“I am glad you came,” he says.
He is beautiful. She knows many men who are probably much more handsome, none as beautiful, though. She has never felt this way about a man.
“I’m scared,” she says.
“I can see that.” He smiles.
“I’m sorry.” She laughs nervously. “I can’t believe I’m here.”
She tries to keep her eye on the view. He keeps his eyes on her. He refills her glass.
“You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Only a little.”
“Can I kiss you?” he asks. She nods. A brief kiss. It tingles. She looks at him again. He does it again. This time, he touches her face. Tears roll down her face.
“He doesn’t kiss you, does he?”
“Do we have to talk about him?”
“Just one question. When was the last time he made love to you?”
“Eight years ago.”
She stands up and undresses herself in the open air. He looks at her, surprised. She wants approval. He smiles. He pulls her onto his chair. He begins the process.
…
In the name of God, the most compassionate, the most merciful:
23. But she in whose house he was, sought to seduce him from his (true) self: she fastened the doors, and said: “Now come, thou (dear one)!” He said: “(Allah) forbid! truly (thy husband) is my lord! he made my sojourn agreeable! truly to no good come those who do wrong!”
24. And (with passion) did she desire him, and he would have desired her, but that he saw the evidence of his Lord: thus (did We order) that We might turn away from him (all) evil and shameful deeds: for he was one of Our servants, sincere and purified.
25. So they both raced each other to the door, and she tore his shirt from the back: they both found her lord near the door. She said: “What is the (fitting) punishment for one who formed an evil design against thy wife, but prison or a grievous chastisement?”
26. He said: “It was she that sought to seduce me—from my (true) self.” And one of her household saw (this) and bore witness, (thus): “If it be that his shirt is rent from the front, then is her tale true, and he is a liar!”
27. “But if it be that his shirt is torn from the back, then is she the liar, and he is telling the truth!”
…
“I made two thousand dollars last week.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” I say.
“No, Kurt, seriously. I am making a lot of money. Yesterday this man paid me a hundred dollars just to suck on my nipple for twenty minutes until he jerked himself off.”
“I don’t want to hear about it, Ben. I really don’t.”
He takes off his shirt and shows me his chest. “See anything different?” he asks.
“Huh?” is all I can come up with.
“See anything different?” he insists.
“How the fuck would I know?”
“I got rid of the KS scars.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I tried freezing the scars. That worked, but it took a lot of time to heal. I now tattoo them.”
“Tattoo?”
“Yeah. I tattoo the scars so nobody can tell. You know, tattoo them with my own skin color.”
…
Marital intercourse is certainly holy, lawful and praiseworthy in itself and profitable to society, yet in certain circumstances it can prove dangerous, as when through excess the soul is made sick with venial sin, or through the violation and perversion of its primary end, killed by mortal sin; such perversion, detestable in proportion to its departure from the true order, being always mortal sin, for it is never lawful to exclude the primary end of marriage, which is the procreation of children.
Saint Francis de Salle, not the real Saint Francis with the cute birds and animals, wrote that in his book Introduction to the Devout Life, which talked about how bad sex was in four large volumes. It earned Francis here a sainthood. All I can say is, I am glad I’m not Christian. For us Muslims, we just stone adulterers to death, which is much more humane than guilt.
…
My brother Ibrahim was three years older than I. He was my closest brother in age. By the time I had left Lebanon in 1975, he was a member of the Murabitoun party, a leftist organization. I never realized he had become a member of their militia till he was killed a year later, one of the few attackers of Damour to actually fall. My father never forgave himself for letting my brother get so involved in the war. I was sixteen, in Los Angeles, away from it all.
…
When he kissed her, she kissed back. She tried to take his shirt off, but he had begun to move down. When he kissed her down there, a first, her body went rigid. When his tongue penetrated her, she lost control. Her hands instinctively went to hold his head in place. Her body rearranged itself to open up to his assault.
She had been naïve.
He spent an eternity down there. She kept calling for her mother. His tongue kept moving. She felt herself climaxing. She shook. She wept. He kept going. He looked up at her. “One more?” He smiled. She nodded, pleading. His tongue went back to work. She called for Mohammad.
She had been so naïve.
He moved back up. She tasted herself in his kiss. She tore his shirt off. He pulled his pants down. She held it in her hands. Too big. He penetrated her slowly. She wept. He didn’t stop kissing her. Every time he moved out, she tried pushing him back in. Her nails dug into his back. She tried to swallow his tongue. He pulled back and looked straight into her eyes. He smiled. She could not stop smiling. She was his.
…
Sex is the last refuge of the miserable.
Quentin Crisp said that to Joan Collins, when he walked in on her having sex with Linda Evans. To cover up his embarrassment, he blurted out that statement, which made him famous all over again. And he should know.
