Gay Arab Guy

5 Kissing Styles Philematologists Hate!

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

Hi. My name is Wilmaryad and I am an ex-Philematologist.

Philematology is the science studying kissing's hormonal effects, i.e. levels of chemicals released during lip-lock, namely Cortisol and Oxytocin.

Cortisol alleviates stress. Oxytocin builds bonding, reduces fear and provokes sexual arousal. And kissing releases lots of these hormones!

Beyond spit swap, kissing is biological info exchange. It helps men tell a woman's fertility (blue tongue?) and women determine if there's chemistry.

No chemistry means women will pout ... with both lips.

A Kiss is the ultimate proof of attraction and may tip your judgment's balance if you're not attracted. Notice how prostitutes / escorts are instructed to abstain from kissing a client lest the girl develops feelings for him.

A kiss is an ice-breaking deal breaker, or else, why do (good) kisses melt us?

A first kiss is crucial in setting the tone of the love dance. Just like your dance moves preview your lovemaking acumen, your kiss speaks volumes about your personality and social behavior. And who wants to come across as a loser?

Sometimes, you fail to make a good first impression on a first date. How well you kiss is your only chance at persuading your date to have dinner with you again.

If your personality and kissing skills suck, you won't survive "Grammar Mode".

Grammar Mode is the phase ensuing a date, when the "taste" you left in your date's mouth is attributed adjectives: gooey, dry, non-committal, rigid, all over the place, etc. And how you kiss is often a factor in the deliberation process.

Now, I don't kiss'n'tell but wanted to cue in kissing-virgin blogami, CTMontreal.

To describe what good kissing isn't, here are 5 bad kissing styles.

5. Stitched Lips. This kisser's lips never unzip. Hiding a frog? Afraid your razor tongue hurts me? Unless your mouth is a stinky laundry basket, open sesame!

4. Toothpick. Ever seen a lizard's tongue whip an insect? That's bad kisser #2. With him, you shouldn't worry if something's stuck in your teeth. His tongue will offer thorough flossing and tartar removal. Perfect after dinner, eh?

3. Car Wash. Forget Neutrogena face wash products! This kisser's mouth opens so wide, his lips and saliva cover your nose, mustache and chin. Napkin!

2. Sterilized Tongue. Breath fresheners smell good but taste horrible! This kisser means well but I refuse to kiss an anesthetic jar. Vicodin much?

1. The Kissophobe. He is the finest kisser in the world and hates it! Likely to make you swoon, then suddenly stops to say "Look baby! I love ya and all, but I can't. Kissing just grosses me out ... but it's not you, all right?" True story.

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 former philematologist. His last kiss dates back to 1999.

Video: Tarkan - Kiss Kiss | Photo by: Mervyn Dublin

If God Hates Fags and Fags Hate God, Do Fags Hate Fags and Does God Hate Himself?

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 08:26:00 +0000

We condemn what we secretly long for but fear to publicly do. ~ Wilmaryad O'Scallas

This quote applies to many gay bashers except to GodHatesFags' creator.

God Hates Fags is an homophobic movement created by Fred Phelps, Topeka, Kansas's Westboro Baptist Church's pastor, and Saddam Hussein sympathizer.

Need I say more?

Now that the infamous website has been hacked, I ask: if God hates fags and fags hate God, do fags hate fags and does God hate himself?

I'll answer each question from partisan and opponent perspectives.

God Hates Fags?

I doubt God hates.

He has unleashed His wrath upon man's disobedience, but He's never hated him. In Islam, for example, God has 99 names. "The Hateful" is not one of them.

Thus, "Frown upon" seems a more appropriate verb.

Now, why would God frown upon fags?

Sodomy could be the reason.

Besides being said to make God's heavenly kingdom shake, sodomy is unclean and dangerous. Lack of hygiene and endangering the human race are believed to liken you to the devil. Since God is angry at the devil, you do the math.

But sodomy isn't fag specific. Heterosexuals do it, too. So, it should be "God Frowns upon Sodomites". And even if He did, why would it bother you?

If you don't like it, don't practice it.

That you condemn sodomy, while enjoying colonics, is hypocritical.

