history, culture and scenery. Karate practice almost killed me when locked out of my building during a crossfire.

No sleepovers. No pajama parties. No summer concerts. No trial and error processes necessary for proper growth.

I went to a disco the first and last time at 16 — the only advantage looking older entailed.

Dating in all of this?

At 14, I fell madly in love with a guy. Like every first time, my ribs were wood, his love fire. We went out a couple of times. Five years passed before I understood my love was to never be reciprocated. I'd like my 100 letters back, bitch!

At 15, affection starved, I found myself in the first arms that feigned warmth. The guy performed unprotected sex on me in my sleep. Novelty and teenage curiosity tempted me to repeat the experience twice. Soon realizing this was not for me, I declined doing it again. The guy slapped me senseless.

Game fucking over!

At 16, a straight guy became, to date, my only semblance of a boyfriend. Besotted, I failed graduating high school. Mom heard of my liaisons and sentenced me to two years of humiliating confinement in my Guantanamo of a house.

I understand mother had to keep me on the straight and narrow, but I respond better to gentleness. Splashing me with pepper spray, letting family read my diary, and calling the police on me were unnecessary to teach me a lesson.

Friends proved foes. Anyone with a bone to pick with me spread sensational rumors. Reaching my critical-thinking-challenged mother, a rumor needn't be justified.

My body and soul had always been her punching bag.

Gradually, I lost my zest for life. My once-contagious feisty disposition ceased contaminating even me.

Friendless. Loveless. Imploding. I found comfort in food. My swimmer's build ballooned. Seeing me run an errand, a former crush exclaimed "What happened to your face?!?"

Why doesn't earth swallow you at times like this?

Today, I realize I may have survived domestic violence, molestation and war. But at what price?

I feel like a fragile kid in an adult world bigger than his body.

Sexual abuse and domestic violence hinder a child's emotional development. War, with the depletion of opportunity to shine, cripples you for life, on all levels.

It seems to be too late ...

Hairy Arab Man First Armpit Shave

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 15:14:00 +0000

Manscaping. Such a hassle for a hairy man.

Unless he is chaetophobic, has a beautician for a significant other, or must be clean-shaven at work, a man shaving daily is a mystery to me.

And I am only referring to facial hair.

Arab men trim/shave the "Bermuda Triangle" i.e. armpits and pubis, monthly, especially if they are married. But, chest/back/sack waxing?

Ouch!

I, for one, seldom invite razors to smooth over my tennis court of a face. My beard has grown on me over the years. Literally.

Being single is one more reason not to mow the lawn.

But, two days ago, shaving my armpits for the first time became a plan!

Background story: water pipes are being fixed in my neighborhood. That means we won't be having access to tap water for the next 2 weeks in such scorching heat. Having found no alcohol-free deodorant, shaving seemed the thing to do.

I chanced upon a hair removal cream tube of my mother's. No spatula accompanied the tube and there was no expiry date on, but I suspected the thing to be 3+ years old.

The cream looked like toothpaste and smelled like gutter water.

Despite the yucky smell and potential expired chemicals risk, I proceeded to slather the cream all over my armpits. The burn! I, then, sat arms arched like an eagle's wings, resisting the urge to rub my slightly burning eyes for fear of losing my eyelashes.

Ten minutes later, smarty pants thought mere water splashes would make the uprooted armpit hair slide down the drain. Big mistake! Unable to lay my hands on a spatula, I flipped the toothpaste tube and used its sharp base, which was too limp for the job.

Next alternative was a broken comb. A Missouri fridge magnet. The flip side of a razor.

To no avail.

The thought of having chemicals on longer than recommended made me panic. When I panic, common sense deserts me. So, I frantically scrapped with anything I found.

Result?

My armpits look like a cat sharpened its claws on them.

And that smell! Nobody told me I was to smell like the sewers for the next 48 hours! And I can't even spray deodorant or use soap?

Women, how d'ya do it? It's tough being a woman, I now realize.

Sexually Abused as a Child ... and I Liked It

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 20:44:00 +0000

Being molested as a child was not too traumatic an experience.

Growing up in a house devoid of affection was.

When molestation, varying in gravity, adds warmth to a boy's cold existence, the deed's immorality becomes virtually insignificant.

Sadly for some, molestation was the only affection source.