…
I was horny. I walked into Badlands. I walked out with a boy. I took him home and fucked him silly. Great ass. He could not get enough. I fucked him three times. He wanted more. I wanted to sleep. I woke up to find him skewered on my dick. Sleepy as I was, my hips got into their ancestral rhythms.
“You’re HIV-positive,” he said.
“Yes, I told you that long before we got here. You said it was okay.”
“No,” he said, “I never heard it. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have done what we did.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I told you yesterday and you said you didn’t care, as long as it was safe.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Fuck this shit. Don’t worry about it, babe, we were completely safe. Now get the fuck out of here.”
I went to a tattoo parlor. I had them tattoo a large HIV+ on my chest, above my left nipple. No one can now claim I never told them.
I was asked by ArtNews to pose for a closeup photo of my chest with the tattoo. They thought it was an artistic statement. I did. The picture made the cover.
…
In the name of God, the most compassionate, the most merciful:
52. Now such were their houses—in utter ruin—because they practiced wrong-doing. Verily in this is a Sign for people of knowledge.
53. And We saved those who believed and practiced righteousness.
54. (We also sent) Lut (as an apostle): behold, He said to his people, “Do ye do what is shameful though ye see (its iniquity)?”
55. Would ye really approach men in your lusts rather than women? Nay, ye are a people (grossly) ignorant!
56. But his people gave no other answer but this: they said, “Drive out the followers of Lut from your city: these are indeed men who want to be clean and pure!”
57. But We saved him and his family, except his wife; her We destined to be of those who lagged beh
ind.
161. Behold, their brother Lut said to them: “Will ye not fear ((Allah))?
162. “I am to you an apostle worthy of all trust.
163. “So fear Allah and obey me.
164. “No reward do I ask of you for it: my reward is only from the lord of the Worlds.
165. “Of all the creatures in the world, will ye approach males,
166. “And leave those whom Allah has created for you to be your mates? Nay, ye are a people transgressing (all limits)!”
…
There is nothing safe about sex. There never will be.
Norman Mailer told me that. He really was talking about his archnemesis, Truman. There is nothing safe about reading one of Norman’s books. They induce narcolepsy. Do not drive, or operate heavy machinery while reading a Mailer book. Unless it is a good Mailer book, then all bets are off.
…
“Why do you have a gun under your pillow?” she asks.
“I have guns all around. Just in case.”
He was lying in his bed holding her, her head on his chest, his left hand playing with her ass.
“Ouch,” she moans.
“Does that still hurt? I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t stop. I like it.”
“I thought you would.” He laughed. He kissed her again. “When I first saw your picture, I knew you’d be a good fuck.”
“When?”
“About a year ago. You were in the magazine Ash Shabake. It was a picture of you next to the asshole. You looked like you could use a good fuck.”
“Do you always have to use that word?”
“Yes.” He smiled.
“Have you killed people?”
“Are you sure you want to talk about it?”
“Yes.”
“Oooh, haven’t you had enough?” she asks.
“I love watching your face when I play with your pussy.”
“Do you have to be this vulgar?”
“Yes.” He smiled.
“You haven’t answered the question.”
“Yes, I have killed.”
“Was it from afar or have you actually killed someone directly?”
“Both.”
“A lot of people?”
“A lot of people.”
“Are you sure you want to talk about this?” he asks.
“Yes. But please stop. I can’t think when you’re doing that.”
“You’re thinking fine.” He smiles.
“Why?”
“It is wartime.”
“That’s not a reason. There are lots of men who are not killing.”
“Not many. I am more honest.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will in time.”
“Aren’t you afraid of being killed?” she asks.
“All the time.”
“Do you have a gun?” he asks.
“No, of course not.”
He rolls on top of her, takes his hand out, and opens the drawer of the nightstand. He takes out five pistols, one by one, places them on her stomach, and rolls back over. His hand goes back to its favorite position.
“I don’t want a gun.”
“You have to.”
“Are they loaded?”
“Yes.”
“You’re crazy.”
She pushes the guns away from her. He sits up, kneels, her legs around his waist. He picks up a gun and shows it to her.
“I think this would suit you.”
“Okay.”
He uses the barrel of the gun to massage her vaginal lips.
“It’s loaded,” she says.
“I know.” He smiles.
The barrel penetrates. He moves it in very gently. The metal is cold. He explores with the gun. She can’t say a word. She moans. He smiles. He looks into her eyes. She is his.
“Fuck me,” she says.
He takes the gun out. He violently enters her. She thrusts up to meet him. The primitive cadence begins again.
She takes the gun from his hand. She points it at his face, her finger clutching the trigger. He smiles. He forces himself deeper. She moves the gun closer to his face. He licks the barrel. He tastes her. He puts the whole barrel in his mouth. He performs fellatio on the gun. She smiles. She looks into his eyes. He is hers.
She orgasms.
…
Kaposi’s sarcoma.