Fags Hate God?

Fags are unlikely to hate God.

Nobody kneels down and says God's name more often than fags do.

Both in pain and pleasure.

What happened is that the likes of Fred Phelps made fags believe God truly hates them. So, fags reciprocated by not acknowledging His existence.

In the dark, however, fags do address God.

If fags were little Satans, they wouldn't be ~~drama queens~~ sensitive to suffering and wouldn't ~~put out~~ help the needy like God recommended. It's because they'd give the shirt off of their back that you find fags in speedo's in Pride parades.

Ahem.

So, stop saying God hates fags or Lady Gaga crucifies you!

Fags Hate Fags?

From the outside, it's easy to think fags hate eachother.

There's too much division in the gay community. The masculine gays hate on the feminine. The muscular hate on the skinny. And opposites attract no more.

Fags argue this isn't hate. It's preference.

Whatever the case, Doppelganger syndrome is plaguing the gay community. More fags, indeed, seek someone very similar (a clone?). And since the community is too varied for this to often happen, frustration ensues.

Fags, diversity shouldn't mean division. If we show no solidarity towards eachother, homophobes are unlikely to. So, stop reenacting "Mean Girls".

God Hates Himself?

Now, that's a ridiculous question.

If God knows no hate, how can He even hate Himself?

Last time I checked, God wasn't a minuscule guy with a ridiculous mustache.

Hitler, are you there?

When asked for her opinion on the subject, a lesbian minister wrote this:

I am not comfortable with the negative direction you take on your website. I DO believe in God. I am a Buddhist, was raised Catholic, ordained in the Christian Church as an interfaith minister. I know you have a lot of important things to say but the overall direction of your blog feels heavily negative to me and I do not feel that that helps our movement at all.

My blog's direction feels heavily negative? Gurl, puh-lease! *hair flip*

Born This Way - Lady Gaga.

About the author:
Wilmaryad knows fag, in British slang, means cigarette. So, he doesn't mind being called smoking hot. Come fan the flames of his faggotry on Twitter

Photo by: Boy Wonder

Susan-Boyle Singles Selling Out?

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 01:29:00 +0000

There is single.

Arabica. Saccharin. Sex-after-dinner single.

And there's Susan Boyle single.

Decaf. Sugar-free. Never-been-kissed single.

While dating styles vary, in an instant gratification age, Susan-Boyle singles are going extinct. This is equally visible in the gay community.

And lack of opportunity is not to blame.

So, with another Valentine's Day gone by, one can't help wondering:

Are SuBo singles selling out?

The biggest misconception about SuBo singles is that nobody wants to date them. Truth is most SuBo singles are virgins aware dating often culminates in recreational sex. So, they abstain from either.

This conforms to the original SuBo single, Susan herself. At 50, the Britain's Got Talent sensation is said to still be a virgin.

A partnered gay guy told me sexless dating is utopia. To him, sex is an integral part of dating and marriage is unnecessary to pop cherries.

To me, if sex is involved, it's not dating. It's a serious relationship.

On a date, I watch the guy's personality at play, to decide if I want to look beyond his looks. Cuddles and kisses might ensue if chemistry is undeniable and serious intent is expressed.

If the guy wants more, I'll burst into a Beyonce song: "if you like it, then put a ring on it."

I'm aware this lazy Pollyanna is copy-pasting heterosexual attitudes. But you'd be amazed how often I hear "Don't be like women. You're a guy. Guys don't save themselves. You were designed to have sex all the time. Only women associate sex with feelings."

Many gay guys equate anal intercourse with losing virginity. Others argue that, in the absence of a hymen, a male loses his virginity the first time he ejaculates.

It'd just be nice to see some tradition instilled in gay relationships: dating, engagement, etc. Sigh.

Bottom line: if you're a virgin or haven't dated in two years, you're a SuBo single.

If you're a SuBo single and the universe is unkind to you, you're screwed. How unlikely! And since putting out won't put you out of your misery, you're likely to die alone and lonely. Ask me!

Time for a black cat, a rocking chair and a shawl.

Spinsterhood's coming for tea.

Song: I Am a Good Girl. By: Christina Aguilera.

