STUFF!!

We are obsessed with STUFF!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know what I would choose! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Superheroes and the Fall from Grace

Superheroes do not exist!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We create superheroes so we can watch them fail!

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

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

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

June

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dash for the Sash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leap of F****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Loss and Belonging!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Epic Tale of Prince Für Bubble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Finding God!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until I finally met you…

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

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

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

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

I worship you!!

Aunty Mood!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until next time, Aunty Mood!!