Whether the molested child lets it happen voluntarily and goes back for more, because he gets "used" to the pleasurable part, is debatable.

After 27 years of internal turmoil, and the suffocating secret's burden, my precocious introduction to sexuality is becoming less of an issue.

Mother battered and devalorized me cruelly at home. At least, my molesters used no violence or awfully-crude language. In fact, the thought of getting non-violent, feel-good affection reduced the immorality of the act to ashes.

My experience with sexual abuse is relatively benign.

I was sexually touched more than anything, with anal intercourse never proving fruitful. That's why, to this day, I still can't call the culprits 'abusers'.

Is "my source of illicit physical closeness" a better appellation?

Most culprits were teens from our poverty-, delinquency- and illiteracy-stricken ghetto. Many came from large families cramped in one-room apartments. In the absence of room, the street was where their sexual frustration found a way out.

Except for my nanny's teenage son. His plaything lived right next door.

Mom caught he and I right after the act, one afternoon. But, since she tremendously respected his father, she said nothing. Instead, she cowardly had me break the embarrassing news to the guy's sister -- my then-best friend.

Am I wrong for hurting more over mom's inaction than anything else?

I see no problem brushing off outside trauma if I can go back to a loving home. But, when you are abused, find nobody home to console you, you're lost. It's worse when you find an absentee parent in whom you can't confide.

But, the incident that scarred me the most was courtesy of a male babysitter.

He was the assistant of one of mom's "friends." I was often left alone with him while everybody partied until the wee hours of the morning. Knowing his intentions, I'd watch cartoons to resist falling asleep.

Being only 5, I always dozed off to open my eyes and find myself on his lap, his tobacco-stinking mouth devouring my face and his loins frantically rubbing against my body.

One evening, I complained about that in graphic detail to mom. I begged not to be taken there. She promised to have him replaced. Countless nights after, I found myself alone with him again, sleepily succumbing to his urges.

Face to face. Buttocks to loins. Childhood innocence to adult lust. A feeling of betrayal to a feeling of lucking out. A justified grudge to bestial insensitivity.

To this day, she swears I never told her about it ...

Precious and Mary Jones Lived Here

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 21:50:00 +0000

No eye shall be dry.

That was the promise of Precious.

A story about finding self-worth and triumphing over crippling hardships.

The movie left me unmoved.

Not for lack of domestic violence, sexual abuse or incest scenes.

But because the theme of abuse is all too familiar.

I have been Precious.

Mary Jones is my mother. Unlike Mary, however, my mother didn't have her boyfriend desert her to rape and impregnate her daughter.

Mother is educated, independent and has always had men at her feet. Granted, she did not take advantage of the opportunities life had sent her way, but she had virtually no reason to be physically and verbally abusive at home.

She had no right to turn me into Precious.

If my thighs and back could talk, they would scream the pain inflicted on them by that whip made with interlaced dried bull tails. If my wrist could talk, it'd describe the scar it had of that big kitchen knife that cut it, that one night.

My sweet 16 remembers the gas spray splashed under the covers.

Much like Precious, I escaped into a dream world as soon as my body and soul were yet again being polluted. I created a world where I had a loving father, an affectionate mother and fun siblings.

That dream world had started feeling so real that I made part of its characters to my classmates. A fertile imagination came in handy for this boy when he found himself in those awkward moments when all his peers showed off their families.

The only break from physical abuse I used to get was when mom and I had company. Just like Mary Jones acted all kind and gentle with the social worker, mom changed masks in the presence of people.

The anger disappeared, the civility reemerged, the joie de vivre looked natural and the torture chamber temporarily closed down.

But I did receive the cold stares with kicks and pinches under the table, which were met with a broken smile drawn by a soul stealthily sending out an S.O.S.

At the end of the day, much like Mary Jones blamed her daughter for her lack of love and affection, I believe mom holds a grudge against me because the men she wanted to marry must have had a problem with her having children.

Much like Mary Jones, mom repeatedly told me she wished she had aborted me even if I'm not her only child. She has had two other kids from a first marriage, but I guess they were less of a problem since they didn't live with her.

My mother's excuse for being violent? She did not know any better.

Amelie Poulain + Pastry = My Valentine's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 07:27:00 +0000

Celebrating Valentine's Day with a special someone feels good.

Even if many write off the occasion as commerce, the very sheer thought somebody's celebrating their love for you is endearing.