About the author: Wilmaryad is a SuBo-single. He's at a crossroads between the Vatican and the Playboy Mansion.

Love a Dick for His Dick?

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

He's a player.

He's dumb, insensitive and superficial.

He'd jump a paraplegic if a paraplegic moved.

He makes you wanna chew bricks.

In other words ...

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

Yet, he has a precious gift. A gift reminiscent of lollipops. A gift so lethal to your oral fixation. A gift he can and will get away with everything thanks to. A gift of which he's aware and never reluctant to share.

His dick — His schlong — His second head — His third leg — His Harry Potter wand — His jello parlor — His milk fountain — Your damnation.

You may blush reading this. But let's face it: who doesn't love dick?

For dick-loving Ballsackians and Ovarians, dick is better than cookies and 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 Nigerian 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, dick gives you 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 levels if you fancy uncut dick. That fat roll of a foreskin is a cheesecake factory! Lemonade swish after is good.

Dick virtues aside, is it virtuous to love a dick for his source of virtue?

I, once, read people who like beautiful genitals have had a shaky upbringing. You bet I've had a shaky upbringing, if any at all. And I'm glad I didn't!

I heard a guy say "Dick will make you slap a bitch!" I, today, relate.

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 superb 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 slinky wobblehead. Regularly check on us like your cuckoo clock. We'll even tolerate your seasickness aftermath, O thick seamen.

Why call a douche a dick when dick connotes with deliciousness?

Jerks with beautiful dicks, you're nothing without your tools. So, work on your personality! While we'll succumb to tasting your one-eyed monster, our 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 on Twitter @GayArabGuy.

Blog Post Partum Depression

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 22:46:00 +0000

It's Gay Arab Guy's first blogversary!

To celebrate, I've had a Cuban, then I smoked a cigar. Ha!

Yet, I suffer from blog post partum depression ... and bad puns.

1. My Blog's Baby Daddy

Remember the story of Goldilocks?

A little blonde broke into a bear family's house, devoured their hot porridge, broke the cub's chair, then fled out of the window.

I fell in love with a Goldilocks. A year ago, out of the window he fled.

So, I quit my job, gave away my phone and moved to Recluseville.

And then God made Gay Arab Guy.

The blog could've been entitled "What Goldilocks Should've Known" because he judged harshly, and left, ignoring the background story.

Where's child support when you need it?

2. Blog Post Partum Depression Symptoms

Postpartum Depression strikes 10-20% of women, after giving birth.

Blog Post Partum Depression hits (metaphor-loving) bloggers. Voilà!

Symptoms, vary in intensity and duration, and include:

Loss of appetite: Writing stopped being appetizing. No meal plans. No shopping for ideas. I even slimmed my content down.

Difficulty bonding with the baby: Why did I create a blog? Contraception exists!

Intense irritability and anger: No head shaving or attacking paparazzi cars with my umbrella, a la Britney Spears. Yet ...

Withdrawal from family and friends: I neglected my Blogamis — friends met through blogs — who truly are this blog's family.

Thoughts of harming the baby: I went beyond thought here. This is the first time I feed this blog content in 3 months. 3 months spent botching its appearance.

Feelings of shame, guilt or inadequacy: Did I over share? Should I go? Should I stay? Better blogs out there, anyway.

Loss of interest in sex: Sex? This blog isn't the fruit of sex. Immaculate conception baby here!

3. The Solution

One word: Twitter.

Twitter kills blog post partum depression cause it's Free, Fast and Fun.

I, for one, ended up cracking up at my own cheeky tweets.

Examples?

Sex is like talking. The lips seem to be doing all the job, but the real action is happening inside.

The one who will always have your back is your desk chair.

Nobody knows rejection like a fly hovering around a meal.

Men aren't called dogs cos they think of sex 24/7. Men are dogs cos they find sniffing a bitch's butt to say "hello" natural.

So, if you want to share your content, prevent blogging burnout and have a laugh with me, in 140 characters only, create a Twitter account.

To wrap up, I would like to thank my Blogamis. This space is a big part of me. You are a big part of it.

Wilmaryad O'Scallas writes Gay Arab Guy and fights blog depression on Twitter.

