fragments of my story

My story is getting lost. My energy is drained. Mein Jugendzeit ist vergeudet. Among the constant triggers. Among the hectic working hours. Among the interactions at german class. Among the several talks I'm going to give. 

I am failing to stop and breathe. To marvel at the beauty of the moment. The warmness of that touch. 

The way ivan smiles at me. the way the Italian girls share with me their joints. The fleeting moments at the school's corridor. The growing smile on a client's face. The moment I feel I shared something with one of the young refugees. A new place I discover. Something new I discover about myself.

Racism is marking my mind and body with its toxicity. 

That time Jens forced me to do counseling in german. The time Lars brought a client to me while I'm having lunch. That time victim blaming was spread out during a work meeting. The complicity of my colleagues in covering up for sexual assault. 

I am a fighter. A fighter growing old. Fearing loneliness and loss. Away from my home and family. Trying to find meaning. And when I gave up on meaning, I try to find pleasure. And both of them seem so hard to reach. 

I keep an open heart. I think of Gianmarco a lot. I dream that I am slapping him. I have a lot of rage. I have a lot of sadness. I'm tired of narratives being twisted at me. whether Rebecca or the colleagues do it. Whether it is my friends or the media. 

The time I danced with the sex worker on the stage. The time I went out and flirted with the greek hottie. When I danced with haidar. When I sang along with katia. 

That time my teacher told me she gossips about me with her boyfriend. That time I had to cater to my colleagues white tears. That time faris turned me on. That time I bond with humeyra. 

Im losing my story. What are the memories brought back to me by reading guapa or even better by in the spider's room. That time I flirted with Michael Jacob and with Sepehr. That time  that the Italian neighbor was rude to me. that time I went to the Russians house but he had lost his weed and hada to go out.

Something about Durban

I want to write about Paris. But this reminds me that I didn't write about Durban. So I'm going to try and begin with that.

Durban Durban. I was so stressed out, as I'm usually when I travel these days. It was a long fight to get there. I basically got outed in the process. 

The whole luggage thing destroyed the trip. I was stressed about clothing and money the whole time. This took away from my planning energy. I felt sapped.

But let's try to remember the good times. Meeting the beautiful Moroccan, Tunisian and Lebanese friends was very heart warming. I have to visit Morocco soon. I think it will replenish my energy and full my desire to be in a country that gives me life. 

That night I spend with Zak. That hot Armenian guy. The guy that tried to hook me up from in front of the Frenchies hotel. When I made friends with the Nigerian, and got hooked up by another just in front of him. That whole police station incident. Dancing to the beats of afrohouse while completely stoned. I think I even masturbated in the toilet. That kiss with the trans guy. Making out with the beautiful woman. Grinding with the south African girl at the bar. Evading sex with the frenchies. Having my feet massaged at the positive lounge. Meeting the trans mama and her girls. Other short endearing encounters during the conference. Bussy and the south African young boy. 

On a deeper level, some reflections arose. Being there is a strong reminder of the privilege and protections we have living here. As positives and otherwise. I remember being mad at not being able to take the metro, and how that reminded me quickly of how spoiled I got.  

The energy of being openly positive gave me the impulse to disclose to two Berliner friends. Maybe it was the weed I smoked though. 

The off experiences with Bob and Sadiq made me feel that being with a person of color is not everything. Maybe I am saying that because of how I felt about Gianmarco and that I was trying to convince myself that it can work. It's true that being with a nonwhite is not enough.

Istanbul healing

Getting fucked by the Capricorn jewish guy. It was unexpected. He had spent all those night sleeping naked next to me. for no obvious reasons he said he wants to give me pleasure, to make me feel treated. He wanted to give me a hammam experience. He had just been there and felt fetishized. It turned him on. We disagree on that part. 

the last three guys who made a shot at my ass have something in common. They're all jewish. I don’t know what this means.

To my ever increasing surprise, he went on and fucked me. it healed me. I hadn’t been fucked for such a long time. He even made me come twice. It was good to feel desired. To make me feel that my ass matters. My ass attracts and gives pleasure.

That Syrian picked me. yes maybe he's desperate. Maybe they all try to look more glamorous than they really are. Maybe that's why they try to look glamorous in the first place. To camouflage their insecurities. 