The cancer was discovered originally among Mediterranean and Jewish men in 1871. Before AIDS, it was documented only in about six hundred cases in the last century. It usually struck Jewish and Italian men in their sixties. Purple lesions. With the onset of AIDS, the cancer was still discriminatory. It attacked only gay men, not hemophiliacs or heterosexuals, the most vain group of them all.
I am Mediterranean. I never got Kaposi’s sarcoma. All my friends did.
I did contract toxoplasmosis and I fucking hate cats.
…
Scott arrived in San Francisco in early June, 1980. On June 29th, he attended his first Gay Freedom Day Parade. He loved it.
While standing and cheering the various contingents, he was approached by a thirty-two-year-old doctor. He fell in love. The doctor asked him if he wanted to party. Scott agreed.
The doctor gave him a pill.
The doctor took him dancing at the Galleria design center. Scott felt no pain. Five thousand people made it a tight dance floor. The doctor took off his shirt and threw it into the crowd. Scott danced. The doctor danced crotch to crotch. He undid Scott’s belt. Scott felt the finger penetrate. He felt another hand playing with his ass. He felt a third.
They were at the Bulldog Baths. The doctor showed the ingénu the Bacchanalian delights.
Scott wanted to be kissed. The doctor tied him up, head down, with his ass up in the air. The doctor fucked him. And fucked him. But that was not the doctor. A third man had taken his place. A black man. A Latino. There was a line. The pleasure was constant. The most intense experience. In. Out. In. Out. Change.
At some point, during the night, the virus made his acquaintance.
The doctor did not call the next day.
I met Scott ten days later.
…
Lebanon is a piece of land (not a piece of heaven at all—you only have to be in Beirut in the summer) but it’s our land, our home (even if actually we are not living there). It’s our Sweet Home, and we love it. So we are called Lebanese.
…
August 12th, 1982
Dear Diary,
This is without doubt the worst day of my life. I can’t take it anymore. The Israelis have gone stark raving mad. The planes started bombing at 6:00 a.m. and did not stop till 6:00 p.m. My nerves are shot. I don’t understand what they want. They got everything. The Palestinians said they would leave. The Syrians are gone. But they still bomb us. What is it they want? Do they want us all dead? The PLO agreed to their terms. What more do they want? Haven’t we suffered enough?
…
If her mother sees her now, she will have a heart attack and die. The driver keeps looking back at her in the mirror, smiling. She considers moving sideways so she does not have to see his eyes. Nick is between her legs, doing what he does best. She looks at the cars, as the white Range Rover speeds by. It is crowded on the highway.
…
It is pointless to describe in detail the exhibit at the Audrey Heller Gallery, Mohammad: The Last Paintings. Mere words cannot do it justice. It is exiguous, yet exquisite. It is minimal, yet unequivocally not Minimal, for it needs no manifesto or interminable elaboration. His style has become as laconic in statement as a parallel, as suggestively infinite. Mohammad is an imagist of cultural fugues and choreographies, of the faltering, lamentable Dance of Life. One pirouette is not the same as another,
but there is no need to dance until one drops in a marathon. In painting, it is only necessary to outline the steps. Let the people dance!
…
I wonder if being sane means disregarding the chaos that is life, pretending only an infinitesimal segment of it is reality.
…
Mohammad: The Last Paintings, a posthumous exhibit, is a tribute to the painter’s genius. It details a bittersweet account of a tumultuous life. It will assure him immortality.
…
I am in Berlin with my parents. We are on the street. We find out a parade is about to pass. I realize my parents might be embarrassed because it is a gay parade. It will raise issues they would rather not discuss. I am shocked, for I realize I am wearing women’s clothing. I have a short wig on. No makeup, nothing flamboyant, just simple feminine stuff. It is pointless to change now for my father has already seen me as a woman. I take my wig off, for it becomes unnecessary.
…
My father is a good man, stuck in a cultural time warp. I find it hard to forgive him at times, until I am reminded how much I have grown up to resemble him. He wished his life to be simple, and due to circumstances beyond his control, it didn’t turn out that way. He was a tyrant, softened up quite a bit with age, I hear, but he was always predictable. He laid down the law for everybody, and never deviated from it. I knew what the rules were. I knew that to be who I was meant a complete disinheritance, a complete disowning. I chose to be who I am today. It was never his fault.
…
I yearn for a moment I know nothing of.
I pine for a feeling, an impression of myself as content, fulfilled. At times, I feel it as a yearning for a lover, someone to share my life with, someone to laugh with. I loved, lost, and loved again. The longing never abated. I was only distracted for a little while. I searched for the elusive grail.
In that moment, I envision myself joyous, spiritually felicitous. When I shut my eyes, I feel the possibility of the moment. I long to understand.
Someday, I used to tell myself. Someday, I will know the moment I yearn for, someday.
I wait for the peace beyond all understanding.
I lie on my deathbed waiting.
I yearn for a moment I know nothing of.
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