[Bear photo by Msh3l]

Teachers Sexually Abusing Children

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

Who likes school when it employs pedophiles?

I was 11 when I asked that question.

Some female classmates asked me to help decorate our classroom for year-end festivities. We were all giggles, thinking we had the school all to ourselves.

Wrong!

A classroom away, an Arabic teacher was tidying up his desk. My ebb and flow must have caught his attention. So, he ordered me to enter.

To my surprise, he said he had unfinished business with me. A grudge I needed to pay for. I laughed, arguing I didn't know him.

His face instantly 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. He slid a finger inside my shirt and pulled me closer. A button flew off.

"What am I to make of you, handsome?", he whispered.

Insistent I owed him, he ordered me to get on my knees and crawl. I defiantly refused. But, the view of his voluptuous thighs almost touching my zipper, combined with the probability of him molesting me, made me burst into tears.

Hearing me cry, my classmates ran in.

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

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

Song of abused childhood: Luka, by Suzanne Vega.

Photo by: Boy Wonder

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 vampire series is the sexiest thing on TV.

Sexy plot and 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 Velasquez

- 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, literally, to feed 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

Women, having a problem finding your G-spot?

Forget all theories about its elusive location and take a good look at your man.

He rubs his own everytime you give him a ~~boner~~ bone.

Since everything becomes obvious when a man gets happy (pants), his gut stands erect when you pleasure it. For once, it's you feeding him.

Ahem. Digressing.

The difference between men and women is that women's sexual organ is their brain. Tender foreplay and the woman turns your bedroom into an aquarium.

Men have two heads but no brains. So ... yeah.

A man rarely makes a woman climax. Fact! No, women aren't hard to please. Men are just more easily satisfiable. Steak + sex + a snorenade = bliss.

That applies to me, too. Except that, unlike my Chinese friends, I don't eat pussy and do snore during the romp in bed; hence why no man wants me. Ahem.

My own life has changed since I embraced how big my G-spot is.

Nobody needs to look for it as it rests on my lap when I'm 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 scratches by my velociraptor toenails.

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

Much like women's G-spot is believed to be shaped like a bean, 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 to her brother, she grabbed my love handle. She saw me shirtless, with my navel down to my pubis, she thought I was a girl.

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

Some salads we have!

But, I'm considering reducing my G-spot. I intend to bring down my orgasms to a reasonable six a day: breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, snack.

I am, also, curious about physical activity, but with my sensitive G-spot ...

So, I am looking for an e-workout partner with the following criteria: athletic, green-eyed, nutrition savvy, patient, with a charming smile and single.

That's southern for "I'm unashamedly looking for an Apollo of a boyfriend".

You heard me.

Thanks for recommending applicants and helping me choose one!

Chanel = Feminist Maneater + Sugar Daddies?

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

Today is French fashion legend Coco Chanel's 127th birthday.

Few details of her early life can be accurately verified, as Mademoiselle reworked her story like she reworked her creations. In the absence of a family life, a child invents one. Chanel was no different. For once.

Her story wasn't the only thing Chanel had reworked. By wearing men and their clothing, Coco reworked feminism — that of a woman 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 and, 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, but as subservient sex objects. If romance and marriage ensued, fine. If not, nexxxt! 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 to make a family, Chanel went all the way in her imitation of the gigolo type of men, as if just wanting admiration temporarily, with no strings attached.

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. But, his lack of commitment exasperated her. She left him and took over his Paris apartment.

Then, there was 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 9 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 an 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.

Before that, the Duke of Westminster vowed to leave his wife for 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.

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

Sex and the City invented Post-it breakups. But dumped via Instant Messaging?

It had to happen to me to believe it!

A year ago. Making pizza. Over Google's Instant Messaging. He 9/11-ed me.
It was unexpected, as I was ready to join him for a lifetime together. But, breakups teach us lessons. Especially on their first anniversary.

Compiled below are 10 faux-pas I committed.

Please avoid them!

1. Ignoring red flags

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

If you spot many red flags surrounding the guy, and choose to overlook them, red will become the color of your tears.

