December disapora snippets

I made it to the film. Oh yes I did. My hosts declined without telling me that they did. I had to inform them that they did and that I accept their unsaid apology. My Palestinian friend took me there after I indulged in his shopping. It was a well accepted exchange. He gave me warmth when I most needed it and there were thrilling moments of exposing oneself, and also dreadful moments of having to hide the truth and fear of being shunned from the growing attention. But I made it to the film. And from now I know it will always be a big sin if you promise to take me to movies and you fail to deliver.

I feel I'm rushing into the option of becoming a refugee. There will always be a what if, no? what if I had met the right people early on? What if there was another route to explore? What if I had more time? 

I am surprised by how intense my weeping bouts can get these days. I always was able to stop them when I wanted to. I'd continue to feel sad but I could stop them in the past. Now they just blow me away and I feel shattered. 

I miss being able to buy single cigarettes without getting a whole pack. Now I sometimes half-smoked cigarettes off the streets. If you stand long enough by a bus stop, somebody would get rid of their unfinished cigarette to make it to the bus. Abdella bought 3 marlboroughs from a street vendor. I used to buy them, the light ones, then I switched to yellow merits for some reasons, including wanting to be healthier and peer influence. I couldn't buy imported cigarettes when I was in minia or matrouh. I had to buy local ones, like Cleopatra for example. That cigarette I bought in matrouh was the one leading up to sleeping with the drug dealer boy. Cigarettes are stories and companions. Cigarettes are their very own type of pleasure.

message to a friend

Hello habibi, I wanted to reach out to you with some thoughts as I felt I was unable to communicate them earlier. I want you to be sure I'm grateful for your help and support through this critical phase I'm going through. I am aware I put pressure on you, your private space, your relationship and your time and that's not a sacrifice everyone is willing to make. It's not news to you that I am having a very hard time, dealing with my hiv positive status, my displacement from home, my uncertainty and lack of control over the simplest things in life these days. I know it's a phase etc, but I am quite vulnerable and there's no drama about it. I have to lean on you these days and forgive me if I ask too many questions or seem doubtful or whatever. I am trying to accept my new situation and your motivation is very important to me and your support means the world to me. 

November diaspora snippets

I need physical intimacy. Never thought I'd miss being hugged so much. Just saw a silly video of a young white boy standing at an American beach carrying a sign 'kiss me I'm desperate'. Makes me think I should do the same here. Where would one go to ask for free hugs? They don’t have to be free by the way. I can give back affection and attention. I want nonsexual hugs. I miss holding my friend's hand while crossing the roads in Cairo. We'd do that then we won't let go of each other's hands. We'd cling to each other. Sometimes I felt anxious though. I felt the burn of the stares at us. Sometimes I was like fuck it. I think I grew bolder with time. I miss those hands. Even that anxiety.

She said I'm experiencing the fluidity that comes with travel. I said but I'm not feeling fluid. My gender expression is the same. My sexual preferences are the same. I can dance on the streets here. I can switch hips when I want to. I still feel I can't/don't escape who I was in my home country.

I shared the photo. I wanted to feel important. I wanted people to feel I'm important. By having an opinion, by giving an impression that I'm doing things. The caseworker kept sharing information, sounding really smart and eloquent. I was in her place in the past. It was me the journalists sought to speak to. Now I'm just sitting there, keeping my opinions to myself. I'm just an interpreter here. And soon I will be the asylum seeker who's trying to access services and advocate for his rights. I'm flipping sides and exploring what it means to be helped instead of the helping one.

The erotic is life. Life means nothing if you don't feel raunchy, horny. White people don't usually turn me on. On Cairo's streets, I'd be turned on so easily. I got cruised by a white guy at a club's urinal the other day. My first cruising experience here. I ended up sucking three guys dicks in a dark room. All was well except the uncut dicks I'm not used to sucking. After I'm done I felt something was missing. A certain vibe. A sense of challenge, maybe? You don't feel you're breaking any taboos here. Skin color isn't the only thing that makes it lackluster. It's the whole context. Sex feels better when it's an act of resistance.

In your new city, you don't have friends. You do have friend but not friends friends. Not the people who understand you without finishing your sentences, the people who understand your cynical jokes, the people you actually have inside jokes with, the ones you have long history with. And you realize it's so exhausting. To be always be on guard. To always be making such an effort. To not be able to share what really goes on your mind because you're too careful making a good impression. 

stay

I read about Tim Cook. I discover Herbert Marcuse. I look him up. I find a trailer video showing puddingstrasse. I discuss him with SL. He talks of Adorno. Adorno's quote was on my wall in my last home. It said: The highest form of morality is not to feel at home in ones own home. Berlin, are you giving me signs?

poor boy

All of a sudden he recoiled and got up in bed. We were in underwears. His young smooth body still shined in the dark. He asked if there was a camera in the room. I wondered what kind of game that was.

The game has started a bit before, when I saw the boy walk slowly and stare me in a downtown street. I stopped, leaned on a car and waited. There's a lot of waiting in cruising. We talked and he offered to take me to his place. I offered my place instead. Told him I live with others. Thought that gave me more safety. 

When he said he's currently off his work (which is a vendor at a shop somewhere) I grew more anxious. I felt if he's jobless now, he's more keen to make money.

At home, I offered him to shower, his feet were unclean because he wore flip flops. I didn't really mind his dirtiness. It was more of a way of making him vulnerable and for me to feel more in control. Him naked in my bathroom. I also had a kick of the idea of seeing him naked there while I'm still fully clothed. 

He admired my view as they usually do. We stared into the abyss that is Cairo and started touching each others. Leading up to bed where after a few caresses, he recoiled.

He told me he was taken home by someone off the street and ended up being abused by four guys. He said he's too scared to do anything. I didn't want to stop but I didn't argue. He then asked for some of my liquor and ten pounds to get himself dinner. He said he goes lots of nights without dinner.  He said he hates that he is asking for money and that he'd pay back.

I gave him what he wants. I couldn't argue. I didn't want to. What is the use of arguing anyway. For a moment, I was angry that I had paid for sex that I didn't have. But then I wanted to give him more money than he asked for. But then I drew a boundary and let him go into the busy street.

I felt slightly relieved we didn't fuck. Then I felt frustrated, angry, tired. And then I wanted to stop feeling anything.