I had met him the night before. He hardly showed attention. Even after I tried to impress him by my egyptianness. The next night we run into each other. We're forced to kiss each other. He gives it more heart than I expected him to.

 i sucked syrian dick on the floor of that turkish club?

i think it was good because i was so surprised it happened. like i saw the guy the previous night and he didn't pay me any attention. then i see him again and i hit on him and he responds hard. and because i was finally flirting with another arab. and because i got chosen by an arab. im so traumatized by sexual politics of germany. so an arab guy flirting with me warms my heart. i should open myself to that more. Seek it more. i really think that can improve my sexuality, because now i have libido problems and i know it's because of white gays/gaze, but it came back to me in Istanbul, also in athens

 actually this realization is scary

like i feel fetishized with him and that turns me .but with a syrian guy im not viciously fetishized and it's not like all insecurities will be gone but that's a major one, but it's hurts me to seee arabs here running after whites. it triggers me. you know this was even written about in black feminist thought? the trauma of black women that black men choose white women

the calling

Am I finding my calling? I write this from below the dark layers of the dark beast. Would I ever forget that quote from yesterday's film? I dragged him to come with me. he warned me it will depress me. he was right. he was talking about his interferon experience, but somehow I related. He describes how everything changes on the drug. He feels he now needs an effort to do anything. To breathe. To move his arm. The will is there but the energy not.

Let's go back to the calling. I am not sure why I went there. I should preserve my energy more. That's a recent resolution. It was about refugees and harendt and other stuff. I listened and when I spoke I wasn’t listened to. I wasn’t seen. It's a familiar dynamics. I just didn't expect it to happen again in that context. I run into my Syrian friend, we are happy to see each other. The performance begins. The boys are stirring my emotions. The lyrics move my tears. Many tears. My friend hugs me, supports me. but she cracks too, especially when she thought about her father. 

One of them steal our eyes and our hearts. His eyes shine. He feels his place in the world. He knows he's beautiful. I want to go back after the break but I don't. I decide that's it, and that it's better to hang out with my friend and smoke and unterhalt. On my way out, three of them are on their way too. We walk together and talk. One of them turns me crazy. He awakened what I thought I lost forever. The changes were not only emotional but also physical. We exchange numbers and I know this would get me in trouble. But I go for it, I can't but go for it. 

The shocking realization because of this encounter haunts me. I am power driven. Just like white people. I enjoy the rush, the exploitation and invasion of less powerful people. I am not joy driven like some of my friends. And that's why I am miserable here and that's why I am feeling better since my power is coming back again. I am like them which means I should understand them which means I should forgive them. 

But this is my doom. That's the important thing. He's my doom.

one for my libido

Thos ones goes to my libido.

You sank into my life pretty late. I remember and I know that the act of remembering is always tricky, I remember that my early sexual encounters did not come out of lust. They stemmed from a desire to connect. To validate my desire to be with a man. They were mostly forced on me and I felt that I had to follow suit. I remember fantasizing about my first crushes was mostly emotional rather than sexual. 

Even the loss of my anal sex virginity was an act of pragmatism. A possible revolt against my younger optimism and idealism. As if virginity is something that had to be rid of, regardless of who takes it. I did busy myself with how to achieve pleasure but my relationship with pleasure wasn't strong, was rather mechanical. 

I remember there was another moment of revolt. One that centered my body and my pleasure. I remember reading Raoof Mas3ad and being engrossed by his portrayal of sexuality. I did seek pleasure and that allowed my libido to surface. To take hold. 

I had a project to queer my sexuality. I never experimented with female bodies, but I tried to break the prevailing notions of gay sex. Those influenced by body shaming, ableism, racism and classism. This process of liberation took dangerous turns at moments. I wanted dangerous sex. I found freedom in that. In having sex in a forsaken train carriage off a railway station, with a impending risk of being arrested or even killed. Libido is a will to life but there was probably also an underlying desire to die. However, I call these days 'days of freedom'. 

After my escape, I realized that my sexuality is taking a different turn. One where my sexuality is being limited by racism and fetishization. I realized that I had little sex with whites bodies and that now most of the sex advances come from white men. Sex began to lose its allure.

It's very hard though to diagnose my loss of libido. My escape has influenced my sexuality in various ways. But also affected the whole of me. Old traumas and new ones, and ones that are being made everyday. The stresses that I encounter. Is it my depression making me lose you? Is it my medication? Is it the weather? Is it the kind of people I sleep with? Is it the kind of sex that I have now? 

What do I do to get you back? Leave this country? Get off medications? Put myself at risk again? Stay with one guy hoping that I would get it up with him every time he initiates sex?

I can say that I am at a point where I am just going on saying to myself that I can just do without you. That it's okay to let you go. I say to myself, that losing you opens the door for other ways or relating to people, maybe saves some drama, or saves my sexual health. Part of me resists. I want you because I want the thrill back. I want you because I want to enjoy the chase.  

Should I fight for you or let you go?