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

2. TLI (Too Little Information)

Do you live in a third-world country and are dating a foreigner? Explain that Internet cuts can last a week in your part of the world. Or he'll take irregular contact for avoidance and mistrust will follow.

3. Building castles on sand

Both birds must want to build a love nest.

If one bird disappears in a dreamland and starts making plans by itself for both birds, the other will feel neglected and may fly away.

So, keep the other bird in-the-know about turning your dreams into plans.

4. Showing Your Blog to Potential Dates

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

Its content can be sarcastic and may unintentionally hurt.

So, a blog shouldn't be shown to a significant other, especially not to a paranoid one. If they find it on their own, it'll test their true character.

5. Alcohol + Loneliness + Speed = Danger!

Granted, alcohol unveils people's hidden desires, but it also blurs reality. So, don't believe a guy's declaration of love when his liver is bloated.

Like alcohol, loneliness casts a veil upon your objectivity. It makes you believe you have feelings for the first person to give you attention.

Company kills loneliness. Not illusion!

Now, why would a cop pull you over and hand you a mighty fine ticket? The same thing awaits you if you trespass allowed speeds in dating.

Rushing can cause accidents.

Sober, self-sufficient and levelheaded is what you must be to truly love.

6. Suicidal thoughts = Fragile love

We've all known hardships in life.

But certain encounters alleviate the scars, though.

If the guy repeatedly mentions committing suicide, even after meeting you, your presence in his life is unlikely to dissuade him.

If you try to downplay the seriousness of the situation by trying to make him laugh, and he takes that for indifference on your part, back off.

7. 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.

8. 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?

9. Initiating contact after things go sour

When you're on speaking terms: If he meets you with mean sarcasm, sideway stares, monosyllabic talk and unwillingness to talk things through, head towards the exit door.

When you're no longer talking: If you hear of a train collision in his area and email him to make sure he's safe, and he sees it as an attempt to make him feel bad for leaving you, nothing is to resurrect.

10. 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?

Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah will close this one-year anniversary. Ironically, it was the guy who dumped me that had introduced me to this song.

Prophetic or premeditated?

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

Her face was ablaze with indignation.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she rebuked.

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, but 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 at knowing other 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 those anger storms, throat-drying yelling concertos and steel facade were just that, a facade tailor made to intimidate me.

If my child cited my absence as a major factor in his exposure to such damaging incidents, 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 Aha's that ensued her connecting the dots, no innate motherly instinct to protect the flesh of her flesh transpired.

She let slip 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 and 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 sorts of desserts.

But I'm starting to flirt with the idea of losing weight.

And I blame it on 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 redefined and reshaped the world we live in, terrorism had been writing chapters of blood in the books of many nations.

When terrorism begets a civil war, you stop living. Fear thwarts development. An entrapping mismatch between your emotional and chronological ages is born.

I was 8 when a decade-long terrorism wave hit my country.

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

I still feel the panic of the morning a bomb was found in my school.

Daily images of slain intellectuals, politicians, artists and journalists. Booms of blown-up police stations, theaters, post offices and banks. News of houses broken into, girls kidnapped and wives raped in front of their husbands.

There were matinal kisses-goodbye, for making it back home was uncertain. Daily paranoia accompanied by a 5 P.M. curfew, to avoid insignificant death.

Play time was reduced to a suffocating minimum. Mountains becoming home to terrorists made camping suicidal. No school expeditions in a country with surreal history, culture and scenery. Karate practice almost killed me as I, once, locked out of the building while my neighborhood was being ruffled by shootings.

No sleepovers. No pajama parties. No summer concerts. No trial and error processes necessary for proper growth. I was 16 the first and last time I stepped into a disco — the only advantage looking older entailed.

Dating in all of this?

At 14, I fell madly in love with a guy, tracked him down and sent him a passionate anonymous letter. We went out a couple of times, and 5 years passed before I understood my love was to never be reciprocated.

I'd like my 100 letters back, bitch!

Affection-starved at 15, I found myself in the arms of a guy who performed unprotected sex on me in my sleep. I still can't decide if it were rape or not.