Nothing's lost if you have no one. V-Day is not about a person; it's a celebration of the big L.

At 27, I've never had a valentine.

Last year was my only semblance of a Valentine's. A guy I liked had asked me to be his valentine via email. I was ecstatic to spend the night on camera with him, listening to My Funny Valentine and watching him unscrew his bed in his undies.

As a gift, he created a PowerPoint presentation.

Each slide contained cutesy messages, accompanied by my photos and his -- pics he'd taken especially for the occasion. I was touched he had styled his incorrigibly-straight hair with gel. Cute coming from a geeky tech, ain't it?

He even inspired me to write an impromptu Valentine's Day poem.

And then, he dumped me. Love is oh-so everlasting! Rolls eyes.

This year saw no successor to the deserted valentine throne. So, the early bird that I've become got out of bed at 6 PM, wore a witness protection program coat and headed for the patisserie.

To avoid arousing my neighbor's suspicion of my party for one, I threw the too-obvious white pastry box in a black plastic bag and swung it like any other uncrushable errand as I walked back home.

Luckily, I'd chosen solid pastry despite the whipped cream. Once home, I slipped under the blanket, inserted a DVD into the player and started stuffing my face.

My favorite movie is Amelie.

The romanticism dancing around in broad daylight, in the streets of Paris, plunges you in a worry-free world where you feel like floating — a feeling whipped cream on my pastry accentuates.

I particularly like how Amelie, an unpretentious waitress, brings intrigue and anticipation back to the now-dull love game. She goes on a 48-hour-world-fixing spree that smacks her back on the ass and drops the man of her dreams right by her doorway.

In a colorless world, Amelie, and its Yann Tiersen soundtrack, make life seem easier to digest, one romance at a time.

Enough about me.

Tell uncle Wilmy about your Valentine's Day.

Death of a Blogger

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 08:57:00 +0000

If a blogger dies, how are his blogging friends to know of his death?

Forget science's immortality aspirations, as death is inevitable.

Often feared and maligned, death is simply the epitome of a life.

It's the only thing that sees no color, no creed, no age and no social class. As such, we all sooner or later get to meet it.

And what a relief that day will be!

As bloggers, we're not immune to the coffin treatment. While the death of technology is a reason our blogs would cease existing, we could always resort back to snail mail.

But how to remedy the death of the masterminds behind blogs?

Have you thought about your blog's future in case of your passing?

Do you have a post scheduled 5 years from now?

Got someone to keep your blog up and perpetuate your blogacy?

I hope you have someone to inform me of your death. I got no one. But you know I must have died if my blog's design looks the same for more than 3 months.

Now, let's discuss your blog's will, shall we?

A December Ago - Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 00:14:00 +0000

I wrote this poem two Decembers ago. A month I, now, link to heartache.

It, thus, befits this December. Even if this year will be different.

I don't intend to go on a never-ending quest to find romance again. This veteran heart of mine needs recuperation. From too much jihad in the name of love.

A December ago, the eyes of love bled
The mind's sanity fled
An ocean of tears the heart shed
And with grief, my soul wed.

A December ago, my body lost all its might
My faith in men took flight
Clairvoyance lost its stitched sight
And my sunny kingdom fell into a woeful plight.

A December ago, I finally understood
I shall be hung in the nude
On a crucifix of burning wood
For loving a heart oh-so cruel and crude.

A December ago, December begged January
For a restful and calmer February
For heartaches in winter have become customary
Within the walls of my murky sanctuary.

A December ago, December forgot to forget
Only sorrow does sorrow beget
For another December's come to be beset
By a one-way memory lane of bitter regret.

WELCOME TO GAY ARAB GUY CLOSET

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 21:26:00 +0000

Gay Arab men must hide. It's not deception. It's survival.

Anonymity is called for. Even online. So, pardon my hiding my face.

Albeit living in a closet, my expression on this blog will be far from closeted.

I'm Wilmaryad De La Scala -- love child of Maria Callas and Oscar Wilde.

From Callas, I inherited perfectionistic loneliness. From Wilde, an aesthetic flair.

On here, I will be shedding masks, shedding light on murky memory attics, and shedding burdens off crumbling parquet shoulders.

In me sleeps magma prose sprinkled with Jean Paul Gaultier.

Your mission, if you accept it, is to partake in the exorcism of my soul.