A year later, a straight guy became, to date, my only semblance of a boyfriend. Absorbed by romance, I failed graduating high school at 16. I was to serve a 2-year sentence in my Guantanamo of a house, lulled by more abuse.

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.

Today, I realize I have survived domestic violence, sexual abuse and war. But at what price? Most of the time, I am like a fragile kid lost in an adult world.

Not only do sexual abuse and domestic violence hinder a child's emotional development, but adding war to the mix, with the depletion of opportunity to shine it entails, 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 is a hassle for a hairy man.

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

And I am only referring to facial hair.

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

Ouch!

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

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

But, 2 days ago, shaving my armpits for the first time became a plan!

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, at least, 3+ years old.

The cream looked like fermented milk and smelled like gutter water.

Despite the disgusting smell and potential danger of expired chemicals, I proceeded to slather the cream all over my armpits.

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, too.

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 square fridge magnet, the flip side of a used disposable razor ... but to no avail.

The thought of having the chemicals on my armpits for longer than recommended made me panic, and 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.

Recall interstate maps? The red lines are on my traumatized armpits.

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

Women, how do you do it? It's so hard 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 was not a traumatic experience.

Growing up in a house devoid of affection was.

When molestation, with its varying degrees of gravity, adds warmth to a boy's lonely existence, the immorality of the deed becomes virtually insignificant.

For some sexual abuse survivors, molestation was their sole source of affection. Whether the molested child lets it happen voluntarily and goes back for more, once he gets "used" to the pleasurable part of molestation, is debatable.

After 27 years of internal turmoil, and the burden of the suffocating secret, I am starting to view my precocious introduction to sexuality as less of an issue.

Mother cruelly battered and devalorized me 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 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 sleeping.

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 buttocks.

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.
Feeling betrayed 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 left dry.

This was the promise of Precious: Based on the Novel 'Push' by Sapphire.

The story is about finding self-worth and following one's dreams despite the naysayers, but the theme of abuse, in all its forms, is too present to be ignored.

Oddly enough, despite the movie being inspirational, it left me practically numb, if not unaffected. No teary eyes. No wincing. No expression of aggravation.

Nothing!

The story, except for certain events, brought nothing to the table but a feeling of deja-vu ... flashbacks of some sort, as if Precious and Mary Jones lived here.

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

It's no secret.

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

Even if many write off the occasion as pure commerce, knowing somebody is celebrating their love for you is endearing.

Nothing's lost if you have no valentine, though.

V-Day is not about a person; it's a celebration of the big L.

At 27, I've never had a valentine.

My only semblance of a Valentine's Day celebration was last year. A guy in Belgium 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 one photo of mine and one of his, which he had taken especially for the occasion. I was touched by how 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. Yes. 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 big witness protection program coat and ventured out to the patisserie.

Careful not to arouse any neighbor's suspicion of my party for one, I didn't carry the much-too-obvious white pastry box like waiters carry trays; instead I threw it in a black plastic bag and carried it like any other uncrushable errand, swinging the bag as I walked back home.

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

My favorite movie is Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulain.

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 top of 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, Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulain, and its Yann Tiersen soundtrack, will cheer you back up and 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?

Bernard H. Levy and Arielle Dombasle Fairytale

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 12:27:00 +0000

Arielle and BHL. What a fairy tale!

She, the operatic Franco-Americano chicana.
He, the French Jewish popular philosopher.

She, the candid blonde with the alienesque face.
He, the philanthropist with the open shirt collar.

She, on Charlie Rose, mystifying him.
He blaming his newfound smile on her.

We started to buy into the whole fairytale.

Until Daphne Guinness cut off the fairy's wings!

Everybody seems shocked BHL cheated, but he was married when he was seeing Arielle. So, she should have expected him to do onto her what he had done to his former wife.

Is Daphne a fling or Arielle's replacement?

I'm guessing both. Here's why.

(a) Just a fling. BHL has eyes on the English literati. Who better than an Irish heiress to introduce him to the big names in book publishing?

Being young, wealthy and divorced make her the perfect fling, too.

(b) Definite replacement. Men like to be treated mean and kept keen.

Arielle is at BHL's feet and makes no secret of it. She confesses singing, acting, and even boiling eggs, just to seduce him.

Speaking of eggs, Arielle didn't have children to keep her figure for her husband. Daphne is still in age of conceiving. Do the math!

It saddens me to imagine how Arielle is feeling.

But then.

Analyze what happened to her since BHL.

Her CD's suddenly started selling like pancakes. You're naive to think adding electro sounds to opera songs did the trick. The trick was her husband and his influential media connections.

So, the question imposes itself:

Shakespearean love or smart career move?

If her love is sincere, I hope Arielle learns:

(1) falling in love with a man on his book's cover is silly
(2) he'll leave you for another like he left his wife for you
(3) some men don't like to have a slave for a woman

I wonder how Daphne feels about the whole situation.

One thing's for sure: BHL will never find somebody to love him like Arielle.

I leave you with Arielle Dombasle singing Odysseus Diapo.

To me, they will always be as pictured below.

Gay Cancer Survivor: Stephen Graham King

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 16:24:00 +0000

Stephen Graham King is a Canadian gay writer.

His name may remind you of thriller author, Stephen King.

But, the two Kings are, to the best of my knowledge, unrelated.

What relates them is that one lived horrors more scarring than ones imagined by the other.

Indeed, Stephen Graham King is a courageous cancer survivor. His experience with synovial sarcoma, a rare soft tissue cancer, gave birth to "Just Breathe".

Stephen and I e-met in early 2005.

Friendly disposition, intelligent eyes, and a glow only survivors possess. I remember him listening to Evanescence, a heavy metal band, whose lyrics seemed to help with his convalescence.

If you met the man before reading his book, you wouldn't suspect that smile to have stood in the face of cancer and insisted to shine.

Had he chosen not to show you the scars on his body, you'd think this is just another avid reader figuring out life one book at a time.

There was simply too much life within that man to exhibit otherwise.

Come 2006, Stephen's first book was published. He already had a publication-worthy, diary-form website, but to see that culminate in a book was the icing on the cake.

Apparently, I possess the only signed copy in the entire world!

Not a day of that summer 2006 passed by without me reading some of "Just breathe". The topic was, and remains to this day, too heavy for me to read in one take. I needed, and still need, to put the book down, gather my strength before picking up the book again.

"Just Breathe" isn't robotic storytelling of how cancer affected a gay man. Too smart to sound boring, Stephen peppered the book with diary excerpts, describing, in wrenching honesty, how much cancer sucked the simplicity out of the pettiest things in his everyday life.

What gives this medical autobiography a personable voice is recounting how tough it was to survive cancer, with all the physical transformations it entails, as a gay man in a community that idolizes the young, the fit and the "healthy".

Is Stephen to blame for having had the impression he'd lost his sex appeal, after seeing his body incessantly botched by scalpels?

I recall feeling guilty when he nonchalantly said "I am just a guy who wobbles now, you know."

It's easy for us, who have not known cancer firsthand, to take our little health ailments for the end of the world. Little do we know how much more violent, damaging and grueling battling cancer is.

To me, cancer survivors are like heroes, in the sense that, much like heroes, they fight battles not everybody is willing to fight.

I wrote this at a time my body was inflamed to salute cancer survivors and wish them a long and healthy life; to wish cancer patients lots of courage and a speedy recovery; and to urge everybody else to count their blessings, starting by me.

I also, mainly, wrote this to celebrate Stephen's triumph, for it was eight years ago that science did its best to send him back to, hopefully-everlasting, recovery.

I invite you to read a few chapters from "Just Breathe" by Stephen Graham King, a friend who showed up when everybody deserting me was in style — A friend with whom I must reconnect.

Stephen writes at Chronic Paint and tweets at stephenwrites

A December Ago - Poem

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

I wrote this poem two Decembers ago. It befits this December.

The only difference this year is that I'm not going on a never-ending quest to find romance. 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 once-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 a 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 me for not showing my face.

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

I'm Wilmaryad O'Scallas -- love child of Maria Callas & Oscar Wilde.

From Callas, I inherited the lonely existence and perfectionism.

From Wilde, I got the flair for aesthetics and common sense.

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 is to partake in the exorcism of my soul.